Every time I post about surviving rape, the comments flood in:
“You are so strong.”
“You are such an inspiration.”
People mean well. They are trying to acknowledge my courage and honour everything I have survived.
But every time I read the word strong, a part of me screams.
People see the public post, but they do not see the brutal reality of what it took for me to be sitting here today.
They applaud the survivor, but they overlook the broken and exhausted human being behind the survival.
That is the “strong girl” lie: the belief that because a woman survived something terrible, she must be exceptionally strong and therefore does not need anyone to ask what surviving cost her.
What People See and What They Do Not
People see the woman who can finally tell her story.
They see the carefully selected photograph, the powerful caption and the survivor who has found the courage to name what happened.
They do not see the private reality.
They do not see the anxiety, sleepless nights or the days when ordinary tasks felt impossible. They do not see the therapy sessions that did not appear to be helping or the struggle to recognise the person in the mirror.
They do not see what it was like to lose my mother and then be raped shortly afterwards.
They do not see what happened when I sought help as a student and encountered police officers, hospitals and other systems in Ghana that should have protected me but instead failed and re-traumatised me.
They do not see the physical and emotional toll of taking post-exposure prophylaxis—commonly known as PEP—to reduce the risk of HIV while also taking medication for depression.
My mind and body were overwhelmed. Eating became difficult. Sleeping became difficult. I was trying to survive sexual violence while carrying grief, fear, depression and the pain of institutional betrayal.
I was not moving through life feeling brave and powerful.
I was exhausted.
When “Strong” Becomes Another Burden
Calling a survivor strong can be affirming. But it can also become another expectation she is required to carry.
If everyone believes she is strong, who gives her permission to fall apart?
Who asks whether she is sleeping?
Who checks whether she feels safe?
Who notices when she is barely managing?
Who offers practical support instead of another compliment?
Sometimes, calling a woman strong becomes a convenient way of stepping back from her pain.
We praise her resilience because confronting the reality of what happened is uncomfortable. We admire how she carries the burden without asking why she has been left to carry it alone.
Strength should never become a punishment.
A survivor should not have to remain composed to deserve care. She should not have to transform her trauma into an inspirational story before people take her suffering seriously.
I Was Angry with God I was angry with God.
I believed He could have prevented what happened to me.
That day, I had done everything right. I went to church. I was prayed for. A few hours later, I was raped.
I was already trying to cope with the death of my mother. I was grieving, vulnerable and struggling to keep going.
Then this happened.
The pain became unbearable.
As a Christian, my faith was what kept me holding on, but it did not stop me from questioning God. I could not understand how I could come into this world, experience so much suffering and still be expected to carry more.
I kept asking God to take the pain away. I told Him I was too exhausted and that He had far too much confidence in me because I could not take it anymore.
Then morning would come.
I would open my eyes; realise I was still here and become angry with God all over again. I could not understand why He kept asking me to face another day when I felt I had nothing left.
So, when people look at me now and say, “You are so strong,” they do not understand.
I was not trying to be strong.
I was in pain. I was grieving. I was angry with God. I was trying to make it through an experience I should never have been forced to endure.
Do not applaud me for how much suffering I survived.
Ask me what that survival cost.
I Do Not Share My Story for Applause
I do not speak about surviving rape so people can congratulate me for enduring it.
I speak because silence protects perpetrators and broken systems.
I speak because the response of police officers, healthcare workers, educational institutions and communities can either support a survivor’s healing or deepen the trauma.
I speak because survivors deserve dignity, privacy, compassionate healthcare and access to justice without being blamed, dismissed or humiliated.
Most importantly, I speak for the survivor sitting alone—exhausted, broken and tired of being told to “stay strong.”
I want that survivor to know:
You do not have to perform strength for anyone.
You do not have to turn your trauma into an inspirational story.
You are allowed to be angry.
You are allowed to be tired.
You are allowed to ask for help.
You are allowed to heal slowly.
Your pain does not become less valid because other people think you are handling it well.
What Survivors Need Instead of Empty Praise
The problem is not always the word strong. The problem begins when the compliment replaces meaningful support.
Instead of only saying, “You are so strong,” ask:
How are you really feeling?
What do you need right now?
Would you like me to listen?
What would help you feel safer?
How can I support you without taking control?
Would you prefer company or some space?
Listen without interrogating.
Believe without demanding proof.
Respect the survivor’s privacy.
Do not pressure survivors to report, forgive, confront anyone or disclose more than they are ready to share.
Do not assume that because someone can speak confidently today, the trauma no longer affects them.
Healing is not a straight line.
A survivor can be courageous and exhausted. She can be hopeful and grieving. She can be outspoken and still healing.
Ask Survivors How Tired They Are
Survivors do not need to be turned into symbols of extraordinary strength.
We need systems that protect us.
We need families and friends who believe us.
We need professionals who respond with compassion.
We need communities that hold perpetrators accountable instead of examining every decision made by the survivor.
And sometimes, we simply need permission to stop being strong.
When a survivor shares her story, you may tell her that you admire her courage. But do not stop there.
Ask how she is coping.
Ask what she needs.
Ask whether she has somewhere safe to rest.
Ask how tired she is.
Then be willing to stay and listen to the answer.
Survivors do not need applause for enduring what should never have happened. They need belief, protection, compassion and support.