I cry all the time — and no, I’m not trying to be dramatic. At any given moment, something small or significant can trigger it. I might tear up because I’m excited to see my friend, because someone shares something deeply personal with me, because I’m overwhelmed with anger, stress, or nervousness. Sometimes it happens when I’m trying to talk about something difficult from my past. Other times, it comes out of nowhere. There’s a familiar pressure behind my eyes, a realization — oh no, I’m going to cry — and then it happens, whether I want it to or not.
People will say, “Just hold it in.” And how I wish it was that simple; I’ve tried. I’ve pushed it down, swallowed it back, and attempted to force myself to stay composed. But the more I resist, the stronger it pushes back. And when it all decides to come out, I’m left feeling embarrassed, frustrated, and exposed. Now I look like an idiot, I tell myself, especially when I cry in front of someone I never intended to.
Growing up, I believed crying was a weakness. It’s a message so many of us absorb early on. Women are often labeled as overly emotional, irrational, or fragile simply because they express their feelings more openly, and I felt that stereotype deeply. My father never cried in front of me. Matter of fact, I rarely saw men cry at all. So I learned, quietly and persistently, that strength equated to holding all my tears in.
But I couldn’t. I’ve always been sensitive, and being a perfectionist didn’t help. If I got a B on a grade, I cried. If I was frustrated with myself, I cried. If someone was hard on me, I cried. No matter how badly I wanted to be “tough,” I couldn’t reshape that part of myself. And growing up in an environment where I was told to “suck it up” only made things harder. I learned to associate my tears with shame. I couldn’t cry comfortably in front of others unless I felt completely safe. Every tear felt like proof that I was weak, incapable, or somehow less. That belief followed me into my freshman year of college.
In my first semester, I took a class “Becoming A Leader,” which I highly recommend every CU student takes. We were asked to share a personal story, something that shaped us into who we are as a leader today. I decided to talk about my upbringing: my parents’ relationship, the dynamics with my siblings, and how these relationships built my identity over time. I knew it would be hard, and I knew it might make me cry. So I prepared relentlessly.
I practiced over and over, rehearsing each word until I could tell the story without feeling it. I cried during practice, but eventually, I got through it cleanly. Controlled. Detached. I’ve got this, I thought. I was sure I could deliver it without breaking down.
Then my turn came up in class. “I’m going to wing it and not use my notes for this,” I said to my peers, trying to play off the fact that I had my script memorized. I then began telling my story and, what do you know, I lost it.
Halfway through my story, in front of thirty people I didn’t know all that well, I started crying — really crying. Not the subtle, graceful kind, but the kind you can’t hide. The kind that makes you feel like every eye in the room is judging you. I was mortified. I felt like I was ruining my image, like I was being dramatic, like I was turning something meaningful into something performative. At that moment, I wanted to disappear.
But I couldn’t. I was still there, sitting in my chair, with everyone around me. The room was silent. No one interrupted me. No one looked away. They were just listening, waiting for me to continue.
So, through tears and shaky breaths, with mascara probably running down my face, I finished my story. And something unexpected happened: I felt seen. Not judged, not dismissed. Seen.
For the first time, crying in front of others didn’t feel like a failure. It felt like honesty. It felt like courage.Â
That moment changed something in me. I realized that my sensitivity — the very thing I had spent years trying to suppress — was not a flaw; it was a form of strength. My tears weren’t proof that I was weak; they were proof that I was deeply in touch with my emotions, that I allowed myself to feel things fully in a world that often encourages numbness.
Since then, I’ve started to embrace that part of myself. I still cry easily — that hasn’t changed — but I no longer feel the same need to apologize for it. I don’t see it as something that makes me lesser. If anything, it’s something that makes me more — more empathetic, more present, more human.
Of course, I know the world hasn’t suddenly shed its biases upon me discovering the strength in crying. There are still stereotypes about crying, emotional expression, and what strength is supposed to look like. Many men are still taught to suppress their feelings, to equate vulnerability with weakness. Many women still feel pressure to “toughen up” in order to be taken seriously.
But I’ve come to believe that strength isn’t about shutting your emotions down, it’s about allowing yourself to feel them without shame. If you’re someone who cries easily — who feels deeply, who struggles to hold it all in — I hope you can begin to see it differently. I hope you can see it not as something to hide, but as something to understand, to own. Because there is strength in being open, there is strength in being vulnerable, and sometimes, there is incredible strength in simply letting yourself cry.