Growing up in the 90s and early 2000s, one of my favorite shows that I’d watch with my parents was Xena: the Warrior Princess. I remember staring in awe as Xena single-handedly defeated her sworn enemies. She represented everything I wanted to be.

Attempting to find a show to entertain myself with, I came across my beloved childhood show. I excitedly pressed play. However, not even five minutes into the first episode, I thought “man, this show kind of sucks.” My childhood show had unexpectedly lost its former glory, replaced with sharp criticism and sudden unmet expectations.

This change of perspective bothered me. Why was I now seeing this show with very different eyes?

The swords Xena wielded felt as though they had pierced right through me. I couldn’t shake the feeling of discontentment. I dug a bit deeper, and arrived at a very honest realization that perhaps it wasn’t the show I was unsatisfied with; I was unsatisfied with myself.

I hadn’t become this strong, independent woman, worthy of admiration. I was nothing like Xena. I stumble over my words when I speak up for myself, I’m scared of driving and turbulence on flights, and there’s been more times than I’d like to admit where I’ve stayed silent in the face of disrespect and humiliation. On top of it all, I barely know any proper self-defense, much less how to wield a weapon.

It wasn’t until a recent therapy session where I told my therapist that ‘war coursed through my veins’ – something I had begun to say recently – that I would soon form a new perspective. My father escaped the Salvadoran civil war in 1989, for a chance at survival and a better life in the US. The war devastated him, our family, country, and the Salvadoran diaspora that followed. Yet, deep down, I was unironically proud of this fact; I was certain that if my dad could survive a war, so could I. Strength meant knowing how to survive war.

As this story unraveled during therapy, I continued to talk about my dad, then mom and older sister.

My dad was recently diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. As a family, we’ve had to come together to not only support him, but also each other. I shared that I had my first heart-to-heart with my mom at the age of 27, and she at 61. We cried atop her kitchen counter over a shared bottle of wine, as she opened up about her childhood, and I opened up about mine. For the first time, the compassion I felt towards my mom turned into empathy. Life felt fleeting and full at that moment; we both silently acknowledged that our time together was finite. What my mom had lived through and what I had endured wasn’t easy. Yet, sharing our burdens slowly filled our cups with strength.

My older sister flew in the week prior to my dad starting chemotherapy. Her and her husband had previously gone through this process with their daughter, my niece. My older sister and I share the same mom, but different dads; she is fourteen years my senior, and we grew up in different countries. Yet, there she was sitting across from me, in the numbing waiting room at the hospital on a gloomy Monday morning. We patiently waited as my dad underwent a procedure where he had a port inserted inside his chest; we discussed that they would eventually use that same port to intravenously inject chemotherapy drugs into his system. The all-too-familiar lump formed inside my throat, but this time, it was different; it was full of grief. I began to cry, perhaps because the port had become a physical representation of my dad’s cancer, or because the dam that I believed to be neatly packing away my emotions violently burst after holding everything in. I had refused to cry in front of my parents in an effort to ‘be strong’, and had held my tears back since the diagnosis. In my despair, my older sister shared the story of an incident that occurred during my niece’s treatment, one that she hadn’t shared with me previously. She told me that during one of her chemo sessions, they realized that the treatment hadn’t gone as planned, and that they’d have to come back for another painful round the following day. After learning this, my sister broke down. She shared that my niece had never seen her cry in the 2+ years that she had battled cancer. Upon seeing my sister cry, my niece desperately bawled between breaths, “I’m going to die!”. At that moment, my sister quickly responded with “I’m not crying because you’re going to die; I’m crying because you’re going to have to come back again tomorrow.” My sister said that my niece then cried out, “oh no! I’m going to have to come back tomorrow!”, and for a fleeting moment, the short-lived laughter washed away the tears in the room. Sometimes, strength doesn’t come from holding back tears, but instead embracing each other in them.

As I shared this with my therapist, after a pause she said, “You come from a strong line of women.” An audible silence followed; no one had ever stated this to me before. I took the time to let this statement soak in, and acknowledged that I do come from a strong lineage of women, and that strength lies within me.

I’ve now come to make peace with the fact that my strength may not look the same as Xena’s – and that’s okay. Strength has shown itself to me in so many different ways; surviving war, embracing vulnerability, and learning it’s okay to cry. Right now, strength remains in staying hopeful throughout my dad’s cancer treatment.

I’ve learned that my strength doesn’t just come from me; it’s been passed down, through the line of people that come before me. They are my strength, and I am theirs. This is what makes me strong.