There is usually one person in every family who is assumed to be fine. They remember the doctor’s appointments, answer the late-night calls, solve the practical problems and find money when something unexpected happens. At work, they meet deadlines even when life is falling apart. If they live abroad, they are expected to know what to do because, from a distance, their life appears organised.

We call them strong. It sounds like praise. Sometimes it is also the reason nobody checks on them.

Across many Southern African families, strength is treated less like a quality and more like a permanent assignment. Once you become the responsible one, people stop imagining that you might need the same care you provide to everybody else. Your reliability becomes evidence that you are coping, even when it may simply mean that you have become skilled at functioning while distressed.

This matters as World Suicide Prevention Day approaches on 10 September. This year continues the theme “Changing the Narrative on Suicide”, with the call to action “Start the Conversation”. Yet starting a meaningful conversation requires more than asking someone whether they are all right and accepting the automatic answer. It requires us to reconsider what struggle actually looks like.

We often imagine a person in crisis as visibly unable to function. We look for missed work, neglected responsibilities, unusual silence or a dramatic change in behaviour. Those signs matter, but distress does not always announce itself so clearly. Some people continue attending meetings, paying school fees, posting photographs, caring for parents and making everybody laugh. Their competence can become camouflage.

Social media strengthens this illusion. We see the promotion, airport photograph or family celebration, but not the panic before work, the sleepless night or the private calculation about which obligation can be postponed.

For professionals and entrepreneurs, this camouflage is often rewarded. The employee who never says no is called committed. The business owner who works through exhaustion is called driven. The woman who manages work, children, ageing parents and community obligations is told she is inspirational. We admire the performance without asking what it costs to maintain.

The pressure can become even more complicated in the diaspora. Moving to London, Dubai, Johannesburg, New York or Melbourne may be interpreted at home as proof that life has become easier. The relative abroad is expected to send money, offer opportunities and remain grateful because they have escaped certain local difficulties. What may be less visible are high living costs, immigration pressures, loneliness, discrimination and the emotional strain of belonging to two places without feeling completely held by either.

A person can therefore be carrying their own life while also serving as an emergency system for people thousands of kilometres away. They may hesitate to admit that they are struggling because they know how their circumstances look from Zambia. They may even feel guilty for being unhappy in a life that others would consider fortunate.

Inside Zambia, the strong person carries a different but related weight. They may be keeping a household running through unpredictable income, rising costs, illness, caregiving and work demands. They know that if they stop, several other things may stop with them. Rest begins to feel irresponsible. Asking for help feels like transferring pressure to somebody who is already under pressure.

This is why ordinary wellness advice can sound strangely inadequate. Telling people to rest, create boundaries or speak to someone is not wrong. However, it can ignore the systems that made them indispensable. What does setting a boundary mean when your salary supports several relatives? What does taking time off mean when you run a small business that earns only when its doors are open? What does seeking professional support mean when services are expensive, difficult to access or still surrounded by suspicion?

We should not abandon those recommendations. We should make them more honest. Support may begin with therapy or medical care, but it can also begin with redistributing a responsibility, accompanying someone to an appointment, sending money without waiting for a crisis, preparing a meal or asking a second question when “I’m fine” sounds rehearsed.

Checking on the strong person is not demanding a confession. Nor is it treating every difficult week as a medical emergency. It is creating enough safety for honesty. Instead of asking only, “Are you okay?”, we might ask, “What has felt heavy lately?” or “What are you carrying that nobody notices?” We can listen without immediately comparing their problem to somebody else’s, prescribing gratitude or reminding them that others have it worse.

We also need to stop using resilience as an excuse for neglect. Cultural communities rightly take pride in endurance. Our families have survived migration, economic upheaval, illness and profound uncertainty through faith, humour, improvisation and collective responsibility. But resilience should describe what people have overcome. It should not become a reason to leave them alone inside the next struggle.

The strongest person you know may not need to be rescued. They may need one place where they are not required to perform strength. They may need permission to be uncertain, tired, frightened or simply human without losing the respect attached to being dependable.

As we talk about changing the narrative on suicide and mental health, perhaps this is one narrative worth changing first: that people who are still functioning must be fine. Sometimes the person holding everyone together is also hoping someone will notice the strain in their hands.

This week, check on the person everyone else depends on. Then stay long enough to hear the answer beneath the answer.

Kaajal Vaghela is a sportswear designer and cultural wellness consultant with over three decades of lived experience managing Type 1 diabetes in Zambia and the diaspora. Having previously served as Chairperson of the Lusaka branch of the Diabetes Association of Zambia, she remains a passionate advocate for breaking down myths and building awareness about diabetes. For more personalised coaching or corporate wellness workshops, visit: www.kaajalvaghela.com and for any feedback: [email protected])