Not Dead, Not Stronger: Rethinking the Phrase That Won’t Die

 

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” We’ve all heard the saying (maybe even sang along to the Kelly Clarkson tune), but when I think of the things that didn’t kill me, “stronger” is not the word that comes to mind. The problem with this phrase isn’t just that it’s inaccurate—it’s that it pressures survivors to perform strength instead of honoring their real, messy journeys. So why do we keep saying it?

Reflecting more deeply on this question, I considered some of my own life experiences, focusing on whether they made me “stronger” (they obviously did not kill me, or I would not be able to write this blog). I recall a situation from my seventh-grade year. My younger sister and I were sledding down a neighbor’s driveway on a flexible flyer sled (I would later question just how flexible this sled actually was). My sister was on top of me as we sped down the driveway.

Another kid, sledding right next to us, decided to have a little fun and veered into our lane. It was entertaining to play chicken with the kid until I realized we were headed straight toward a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I yelled for my sister to “bail,” but she either did not hear me or did not understand that I meant, “Please get off of my back right now, or we are going to crash into this tree, and I am going to break my arm.” Needless to say, we crashed into the tree, and I broke my arm. The real trauma, though, was not breaking my arm; it was what happened next. My sister and I walked home to break the news of my injured arm to my parents, only to learn that this was not a good time to summon them. You see, their marriage was in deep trouble (they would divorce a year later), and by then, my brothers, sister, and I had learned to read the room pretty well. Our reading of the room on this particular day suggested that we better not tell them just yet. So, I waited it out. My older brother and younger sister (yes, the one who refused to “bail”) doted on me and assured me that everything would be all right. I am grateful that we had one another. Eventually, my parents pulled themselves together enough for my mom to take me to the ER, where I left with a six-week cast. Did this experience make me stronger? For sure, a broken arm is never going to be stronger than one that was never broken, but I would still have to answer the question with a “yes,” although I am not sure “stronger” is the right word. This situation taught me that I can endure pain, that I can put another’s needs before my own, and that I can rely on other people (my brother and sister) for comfort. So, yes, the phrase, with some qualifications, may apply in this case. Let me tell you about another life event, though.

If the sledding accident taught me fleeting resilience, another childhood moment taught me the opposite: that some wounds don’t heal into strength. As I mentioned, my parents' marriage was deeply troubled, partly because my father was an alcoholic. My mother was desperate to save her family, evidenced by her strong commitment to attending Al-Anon meetings (which support families of alcoholics). So, when I was around 12 years old, she dropped off my brothers, my sister, and me at the mall (this was a typical thing to do in the 1970s) while she attended her Al-Anon meeting, which was about 10 minutes away. We did what kids do at a mall while my mother took care of her needs. Everything was fine until the mall closed, and my mother was not there to pick us up when she said she would. The mall security guard let us wait inside the mall doors and frequently drove by to check on us, but we didn’t know what to do. Remember, this was before cell phones. Additionally, we were all relatively young at the time, with ages ranging from 6 to 13, and lacked the life experience to either contact her or someone to come and get us. I recall feeling panicked—did something bad happen to my mother? Was she abandoning us? What if no one ever came to get us—would we end up as “mall children” (I am not even sure what that means)? Again, this experience did not kill me, but did it make me stronger? NO! It did not make me stronger. What it did was instill a fear of abandonment that I still have to this very day. A few years ago, my partner and I were coordinating a trip to campus – she had to be on one end of campus, and I had to be on the other. She said, “I will drop you off and pick you up whenever I am done.” My reaction? “No, that's not going to work for me.” You see, even now, with access to a cell phone and the ability to call a dozen people for a ride and with Uber just a click away, I am not going to put myself in a situation where I have no way out. Sometimes, the things that don’t kill us do not make us stronger. Research backs this up: trauma can rewire the brain for hypervigilance, not strength. My fear of abandonment isn’t a failure of resilience—it’s proof that survival leaves scars.

So why do we use this phrase so often? As a social psychologist, I can think of several reasons why we cling to it. For one, we dislike psychological discomfort, which social psychologists refer to as cognitive dissonance. When we or others face hardship, we alleviate dissonance (the discomfort of pain without purpose) by reframing the experience as character-building or as a pathway to personal growth and resilience. When we hear about other people’s misfortunes, such as getting sick, being in a car accident, or losing a loved one, it makes us feel uneasy. One way we ease that discomfort is by rationalizing the situation and believing that they will ultimately prevail. After all, it will make them stronger.

Another reason we tend to cling to this phrase is what social psychologists refer to as belief in a just world. People want to believe that the world is fair—that bad things lead to good outcomes and that suffering has a purpose. This makes perfect sense! We want to learn from our experiences, whether positive or negative. I want to believe that my ill-fated sled ride has meaning. And it does. I learned, at a young age, how to endure pain and how to be empathetic—traits that have served me well throughout my life. Even the prospect of being a mall child had a purpose; I now know the situations that make me feel safe. Those events in my life were meaningful. Similarly, when I learn that the flood that took someone’s home led them to a new city where they discovered a more fulfilling career and a supportive community, it reinforces that deep human desire to make sense of suffering. Even if the pain doesn’t disappear, finding meaning in it helps us move forward. However, we must be cautious not to assume that every hardship automatically brings strength. Sometimes, growth comes despite the pain, not because of it—and that’s an important distinction.

And that leads me to my point—maybe what doesn’t kill us doesn’t necessarily make us stronger; perhaps it makes us more resilient. The person who lost their house in a flood and ended up couch surfing for the next two years? Resilient. But even resilience isn't a straightforward path. It's not guaranteed, it’s not always visible, and it certainly isn’t something we owe the world after experiencing pain. Resilience can manifest in smaller ways, such as asking for help or simply surviving another day. Resilience doesn’t always come with a big triumphant moment—it can be quiet, messy, or slow. Sometimes, just making it through is enough. For some people, the pressure to “bounce back” quickly or to emerge stronger from every hardship can feel like an additional burden. We need to make space for all the ways people respond to pain without measuring their worth by how much they’ve “overcome.”

So instead of insisting that every hardship should produce strength, we might focus on validating pain, supporting healing, and allowing people the grace to emerge as they do—changed, perhaps, but not always stronger. And that’s enough.