What if the strength we admire is also what keeps love at a distance?
Not long ago, a friend raised her eyebrows when she found out that my partner and I only have one car. Since we’re retired, we spend most of our days together—running errands, grocery shopping, even dropping the dogs off at boarding—so we sold his car. I laughed and told her, “We’re joined at the hips. We don’t need two cars.”
Her response came quickly: “Joined at the hips? But I thought you were an independent woman.”
Another friend asked me something similar when I first started this relationship after ending things with my ex-husband: “Why get into something so soon? You can be on your own. You’re independent.”
Those words stayed with me. Independent woman. On the surface, it seems like a compliment. But I’ve begun to wonder: what do people truly mean when they say it? Do they mean strong, capable, resilient? Or do they mean untouchable, closed off, maybe even difficult to love? Is independence a sign of empowerment—or the silent signal that you’re expected to walk alone?
For years, I believed that being low-maintenance made me easier to love. I thought that strength meant never asking for too much, never needing anything, and never becoming a burden. However, that independence, even if it appeared admirable from the outside, was also my shield. It kept people at a distance, prevented disappointment, and gave me control.
And I see this everywhere. When women are hurt in love—betrayed, dismissed, abandoned—their instinct is often to put up armor. I don’t need anyone. I can do this alone. I’m strong. It feels powerful, and in many ways, it is. But sometimes what we call strength is really just self-protection.
There’s even a name some writers use for this: Independent Woman Syndrome. It’s what happens when independence, which begins as resilience, slowly turns into resistance. We stop asking. We stop receiving. We refuse to lean, even just a little. And in doing so, we build walls that keep out not only the pain but also the closeness we crave. The walls we build to keep out disappointment often keep out intimacy too.
When we wear independence like armor, we stop allowing someone to see our true needs. We keep our struggles silent, tell ourselves we’re fine, and never give our partner the chance to step in. On the surface, nothing seems wrong. But beneath it, love begins to fade—not because of loud fights, but because of silence. That’s how a silent breakup starts: when strength is mistaken for never letting the other person get close.
Sometimes, it’s not just what we don’t say but what we do. We take on the mental load, make decisions, and fix problems before our partner even notices. It seems capable—but it leaves no space for the other person to feel important. Over time, they stop trying, and gradually the relationship drifts apart, not through anger but through absence. These quiet patterns can slowly unravel connection.
When I talk about independence, people sometimes think I’m arguing against it, as if the only alternative is codependence. But I don’t believe in either extreme. Codependence is when two fragmented people cling to each other to get by. One collapses, and eventually the other does too. Radical independence is on the opposite end of the spectrum. It’s when we handle everything by ourselves, never seek help, and avoid closeness.
The middle ground is something different: interdependence. Interdependence happens when two whole people, each grounded in themselves, choose to share life together. They don’t lose themselves in each other, and they don’t shut themselves off. They give and receive. They stand tall alone, but they lean in by choice. Independence isn’t lost when we choose love—it’s tested, refined, and made more meaningful. This is where intimacy grows. Not in need, and not in isolation, but in the rhythm of strength and softness, autonomy and connection.
So, what does independence really mean? For me, it’s not about avoiding closeness. It’s about choice. True independence means knowing I can stand alone, and still dare to reach for someone’s hand. It’s having my own voice, my own resources, my own grounding, and still leaving space for someone else to show up.
The truth is, I don’t feel lonely when I’m alone. I know how to build a fulfilling life on my own. But having someone beside me brings a different kind of richness. It’s not about filling a void; it’s about sharing the journey.
So maybe the myth of the independent woman is this: the idea that needing no one is a sign of strength. That to be truly strong, you have to handle everything on your own, stand alone, and never rely on anyone. That being self-sufficient equals power, and that letting someone in somehow makes you less capable.
But that isn’t true strength. Needing no one isn’t power—it’s fear disguised as resilience. Real independence is knowing you can walk alone and still choose to walk together. Strength isn’t about isolation. It’s about presence. It’s the courage to let someone in, not because you can’t handle it alone, but because love is sweeter when shared.
Independence may keep us safe. But connection is what makes us alive.
Reflection for You
- When you hear the phrase independent woman, what does it mean to you—strength, distance, or something else?
- Have you ever used independence as a kind of armor after being hurt? What did it protect you from—and what might it have cost you?
- What would interdependence look like in your life—two whole people choosing to walk side by side, without losing themselves?
- How might letting someone in actually deepen, rather than diminish, your independence?
