I hope it doesn't become tedious, and I bore people by repeating that 'strength through vulnerability' requires more strength than any bully could ever imagine. That the earth will be inherited by the meek doesn't mean by the weak. Meek is Greek for 'Power Under Control.' Turning one's will over to God is not 'weak.' Looking for the good in every human being is not a mental disease or defect.
I remember a story from Melody Beattie about so-called strong people riping the blanket off of someone because 'they don't need it' ('it' being a crutch). She said they have the blanket for a reason, and even if it's a crutch, they might freeze to death without it. It takes some people time to heal, and it's not our place to decide what that timeline is. Sure, ripping off the bandaid is a good idea so as not to prolong the ordeal of removal, and 'Cold Turkey' has its place, but not every person knows the internal struggle someone is going through. Plate said to be kind because no one knows what someone else is going through. Also, in a book that I like, I read that we should be hard on ourselves and gentle with others. A gentle word turns aside anger.
Some people call Faith a crutch. Think what you will, but loving people after being hurt by people requires great strength. Forgiveness based on Faith is a crutch. But I'll walk on water with my crutch if need be.
Here's a poem about fragility that, in part, made me love this poet:
"somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"
― E.E. Cummings, Selected Poems