When it comes to physical strength, someone may have a stronger

Amy Morin has said with clarity and insight: “When it comes to physical strength, someone may have a stronger upper body than lower body, or a stronger right arm compared to the left arm. Similarly, we’re likely to excel in some areas of mental strength while struggling with others.” In these words lies a wisdom both humble and profound: that strength, whether of body or of mind, is never perfect or complete, but uneven, developing in some parts while weaker in others. And yet, it is in recognizing this imbalance that true growth begins.

The origin of this teaching comes from Morin’s own work as a psychotherapist, as well as her personal trials of grief and hardship. She witnessed how people could endure great suffering in one area of life yet collapse under pressures in another. Just as a warrior may wield a mighty sword but falter when required to lift a shield, so too does the mind reveal its unevenness—strong in courage perhaps, but weak in patience; strong in determination, yet frail in compassion. Morin’s insight reminds us that we are not uniform beings of unshakable steel, but works in progress, each with areas of strength and weakness alike.

The ancients also knew this truth. The philosopher Aristotle taught that virtue itself lies in balance—that one may excel in wisdom yet falter in temperance, or show great courage yet lack humility. In the gymnasiums of Greece, athletes trained the whole body, for a champion could not rely on a single limb. Likewise, the sages counseled that the soul must be trained in every part, lest a single weakness undo the whole. Morin echoes this ancient wisdom, clothed in modern language, reminding us that mental strength is not an unbroken wall but a structure of stones, some stronger, some weaker, all needing care.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln. He was strong in perseverance, enduring countless political defeats before rising to lead a nation. He was strong in empathy, carrying the sorrows of a divided people in his heart. Yet he struggled deeply with melancholy, with bouts of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. His greatness was not in being flawless but in recognizing his frailties and working through them, much like the man who strengthens his weaker arm through steady practice. Lincoln’s life teaches the same lesson Morin conveys: do not imagine yourself broken because your strength is uneven; instead, see in it the call to growth.

Morin’s comparison to physical strength is vital. For no one mocks the runner whose arms are weak, nor despises the lifter whose legs are less strong. Each understands that different muscles must be trained in their own way. So too with the mind: a person may stand firm against rejection but crumble under uncertainty, or endure loss yet struggle with forgiveness. To recognize this is not to despair but to take heart, for it shows the very path of training we must walk. Just as the body grows when its weaker parts are exercised, so does the soul grow when we practice patience where we lack it, or courage where we falter.

The lesson for us is this: honor the mental strengths you already possess, but do not neglect the areas where you stumble. Treat them not as shame but as opportunity. Train the weaker parts of your character as an athlete trains neglected muscles—slowly, steadily, with discipline and humility. And do not be deceived by appearances: one who seems mighty may still have hidden frailties, just as one who seems fragile may have reserves of strength unseen.

So let Amy Morin’s words endure as teaching: both the body and the mind are uneven in their power, yet both can be cultivated. Be patient with yourself, but not complacent. Seek out your weaker places, and strengthen them with effort and care. For the soul, like the body, is a living thing: shaped by practice, humbled by imbalance, and ennobled when every part is brought closer to harmony. And in this lifelong training lies the true beauty of mental strength—not perfection, but the continual striving toward wholeness.