Pretending to Be Okay: The Silent Weight We Carry
There is a certain way people ask,
“Are you okay?”
Not waiting long enough for the truth,
just enough to hear
what sounds easy to carry.
And I have learned that answer well.
“I’m fine.”
It slips out gently,
like it has been practiced for years,
like it belongs more to me
than anything real ever did.
Because the truth
is never a short sentence.
It doesn’t fit into casual conversations
or quick replies between busy lives.
It sits heavy,
somewhere behind the ribs,
asking for space no one really offers.
So I smile.
Not a big smile,
just enough to look normal.
Just enough to not invite questions.
Because questions mean explaining,
and explaining means opening doors
I barely manage to keep closed.
Sometimes I feel
like I am performing a version of myself,
a quieter, safer version,
one that laughs at the right moments
and nods at the right words,
while something inside
stays completely still.
People see the outside.
They see the routine,
the replies,
the presence.
They don’t see
how silence stretches at night,
how thoughts replay without permission,
how even small things
can feel unbearably loud.
I don’t know if you understand this,
but pretending is exhausting.
Not physically,
but in a way that drains something deeper,
like you are constantly holding a weight
no one else can see.
And yet,
you keep holding it.
Because letting go
feels like breaking.
And breaking
is something the world rarely makes space for.
So you learn to carry it quietly.
You learn to exist between
what you feel
and what you show.
You become fluent
in hiding.
But sometimes,
in the middle of ordinary moments,
when no one is really looking,
the mask slips just a little.
Not enough for others to notice,
but enough for you to feel it
that quiet crack
in the version of “okay”
you’ve been living.
And in that moment,
you realize something
you don’t say out loud:
You were never okay.
You were just
strong enough
to pretend.

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