There’s something no one tells you about being perceived as “strong”: it’s exhausting.
People see what you offer them. The output. The curated energy. The smiles, the wit, the competence. And if you’re really good at performing the role, they rarely ask how you’re doing. They just assume you’re doing fine. Thriving, even.
What they don’t see is the fight beneath the stillness.
The pep talks before you show up.
The tears that come after the phone call ends.
The way your chest tightens before you click “send.”
The mornings you sit at the edge of your bed, willing yourself to just… start.
They don’t see the rituals that keep you upright.
The playlist that summons your voice back.
The coffee you reheat three times before it ever reaches your mouth.
The voice notes you record and delete. Then record again.
I’m learning that part of the ache comes from being invisible in plain sight. And it’s not because people are careless. Sometimes, we become very good at hiding—at being functional, charismatic, articulate—while slowly eroding from the inside out.
There have been days I’ve performed confidence while feeling like a fogged mirror. Present but unclear.
There have been seasons I’ve ghosted people, not because I didn’t love them, but because I was afraid they’d ask questions I didn’t have answers for.
And there have been long stretches when I’ve written nothing, not because I had no ideas, but because I couldn’t face what those ideas might reveal about me.
So if you’re someone who seems “fine” to others but feels like you’re barely holding the seams together—this is for you.
I see you.
And I’m trying to see myself too.