People Think I’m Healing. I Just Got Better at Hiding It

I wake up before the sun rises. It’s quiet. Peaceful, almost. But inside me, it feels like a hurricane still roars, even after all this time.

People say I look better now. They say it like it’s a compliment.
“You seem so much happier lately.”
“I’m glad to see you doing well again.”
“You’ve really bounced back.”

I nod. I smile. I thank them. But if they knew how much energy it takes just to pretend, they’d understand this isn’t healing—it’s hiding. And I’ve gotten really, really good at it.

It started after I lost my brother. He was everything to me—my anchor, my mirror, my best friend. His death wasn't a slow, understandable decline. It was sudden. Violent. A car crash, and that was it. No goodbye. No closure. Just emptiness.

In the beginning, people gave me space. They let me cry, fall apart, grieve loudly. It was acceptable. Expected, even. But grief has an expiration date in the eyes of the world. After a few months, people stopped asking how I was doing. And when they did ask, they wanted the short answer.

So I started giving it to them.

"I'm good, thanks for asking."
"Yeah, taking it one day at a time."
"Better now."

Better now. What a lie.

The truth is, I’ve mastered the art of existing while crumbling inside. I’ve learned to laugh at the right times, keep my posture straight, and reply to texts like nothing’s wrong. But it’s all a performance. A delicate balancing act where one wrong step might bring the whole thing crashing down.

At work, I’m efficient, focused. I even got a promotion last month. My boss says I’m thriving. I suppose that’s what it looks like from the outside—emails answered, meetings led, deadlines met. But what she doesn’t see is me staying late just so I don’t have to go home. Or me crying silently in the restroom because a playlist shuffled into a song that reminds me of him.

Socially, I’ve rebuilt. Sort of. I go to dinners, post pictures, laugh at jokes. People like me again. They invite me places because I seem fun again. Normal. But they don’t see me come home and sit in the dark for hours. They don’t hear the silence that follows me everywhere, like a shadow I can’t outrun.

Everyone thinks I’ve healed. And maybe it’s easier for them to believe that. Maybe it’s easier for me, too.

Because the alternative? The truth? It’s ugly. It’s inconvenient. It makes people uncomfortable. Nobody wants to hear that someone still feels broken after all this time. They want inspiration, a comeback story. They want the phoenix rising from the ashes—not the bird still crawling through them, wings burned and useless.

So I fake it.

I fake it because I’m tired of seeing people flinch when I tell the truth.
I fake it because I don’t want to be a burden.
I fake it because somewhere along the way, pretending started to feel safer than being honest.

But here’s the thing about hiding pain: it doesn’t make it disappear. It just festers in the dark corners of your soul. It grows roots in your chest and wraps around your heart like ivy. You learn to live with it, but it never stops hurting.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if this is just who I am now—someone who can’t let go, who can’t move on. But other times, I realize something else: I’m not weak for feeling this way. I’m not broken because I still miss him. I’m just human.

And maybe that’s the real truth behind the lie: I’m not healed. But I’m still here.

Still breathing.
Still trying.
Still showing up.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.