The Mask I Wore at Home

The Mask I Wore at Home

By Abdul Muhammad

On screen, I was the picture of happiness.

“Good morning, everyone!” I’d chirp into the camera, hair tied neatly, kitchen bathed in sunlight. Behind me, breakfast sizzled and coffee steamed. My followers would flood the comments with hearts and praise — “Couple goals!”, “You’re glowing, girl!”, “Teach me how to be this happy!”

And for a few seconds, I’d almost believe them.

When the camera light turned red, I became someone else. The smile would slide off, my shoulders would drop, and silence would fill the room like smoke.

My husband, Adam, never appeared in those videos. People thought it was because he was camera shy. I used to say, “He likes to stay behind the scenes.” What I didn’t say was that he barely looked at me anymore, let alone wanted to be seen beside me.

It wasn’t always like this. When we first married, he was my world — attentive, funny, warm. We’d stay up late talking about silly things, like which cereal mascot was the most untrustworthy or what we’d name our future dog. He used to call me “Sunshine,” and every time he said it, I felt like I truly was.

But over time, something shifted. Maybe it was the endless work stress, or maybe love simply got tired. Conversations grew shorter, smiles rarer. He began spending more time in his office, and I started spending more time trying to pretend everything was fine.

That’s when I began filming.

At first, the videos were just a distraction — little morning vlogs to fill the quiet. Then one of them went viral: “Morning Routines with Grace.” People loved the way I folded napkins into hearts, the way I kissed the air toward where Adam should’ve been sitting. They said I was “the wife everyone wanted to be.”

I liked how that felt. For a few minutes each day, I wasn’t lonely. I was admired. Seen.

But pretending is heavy work.

Behind the edits and soft filters, I was unraveling. I’d sit in our spotless living room at night, surrounded by perfection — fresh flowers, glowing candles, everything color-coordinated — and feel utterly empty. Sometimes I’d scroll through my own feed and think, Who is she? That woman laughing in the sunshine — she’s not me.

One night, after posting a video titled “Five Secrets to a Happy Marriage”, I sat on the kitchen floor and cried until my throat burned. The irony was too cruel. The video had already hit 10,000 views by morning.

When I tried to talk to Adam about it, he just sighed.
“Grace, you’re overthinking again. You’re making money from this, right? Isn’t that enough?”

I nodded, but inside I was screaming.

No, it wasn’t enough. I didn’t want applause from strangers. I wanted him — his attention, his warmth, his laughter. But our love had turned into a performance where only one of us was still acting.

Weeks passed. The mask grew heavier.

Then came the morning I couldn’t wear it anymore. I’d set up my tripod as usual, the sunlight soft and golden across the kitchen tiles. I pressed “record,” and my practiced smile appeared — automatic, empty. But as I began to speak, my voice broke.

“Good morning,” I whispered, then stopped. The silence felt too honest. I stared into the lens — into the tiny glass eye that had watched every version of me — and something in me cracked.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore.”

The words poured out — about the loneliness, the distance, the way pretending had become my prison. I talked for ten minutes straight, crying, confessing, breathing. When I finished, I didn’t edit or filter it. I didn’t even rewatch it. I just posted it.

Then I turned off my phone.

For hours, I sat by the window, terrified. I imagined the backlash — people unfollowing, mocking, telling me I was ungrateful or dramatic. But when I finally checked, something unexpected had happened.

There were thousands of comments. Women writing, “I feel the same.” Others saying, “Thank you for saying it out loud.” Some just sent hearts or quiet messages of support.

That day, my mask shattered — not just online, but inside me.

When Adam came home that night, he looked uncomfortable.
“You posted that?” he asked. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

He rubbed his forehead. “You shouldn’t have aired private things.”
“They weren’t private,” I said softly. “They were invisible.”

He didn’t reply. For the first time, I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I let it stay between us — sharp, necessary, true.

That night, I slept without makeup, without guilt, without pretending. For once, I wasn’t Sunshine or Grace-the-wife or the cheerful influencer. I was just me — messy, tired, real.

The next morning, I woke up before dawn. I walked out to the porch with a blanket and a cup of tea. The sky was gray, streaked with pink. I watched the world wake up and felt something I hadn’t felt in years — peace.

I still make videos now, but they’re different. Some days I talk about mental health, some days about silence, and some days I film the sunrise with no words at all. The followers stayed — not for the perfection, but for the honesty.

Adam and I still share a house, but we’re learning to speak again — awkwardly, honestly. It’s not the fairy tale people imagined, but it’s real. And that’s enough.

Sometimes I get messages from women saying, “You gave me courage to stop pretending.” I always reply, “You already had it. You just had to see yourself without the mask.”

Because that’s what I learned, too.

Happiness isn’t a smile for the camera. It’s the quiet, unfiltered moment when you look at yourself — tired, flawed, and still standing — and think, I’m enough.

And for the first time in years, I truly believe it.