The Weight Behind My Smile

People always say I have a good smile.

The kind that puts others at ease. The kind that can break tension in a room. The kind you’d trust with your secrets, even if I never offered my own.

And I smile often—not because life is always good, but because I learned early that smiling makes people worry less.

It makes them ask fewer questions.

It keeps things safe.

Manageable.

Predictable.

And for someone like me—someone who learned that anger scares people and sadness embarrasses them—smiling was survival.

I was nine when I first understood that boys aren’t supposed to cry.

My uncle had died. I remember standing at the funeral next to my mother. My throat hurt from holding it in. My eyes burned.

But when the first tear fell, I saw my father look at me — not unkindly, but firmly.

A subtle shake of the head.

I wiped it away.

He patted my shoulder like I’d done the right thing.

So I smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make him proud.

Since then, I’ve smiled through a lot of things.

Through heartbreaks I pretended weren’t heartbreaks.

Through funerals where I did all the talking so no one else had to feel uncomfortable.

Through jobs that drained me.

Through friendships where I became the therapist, the fixer, the reliable one—and never the mess.

You get used to being the “strong one.”

You even start to believe it.

Until one day you don’t.

I remember the first time I caught myself laughing at a joke I didn’t think was funny—surrounded by people I didn’t feel seen by — and realizing I hadn’t felt like myself in months.

I went home and sat in the dark.

I took out my phone to text someone—anyone—but I couldn’t decide what to say that didn’t sound like weakness.

So I didn’t send anything.

Just stared at the screen with a smile that had nowhere left to go.

There’s this moment—I think every man feels it at some point—where you look in the mirror and wonder if the person staring back is who you actually are… or just who you've performed into existence.

That moment hit me on a Tuesday.

Just a regular day.

Coffee. Emails. A few dry meetings.

And then I saw my own reflection on a blank Zoom screen, and I didn’t recognize him.

He looked... tired.

Smiling, but tired.

I didn’t break down.

Not dramatically, at least.

No shouting. No sobbing.

Just… sat in the bathroom. Pressed my back to the door. Let the silence press against me.

And for the first time, I whispered it out loud:

“I’m not okay.”

It didn’t fix anything.

But it felt real.

It felt like a crack in the mask.

Since then, I’ve been learning how to loosen my smile.

Not erase it.

Not abandon it.

Just… loosen it.

So it’s not holding everything up on its own.

I’ve started answering honestly when people ask how I am.

I’ve started saying “I’m tired” and not apologizing for it.

I’ve started sitting with friends who also don’t know what to say — and realizing that silence can be healing when it’s safe.

Smiling isn’t the problem.

The problem is using it to bury what hurts.

To disguise what’s fragile.

To keep people from seeing the weight you're carrying.

But I’ve learned something else:

You don’t have to carry it alone.

Not every day.

Not anymore.

I still smile.

But now, sometimes, I smile after I’ve told the truth.

And it feels lighter.

It feels like mine.

Because real strength isn’t being silent.

It’s being seen — and still choosing to show up.

Even if your voice shakes.

Even if your smile falters.

Even if the weight hasn’t left you just yet.