My Family Doesn’t Know This About Me

There’s a version of me my family knows well—quiet, polite, dependable. I’m the one who helps wash the dishes after dinner, who keeps secrets like heirlooms, who always remembers to say “thank you” and “I love you.” I’m the sibling who listens, the cousin who shows up, the daughter who doesn’t raise her voice.

But what they don’t know—what I’ve never said out loud—is that I’ve lived much of my life with a quiet, persistent sense of not belonging.

It started when I was a kid. I didn’t know how to name it back then. I just remember feeling like I was watching life happen through a window instead of living in it. Everyone around me seemed to understand the rules of the world, and I was stuck trying to memorize lines to a play I wasn’t cast in.

My family thought I was just shy. “She’ll grow out of it,” my mom used to say. “She’s just quiet.” And so I leaned into it. I became the quiet one, the agreeable one. I thought if I played the part well enough, no one would notice the storm that lived inside me.

What they don’t know is that I’ve battled anxiety for years. Not just nerves-before-a-test kind of anxiety, but the kind that leaves your hands shaking at the idea of making a phone call. The kind that turns a grocery run into a battlefield of overthinking. The kind that whispers “You’re too much” and “You’re not enough” in the same breath.

They don’t know that in high school, I used to go to the nurse’s office just to sit in the quiet. I’d say I had a headache, or cramps, or anything that sounded normal. But the truth was, I just needed a break from pretending I was okay. Sometimes, I’d sit on that little cot, eyes closed, and just breathe like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

I’ve always been good at hiding things. That’s what makes this secret both easier and harder to carry. Easier, because no one suspects. Harder, because no one suspects.

They don’t know that I once sat in my car for over an hour, too afraid to go inside my own house, because I was in the middle of a panic attack. I stared at the front door like it was a wall I couldn’t climb. Eventually, I went in, smiled, and asked what was for dinner.

They don’t know that I’ve gone to therapy. That I started seeing someone after college because the weight of pretending had grown too heavy to carry alone. I never told them. I didn’t want the questions, the concern, the confusion. I didn’t want them to look at me differently. And honestly, I didn’t want to risk them thinking less of me.

Because in our family, we don’t talk about mental health. We talk about weather. About school. About work. We talk about who’s dating who and how Aunt Marie’s lasagna is still unbeatable. We laugh a lot. We love each other. But we don’t talk about pain unless it’s physical, visible, something that can be fixed with medicine or ice.

So I learned to package my pain in silence. Wrapped it in routine. Hid it behind good grades and forced smiles and the relentless need to be “okay.”

But the truth is, I’m not always okay. I’ve had bad days. Days when getting out of bed felt like a small miracle. Days when I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Days when I thought maybe I’d always feel this way—disconnected, foggy, afraid.

And then there are days when I feel light. Clear. Capable. Therapy helped me understand that I’m not broken. That my brain is just wired differently. That healing isn’t linear, and that I’m allowed to take up space, even when I’m struggling.

My family doesn’t know this about me. Not because I don’t love them—I do, fiercely—but because I’ve never been sure how to open that door without flooding the room. I’m afraid they’ll worry, or worse, not understand. I’m afraid they’ll see me differently.

But I’m also learning that vulnerability is not weakness. That hiding my truth doesn’t protect them—it just isolates me. Maybe someday I’ll tell them. Maybe someday I’ll sit across from my mom at the kitchen table, or walk with my brother on a quiet street, and say, “There’s something I need you to know.”

Until then, I write. I breathe. I heal. Quietly, slowly, but fully.

And I carry the hope that one day, my silence will no longer be the loudest thing in the room.