Behind the Mask – What They Don’t See

Before heading to work each morning, Aisha always stands in front of the mirror.

She puts on her favorite soft pink lipstick, arranges her hair up nicely, and smiles at herself, a tiny, practiced smile.

She is happy, self-assured, and always willing to lend a hand. She is referred to by her colleagues as "the sunshine of the office."

But just beyond that reflection is the truth.

The only person who could really relate to Aisha's silence was her father, who passed away three months ago.

She kept it to herself. Life continued on, the condolences ceased, and everyone presumed she had gone on.

She kept it to herself. Life continued on, the condolences ceased, and everyone presumed she had gone on.

Grief, however, is not a linear process.

It calmly waits for the appropriate time to come out of the chest, weighty as a secret.

Aisha finds humor in other people's laughter at work. She responds to emails, listens to jokes, and offers advice.

However, there are nights when the silence is so loud that she comes home and closes the door.

Dropping her luggage, she sits on the floor next to the bed and lets the tears fall, steadily and without drama or loudness.

It is never seen. Nobody ever will.

At one point, her friend Sana inquired,

How do you manage to be so upbeat despite everything that is happening?

"I guess I just wear my happiness well," Aisha remarked with the same flawless, polished smile.

On the inside, though, she understood: she wore it like armor.

She went by a tiny park one evening after work. A couple was sharing ice cream, children were giggling, and an elderly man was reading calmly under a street lamp.

Aisha ceased walking for the first time in weeks. Fragile, beautiful, and oblivious, she watched the world continue.

She allowed herself to breathe deeply for the first time.

No mask. No grin. Simply take a breath.

The tears returned, although they weren't as heavy this time.

Like the first rain after a protracted drought, they felt purified.

Aisha realized that hiding her pain didn’t make her strong; facing it did.

So the next morning, when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t force a smile.

She just looked — tired eyes, swollen lids, but real.

She whispered softly,

“It’s okay. You’re allowed to be broken and beautiful at the same time.”

And then she went to work — still smiling, but this time, not to hide.

This time, to heal.

After several weeks, Aisha gradually started to exhibit tiny fissures in her mask.

She trembled when she said, "I miss him every day," to Sana one evening over tea.

Sana just stretched across the table and gripped her hand without saying anything.

It was a small gesture, but Aisha understood then how restorative it was to be viewed as a human being, frail and trying, rather than as the happy coworker or the strong friend.

She stopped saying "I'm fine" when she wasn't at work.

Not everyone noticed, but some did, and those few real relationships started to count for more than the hundreds of courteous smiles.

The sound of rain, the feel of tea in her palms, and the early sunlight on her desk were all peaceful things to Aisha once more.

She began penning letters to her father, words she wanted to let out but would never send.

She muttered, "Thank you for staying, even when it hurt," as she gazed into the same mirror that had once reflected her mask.

The woman who was staring back was no longer acting.

She was genuine even though she wasn't flawless.

And that was sufficient at last.