The Secret Battle Behind My Smile"

The Secret Battle Behind My Smile

— by ZIA ULLAH KHAN

People tell me I have a beautiful smile.

It’s in the way they say it—lightly, with no idea what that smile has hidden. “You always look so happy,” they’ll say. “You have such a positive energy.” I nod, thank them, and curl the corners of my lips just a little tighter, a little higher. Because that’s what they expect. That’s what I’ve trained myself to do.

But the truth is, my smile is a mask.

And behind it… I’m exhausted.

Not physically, though sometimes that too. I’m tired in the way that sinks deep into your bones. In the way that no amount of sleep or coffee can fix. It’s the kind of tired that comes from fighting a battle no one else can see.

Every. Single. Day.

It started years ago, though I can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment. Maybe it was in high school when I realized I was expected to be the strong one—always composed, always helpful, always "fine." Or maybe it was when my parents’ voices grew sharper and quieter, their arguments turning into cold silences, and I learned that silence can hurt more than shouting. Somewhere along the way, I learned that emotions—especially mine—were too much.

So I swallowed them.

All of them.

Sadness, anger, confusion, fear.

And I replaced them with a smile.

A smile that says “I’m okay,” even when my heart is racing and my chest feels like it’s caving in. A smile that distracts from the fact that some mornings I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, unable to find a single reason to get up except for the fact that people are counting on me to show up.

Smiling became my survival strategy. A habit. A defense mechanism.

At school, I was the “friendly one.” Always helping others with their problems, giving advice I never took myself. At work, I’m the dependable colleague—never misses a deadline, always says “yes,” always goes the extra mile. In my friend group, I’m the one who listens, the one who makes others laugh, the one who sends long thoughtful texts when someone’s feeling down.

But no one asks me if I’m okay.

And the truth is, I probably wouldn’t know how to answer if they did.

Because even I’m not sure what “okay” looks like anymore.

Some days, it feels like I’m walking through life carrying an invisible weight. Smiling through meetings, smiling through family dinners, smiling through messages from friends I don’t have the energy to respond to. And when I’m finally alone, when the performance is over, I feel hollow. Like the part of me that holds everything together has quietly crumbled and no one noticed.

That’s the worst part—how invisible the struggle is.

Mental pain doesn’t show up in bruises or bandages. It doesn’t scream for help. It whispers. And unless someone is really listening, they won’t hear it.

I’ve learned to function with the ache. To dress it up with productivity. To hide it behind well-crafted jokes and Instagram stories with carefully chosen filters. To let the world believe the version of me that’s easier to accept.

But some nights, when everything goes quiet, the mask slips. I stare at the reflection in the mirror—the tired eyes, the forced grin—and I wonder, Who is she really?

I know I’m not alone. I know there are others like me—smiling through storms, carrying the weight of their own minds, afraid to burden others with what they don’t even fully understand themselves.

And I know that eventually, the mask gets heavy.

Heavier than the pain itself.

I’ve started taking small steps. Not big, dramatic changes. Just… small ones. I’ve started journaling. I’ve started saying “no” when I’m stretched too thin. I’ve started trying to be kinder to myself on the days when getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. And most importantly, I’ve started talking—really talking—to a therapist.

It’s uncomfortable. Sometimes painful. But it’s real.

And it’s a reminder that I don’t have to smile to be loved.

I can cry and still be worthy.

I can be honest and still be accepted.

I can be me—flawed, healing, human.

So yes, people may still see my smile. But now, I’m learning to let that smile be real again. Not a mask, not a cover-up. Just… a quiet victory after a long day. A sign that even though the battle isn’t over, I’m still here. Still fighting.

Still choosing to live.

And maybe that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.