“No One Asked If I Was Okay—So I Stopped Pretending I Was”

I got really good at pretending.

Not just pretending to be okay—but pretending I wasn’t drowning.

There’s a subtle difference.

“Okay” is a surface act. A smile, a nod, a “yeah I’m good, just tired.”

But not drowning? That’s deeper. It’s acting like you’re breathing fine when every inhale burns.

For the longest time, I was the reliable one. The solid one.

The listener. The advice-giver.

The person who “had it together.”

And I wore that mask like a second skin.

People came to me with their struggles, and I held space for them like a therapist without a license.

I gave encouragement, sent long thoughtful texts, stayed on calls till 2am helping others untangle their pain.

But no one asked if I was okay.

Not really.

Sure, there were the polite check-ins. The casual “you good?” in group chats.

But you learn quickly that you good doesn’t actually mean how are you doing, really?

It’s just a greeting with a question mark.

So I kept pretending.

Because who wants to be the one that ruins the vibe?

Who wants to be the one who says, “Actually, I’m not okay. I’m really tired. I feel empty. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

It’s easier to say, “I’m fine,” and smile through it.

It’s easier to nod while your chest caves in quietly.

But the body remembers what the mouth tries to silence.

My sleep got worse. My appetite vanished. I felt like I was running on autopilot through a fog of static.

Even music didn’t sound the same. Even laughter felt like a performance.

I wasn’t living—I was surviving.

The worst part? I started resenting the people I loved.

Not because they did anything wrong…

But because they didn’t notice.

Because I had trained them so well to believe I was invincible, they stopped checking for cracks.

But I was cracking.

And one night, it just... broke.

There was no dramatic scene.

No loud sobbing. No big explosion.

Just me, sitting on the floor in my room, staring at nothing.

It felt like something inside me had collapsed quietly—like an old bridge giving out under weight it was never designed to carry.

That night, I didn’t text anyone.

I didn’t hint or cry for help or type vague “I’m not okay” posts.

I just let it be real—for the first time in a long time.

I stopped pretending.

And in that silence, I realized something important:

No one is coming to rescue you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

You have to show them the water.

So I started small.

The next time someone asked how I was, I didn’t say “good.”

I said, “Honestly, I’ve been struggling a bit.”

It felt awkward. Uncomfortable. Exposing.

But also... freeing.

Some people didn’t know how to respond.

But some did.

Some leaned in. Some thanked me for being real.

Some said, “Me too.”

And suddenly, I wasn’t so alone.

Now, I try to live in truth more than performance.

I still smile—but not because I have to.

I still show up for others—but not at the cost of abandoning myself.

Because pretending you’re fine doesn’t protect people.

It just isolates you.

And no amount of strength is worth losing yourself for.

So no—I’m not always okay.

But I’m done faking it.

And that honesty? That’s the most powerful thing I’ve got.