I Smiled All Day, Then Cried Alone at Night

Nobody saw it.

That's the weird thing. I went to my job. I replied to messages. When people made jokes, I smiled. I nodded at the right times. From the outside, I appeared regular, maybe even fine.

I was barely holding it together within.

There is a kind of grief that doesn't show itself. It doesn't scream or fall apart in a big way. It wakes up with you, stays with you all day, and waits for you to be alone. That's the sort I have.

I tell myself the same lie every morning: "Today will be easier."

And every night, I realize how good I've gotten at pretending.

People think it's easy to see whether someone is depressed. Tears. Silence. Withdrawal. But real sadness frequently seems productive. Responsible. Polite. It looks like someone who keeps going because stopping feels more risky.

I learned early that nobody likes to hear how exhausted you are of being strong.

So I stopped talking about it.

I become the one who listens. The one who gives advice. The one who says, “It’s okay, you’ll be fine.” What I never say is that I don’t recall the last time I felt fine.

At night, everything changes.

The noise fades. The distractions disappear. And suddenly, there’s nowhere to hide. Thoughts come back—unfinished talks, unheard words, choices that still ache. The calm becomes loud.

I revisit instances I should’ve handled differently. I envisage versions of my life that never happened. I wonder when exactly I started losing pieces of myself and why no one warned me.

Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I just look at the ceiling. Both feel equally taxing.

The hardest aspect isn’t the pain itself—it’s how lonely it feels. You can be surrounded by people and still feel absolutely unnoticed. You can laugh in a room full of friends and feel empty the second you’re alone.

I’ve learned that melancholy doesn’t necessarily come from one great event. Sometimes it’s developed slowly—from disappointment, from pressure, from repeatedly choosing survival over enjoyment.

People tell you to be grateful. To stay positive. To “look on the bright side.” They don’t comprehend how weighty such words feel when you’re already carrying too much.

I don’t want pity. I don’t want dramatic worry. I just want someone to stay with me in the stillness and not rush me toward healing.

Because healing isn’t fast. And it isn’t clean.

Some days I function well enough to fool even myself. Other days, I feel like I’m one minor inconvenience away from falling apart. And the worst part? Both days appear precisely the same to everyone else.

If you’re reading this and it feels similar, I want you to know something important: you’re not weak for feeling this way. You’re not broken. You’re not failing at life.

You’re exhausted.

Tired of pretending. Tired of being powerful. Tired of carrying emotions you never had space to process.

It’s alright to admit that. Even if only to yourself.

I don’t know when things will get better. I don’t have a nice finish or an uplifting message. But I do know this—existing silently in misery takes guts, even when no one claps for it.

Tonight, like many evenings, I’ll probably cry alone. But at least I know I’m not the only one who does.

And sometimes, that simple fact is enough to keep going.