Smiles I Faked

People always told me I had a great smile. Bright, warm, comforting—like sunshine, they'd say. Funny how something so praised could become my best disguise.

Every morning, I’d sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall with eyes that didn’t blink. Some days, it took everything in me to stand up. To breathe like I wasn't suffocating. But eventually, I’d get up. Brush my teeth. Pick out clothes. And, most importantly, put on that smile.

At work, I was the funny one. The reliable one. The one people came to when they needed cheering up. I cracked jokes. Gave advice. Made coffee runs. No one ever asked how I was doing, but I don’t blame them. I made sure they never had to.

You learn how to hide it. You learn the timing—when to laugh, when to nod, when to tilt your head like you're listening, even when your mind's a thousand miles away, trying to remember the last time you felt okay. Not happy—just... okay.

I kept up the act for years. I was a master at it.

Until one day, it cracked.

It was a Tuesday. Nothing special. Gray sky. Cold coffee. Same traffic, same faces. But something about that day felt heavy. My chest ached like I’d been holding my breath for years and finally ran out of air.

I sat through a meeting, nodding and smiling like always. Then I went to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and just sat there. Not crying. Not panicking. Just... empty.

It scared me—how normal that emptiness felt.

That night, I went home, dropped my keys on the floor, and slid down the door like in those cliché movie scenes. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Just me, in the dark, staring at nothing, wondering how much longer I could pretend.

I started thinking about the smiles. The ones I faked for photos. For family. For strangers. Smiles I wore while my heart cracked in slow motion.

It made me wonder—had anyone ever truly seen me? The real me. Not the polished version I presented. Not the good friend, the dependable coworker, the always-there sibling. Just me. The tired, messy, quietly breaking version.

I didn’t have answers. But I knew I couldn’t keep living like that.

So I did something small. I texted my best friend, “Hey, can we talk sometime soon? Just feeling a little off lately.” It wasn’t much. But for me, it was everything.

The next day, she called. I almost didn’t pick up. But I did.

And I didn’t tell her everything. Not yet. But I told her I’d been feeling tired. That the smiles were hard. That life felt heavy in a way I couldn’t explain. And she listened. Really listened.

She didn’t say, “But you always seem so happy.” She didn’t try to fix me. She just stayed on the line, even through the silence.

That night, I cried. Not from sadness, but from relief.

For the first time in a long time, someone had seen through the mask. And the world didn’t end.

I wish I could say everything got better overnight. It didn’t. Healing isn’t pretty. It’s slow, painful, and full of relapses. But that one moment—that one crack in the armor—started something.

Now, I still smile. But not all of them are fake. Some are small. Soft. Real.

There are still days when the darkness creeps back in, when I feel like I’m slipping. But I no longer do it alone. And I think that’s what makes the difference.

Because the truth is, it takes strength to pretend. But it takes even more to be real.

And I’m learning, day by day, how to live without the mask.

Even if it’s just for a little while.