I’m Still Smiling, But It’s Not Real

I’m Still Smiling, But It’s Not Real

By ZIA ULLAH KHAN

Pretending to be okay when you're quietly falling apart inside

People say I have a nice smile.

“You’re always so happy,” they say, handing me compliments like confetti. “It’s so good to see someone so positive all the time.” I nod, I laugh, I say “thank you” with that same smile on my face.

But the truth?

That smile is a lie.

I’ve gotten really good at pretending. I’ve had years of practice, after all. Years of hiding panic behind polite nods, burying sadness beneath sarcasm, and sealing off the parts of myself that no one wants to see. Because when you’re the one who’s always smiling, people don’t look deeper. They don’t ask questions. They believe what they want to believe.

And sometimes, you want them to believe it too. Because if they saw the truth—if you saw the truth—you might have to actually deal with it.

It didn’t start all at once.

I didn’t just wake up one day pretending to be okay. It was gradual. Subtle. It began in childhood, when I learned that crying made people uncomfortable, that being quiet made things easier, that being the “easy” kid earned you love. So I played the part. I got good grades. I said the right things. I smiled.

Even when I was hurting.

Especially when I was hurting.

Because pain, when ignored by others, becomes something you feel ashamed of. So I became someone who swallowed pain whole and covered it up with grins. I thought if I smiled enough, maybe I’d start to feel the happiness I was faking.

But that’s not how it works.

In college, I was the friend who made everyone laugh. I was the one who stayed up late talking people through their breakups, brought snacks during finals week, and always asked how others were doing. Rarely did anyone ask me in return. And I didn’t blame them. I didn’t give them a reason to.

I looked okay.

I acted okay.

Smiling through panic attacks became routine. Laughing while my chest felt like it was caving in became second nature. I performed so well that I even fooled myself sometimes.

Until nights came.

Nights were different.

At night, the silence grew louder. The weight pressed harder. The thoughts became more cruel. The smile disappeared, and the mask I wore all day fell apart in the dark.

That’s when I’d stare at the ceiling and think, Is this what life is supposed to feel like?

I’ve walked into work after nights of crying so hard my eyes were swollen. I’ve gone to birthday parties when all I wanted to do was lie on the floor and feel nothing. I’ve laughed at jokes while my mind screamed for a break.

People don’t notice.

They see the smile and think everything’s fine.

That’s the thing with sadness—not the dramatic, movie-scene kind where someone screams and breaks things—but the quiet kind. The kind where you go through the motions. Where your body keeps showing up even when your mind has checked out.

You smile.

Because if you stop smiling, if you let even one crack show, you’re afraid it’ll all come pouring out.

I remember one day sitting on a park bench during lunch break, watching people pass by, thinking, They all look normal. Am I the only one faking it?

It was a terrifying thought. And a strangely comforting one.

Because maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in the pretending.

Maybe others were smiling too, just like me, hoping no one noticed how close they were to falling apart.

The hardest part about pretending to be okay is that people stop checking on you. They assume you’ve got it all figured out. And when you finally do break, when you finally say “I’m not okay,” they’re shocked.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Because I didn’t know how.

Because I didn’t want to be a burden.

Because I was afraid that if I stopped smiling, I’d be unrecognizable.

But something changed this year.

I don’t know what exactly—maybe I got tired of carrying it alone. Maybe the loneliness finally got louder than the fear. Or maybe I just decided I deserved to be real.

So I started small.

I told a friend I wasn’t doing great. I didn’t smile when I said it. I didn’t cushion it with jokes or play it off. I just said it. And they didn’t run. They didn’t look at me like I was broken.

They listened.

It wasn’t some magical fix. But it was a start.

I’m still learning how to be honest. How to let myself cry without shame. How to accept love without feeling like I have to earn it by being perfect or pleasant or happy all the time.

I’m learning that smiling doesn’t make the pain go away. It only hides it.

And hiding something doesn’t heal it.

So yes, I’m still smiling—but now, sometimes, it’s real.

And when it’s not, I’m trying to be brave enough to let people see that too.

Because real connection doesn’t come from pretending. It comes from truth.

Even when the truth isn’t pretty.

Even when the smile is missing.

Would you like a suggested cover image or tags for this story next?