I Was a Victim of Fake Happiness — But Now I Know What Joy Means

by Asadullah Azimi

For most of my adult life, I wore a smile that didn’t belong to me.

People around me saw what I wanted them to see — someone calm, positive, always collected. “You’re such a happy person,” they’d say. “You’re so strong.” And I would nod, smile wider, and play along. But behind closed doors, in the quiet moments, I was a stranger to myself. That smile — the one that looked so genuine — had become a mask I couldn't remove.

Inside, I was crumbling. Not from a single traumatic event, not from loss or disaster. No. It was something slower, harder to name — a creeping emptiness that wrapped itself around my chest and whispered, “Something’s missing.”

I wasn’t sad in the way people usually understand sadness. I wasn’t crying every day. I didn’t stop going to work or answering calls. I was “functioning.” But I was numb. Every day felt like a repeat of the last — wake up, smile, perform, go to sleep, and do it all again. I was alive, yes, but not really living.

At first, I ignored it. I told myself it was just stress. “Everyone gets tired,” I reasoned. “Don’t be dramatic.” But deep inside, I knew something wasn’t right. That small, quiet voice kept asking questions I didn’t want to answer: Why are you so disconnected? Why are you pretending? Who are you doing this for?

Then one morning, everything shifted.

I woke up and just... couldn't get out of bed. It was like a switch had flipped inside me. I wasn’t physically ill, but I felt paralyzed — not by pain, but by a deep, invisible weight. I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. No phone. No noise. Just silence. And in that silence, I finally admitted something that terrified me:

I’m not okay.

It was the first time I had said those words — even to myself.

That realization was both terrifying and liberating. For years, I had believed that admitting emotional pain was weakness. That talking about mental health meant I had “failed” at being strong. But in that moment, lying in bed, I realized that silence was what had made me weak — not the pain itself.

So I did something I never thought I’d do: I asked for help.

I scheduled a therapy session. It sounds simple, but it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Where I come from, therapy isn’t normal. It’s not talked about. Emotions are often buried, and people are praised for “enduring.” But I didn’t want to just endure anymore — I wanted to understand myself. I wanted to breathe freely again.

Walking into that first session, I was nervous. I didn’t know where to start. I kept thinking, What if I say something wrong? What if this doesn’t work? What if I’m just being dramatic? But the therapist simply said, “Take your time. Speak when you’re ready.”

And when I did, something incredible happened — someone listened. Truly listened. No judgment. No advice. Just presence.

For the first time in years, I felt seen.

Over the weeks and months that followed, I slowly unpacked years of buried emotions. I realized that I had spent most of my life trying to make everyone else comfortable, often at the expense of my own truth. I learned how often we confuse happiness with approval — how easily we replace our own needs with what we think others expect from us.

But real joy? Real joy is something entirely different.

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be seen. Sometimes, it’s as small as breathing deeply in the morning and feeling grateful instead of anxious. Sometimes, it’s saying no without guilt. Sometimes, it’s watching the rain, drinking tea, and letting the silence comfort you instead of scare you.

I discovered that real joy isn’t something you chase. It’s something you create — within yourself, slowly, quietly, with love and honesty.

I’m still healing. I still have hard days. But now I don’t hide behind fake smiles. I let myself be real — happy, sad, angry, hopeful — all of it. Because being real is where the healing happens.

Today, when people ask me how I’m doing, I pause before I answer. Not to lie, but to truly check in with myself. Sometimes I say, “I’m okay.” Other times, I say, “I’m struggling, but I’m trying.” And I’ve learned that both answers are valid. Both are human.

If you’re reading this and you’re pretending, like I was — pretending to be fine, to be strong, to be unbothered — please know this: you’re not alone. You are allowed to feel. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to ask for help. You don’t have to earn your right to heal. You already deserve it.

Happiness doesn’t come from hiding. It comes from truth.

And the moment you choose to stop pretending — that’s when the healing begins.