This is for those of us who look like we’re okay.
We aren’t falling apart.
We aren’t in crisis.
We’re just getting through life.
We wake up, get dressed, go to work, and handle responsibilities.
We respond to messages.
We show up when expected.
We do what needs to be done.
From the outside, nothing looks wrong.
We have routines. Stability. Lives that seem fine on paper.
Sometimes even impressive.
And people admire us.
The Part Nobody Talks About
We’re seen as strong.
Grounded.
Reliable.
The calm one.
The disciplined one.
The one who always figures it out.
Somehow, we become the example without ever volunteering for the role.
The person others look to for reassurance.
The one people assume doesn’t need anything.
We get labeled “put together.”
And once that label sticks, it becomes a cage.
Because admiration slowly turns into isolation.
No one checks on the person who seems unbreakable.
No one asks how we’re really doing.
No one imagines we could be struggling.
Why would they?
We’re doing well.
We’re handling life.
We’re fine.
When Silence Grows
So the silence grows.
And in that silence, something changes.
We stop reaching out not because we don’t want connection.
But because we don’t want to disappoint the version of ourselves
everyone believes in.
We don’t want to explain sadness that doesn’t have a neat cause.
We don’t want to sound ungrateful.
We don’t want to hear,
“But everything is going so well for you.”
So we keep performing competence.
We keep being solid.
We keep being dependable.
We keep holding it together.
And somewhere along the way, we start feeling ashamed for wanting help.
The Quiet Shame
Ashamed for feeling sad when life looks good.
Ashamed for feeling empty when nothing is “wrong.”
Ashamed for needing support when everyone believes we’re fine.
We tell ourselves we should be grateful.
That other people have it worse.
That this feeling doesn’t make sense.
So we minimize it.
We rationalize it.
We swallow it.
But the sadness doesn’t go away.
It just becomes quieter.
What It Turns Into
At first, it shows up as tiredness.
Then irritability.
Then a sense of detachment from things that used to matter.
We still laugh but it feels delayed.
We still smile but it doesn’t reach as deep.
We still enjoy moments but the joy fades quickly.
And we remember.
We remember what it felt like to be normal.
To laugh without effort.
To feel joy without analyzing it.
To feel connected without forcing it.
We remember being excited about life
instead of managing it.
That memory becomes both comfort and pain.
Because once you know what joy feels like,
its absence is louder.
A Dimmer Version of Ourselves
We don’t feel like new people.
We feel like dimmer versions of ourselves.
Like someone turned the volume down
on our emotional lives.
We’re not numb, numb would be easier.
We feel everything, just not fully.
Especially at night.
When the day ends and the noise shuts off,
the distractions disappear.
There’s no one to perform for.
No one to reassure.
No role to play.
That’s when the emptiness shows up.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just heavy.
Performing “Normal”
We sit with it quietly.
Sometimes we cry.
Sometimes we just stare at nothing.
And then, eventually, we pull ourselves back together.
Because we have to.
Because tomorrow is coming.
Because being functional has become second nature.
So we do our best impression
of who we used to be.
We mirror old reactions.
Old humor.
Old energy.
We remember how we used to show up
and recreate it convincingly enough
that no one questions it.
What People Don’t Understand
We aren’t pretending to be someone else.
We’re trying to return to ourselves.
We’re not lazy.
We’re not unmotivated.
We’re not ungrateful.
We’re grieving.
Grieving the versions of ourselves that felt alive.
Grieving the joy that used to arrive naturally.
Grieving connection that didn’t feel so rare or conditional.
And grief like this doesn’t look obvious.
There’s no funeral for who we used to be.
No permission slip to mourn a life
that technically still exists.
So we grieve quietly.
Functioning Isn’t Living
Because we still function,
the world assumes we’re okay.
But functioning is not the same as living.
And being admired is not the same as being understood.
If this feels familiar, hear this clearly:
We are not weak for wanting to feel normal again.
We are not broken for missing joy.
We are not failing because sadness has become familiar.
We are people who learned how to survive
and are now realizing survival isn’t enough.
Remembering what it felt like isn’t a flaw.
It’s proof that part of us is still alive.
And that part matters.
