Looking Fine From the Outside

I think I've become very good at looking fine. Maybe too good.

I know how to show up when I'm expected to show up. I know how to answer when someone talks to me. I know when to smile. I know when to laugh. I know how to say, "I'm okay," in a way that doesn't invite another question.

Sometimes I wonder if people actually believe me. Or maybe they just don't have a reason not to.

Because what would they see? Someone sitting quietly? Someone who still goes to work? Someone who can hold a conversation? Someone who can laugh with friends? Someone who gets things done?

Nothing about that necessarily looks wrong. And maybe that's the problem.

We tend to look for obvious signs. We look for someone crying. Someone breaking down. Someone who can't get out of bed. Someone who looks like they're struggling.

But sometimes struggling doesn't look like that. Sometimes it looks like answering an email. Sometimes it looks like finishing your work. Sometimes it looks like laughing at a joke you don't really find funny. Sometimes it looks completely ordinary.

I've realized that a person can be falling apart quietly and still look perfectly put together. And I don't think that's always because they're trying to deceive anyone.

Sometimes you just learn how to carry things without putting them down in front of everyone. You learn how to keep moving. You learn how to compartmentalize. You learn how to say, "Later."

And then later becomes tomorrow. Tomorrow becomes next week. And eventually, you've gotten so used to carrying it that you forget what it feels like not to.

Maybe that's what people mean when they say someone is strong. Maybe sometimes strength is just the ability to keep going while nobody realizes how difficult going has become.

But I don't want to romanticize that. I don't want to always be the person who looks fine.

Sometimes I want someone to notice. Not because I want attention. Just because I want to know that someone saw me. Really saw me.

— ◇ —

A Note on the Painting
Shelter (Kubli)
Elmer Borlongan, 1993

What I saw in it: someone retreating into a small, quiet space, as if disappearing for a while is the only way to rest.

https://pintoart.org/shelter/