I did such a good job pretending to be okay that now everyone believes it.
For years I pushed through pain, exhaustion, appointments, side effects — all of it — because I didn’t want to be a burden. I smiled when I wanted to cry, cracked jokes when I wanted to scream, and convinced everyone around me that I could handle whatever was thrown my way.
And now… they believe me.
They think I’m strong. Independent. Resilient.
And I am — but not all the time.
Sometimes I want someone to see through the act. To notice the quiet instead of assuming peace. To understand that when I go silent, it’s not strength — it’s survival. It’s me conserving what’s left of my energy because I’m too tired to explain what hurting really feels like.
I taught everyone how to treat me. I trained them to expect me to bounce back, to laugh it off, to “keep going.” And I can’t even blame them for believing the version of me I worked so hard to sell.
But here’s the truth: I’m not always fine.
I’m not always handling it.
I’m just good at hiding the parts that scare people.
It’s easier that way, isn’t it?
If I look okay, then no one worries.
If I’m smiling, then no one asks.
If I keep showing up, then I’m still the girl who hasn’t let cancer win.
Except some days, winning looks a lot like crying in the shower and sleeping for sixteen hours straight.
Some days, it’s choosing to stay in bed instead of pretending to be the version of myself everyone expects to see.
I’m realizing now that honesty isn’t weakness.
Letting people in doesn’t make me fragile — it makes me human.
So no, I’m not fine.
Not all the time.
But I’m learning to be honest about it.
Because maybe if I stop pretending, the people who love me can finally show up for the real version of me — the one who’s still fighting, still hopeful, and finally done performing strength.
💌 Subscriber Note
If you’ve ever convinced the world you were fine when you weren’t, this one’s for you.
You don’t owe anyone the performance version of yourself. The real you deserves care too.
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