I’ve been smiling for as long as I can remember. People often told me I had a “bright” presence, that I lit up a room. They never knew how much effort it took to keep that light burning.

My story started long before adulthood—back in a childhood that should have been safe but wasn’t. Behind closed doors, trust was broken, words were sharper than knives, and love was often twisted into something unrecognizable. I learned to endure. I learned to stay quiet. And I learned that a smile can keep others from asking questions I wasn’t ready—or allowed—to answer.

As I grew older, the patterns didn’t disappear. They followed me. Different faces, different circumstances, but the same familiar ache. Abuse doesn’t always end when you leave a house. Sometimes it stays lodged inside you. It shapes what you think you deserve. So I kept smiling. At work, with friends, even in relationships where my voice was dimmed and my worth questioned. People saw resilience. Inside, I was barely holding on.

It’s astonishing how easily a smile convinces the world. No one thinks to look deeper. No one notices the exhaustion in your eyes when the corners of your mouth curve upward. And for me, the smile became second nature—automatic, protective, exhausting.

But I’ve started to see the cracks in my own mask. Sometimes I catch myself wondering: who am I smiling for? Is it still about keeping others comfortable, or is it because I don’t know how else to exist?

I’m learning, slowly, that healing doesn’t start with silence. It begins with truth. With saying out loud: yes, I was hurt. Yes, I carried it with me. Yes, I’ve smiled through it all, even when I wanted to collapse.

And maybe, just maybe, the smile doesn’t have to be a mask forever. One day it will be real. One day it mean not “I’m fine,” but “I’m free.”

Until then, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep speaking. I’ll keep letting the truth out in small, fragile pieces. The smile never told the story. But, my voice finally can.

-🦩