Do you know what it feels like to walk through the world with a storm inside and no one the wiser?

I do. Every heartbeat is a drum of war I fight silently, every breath a lie I tell just to survive another day.

I smile. I laugh. I nod. I comfort. I appear whole. And every motion is a lie, a performance, a mask stitched over wounds no one would understand.

The cracks exist. They always exist. But I polish them until they shine, until they become armor, until no one can see the shattering beneath the surface.

I have learned to carry pain like a hidden weapon. To speak when it is safe, to stay silent when it is safer, to endure when it is unbearable.

People call me strong. Admire me. Praise me. They have no idea the cost, the nights I spend weeping alone, the mornings I steel myself against a world that would devour my weakness.

I parent myself. I parent my siblings. I care for others while my own soul bleeds in private. And still, no one sees. Not really.

Ego. That is my shield. I will not bow, not for pity, not for sympathy. I will not let anyone witness my cracks, because the world will take what it can and leave nothing behind.

I am a ghost among people. They laugh, they cry, they live, and I… I endure in silence, walking with the weight of invisible chains.

I have learned to speak words I do not feel, to offer comfort I cannot receive, to project calm when chaos reigns within me.

And yet, the storm rages. Every insult, every slight, every memory, every grief—it hammers at my chest. And still, I walk forward. Upright. Unbroken.

I envy those who can let their pain show. Who cry openly, who stumble, who fall. I envy them for their freedom. I envy them for their release.

But I cannot. Not in public. Not in this world that would exploit my weakness and call it my fault. So I endure. I perform. I survive.

I smile while my heart bleeds. I laugh while my mind screams. I appear untouchable while I fracture silently, endlessly.

People envy my composure. They think I am flawless. They do not know that every day is a tightrope between collapse and survival.

I am a fortress built from sorrow, hardened by solitude, fortified with silence. And yet, inside, I am alive, burning, trembling, always trembling.

I have no one to apologize for me. No one to shield me. No one to see me as I am. So I become my own savior, my own sentinel, my own parent.

And every time someone says, “You’re so strong,” I want to scream, to tell them the truth, to show them the ruins beneath the surface—but I cannot.

Because to show the cracks is to invite the world in. And the world… the world would consume me.

So I live. I hide. I endure. I rise. And the pain—the endless, invisible pain—remains mine, mine alone.

I walk among them, flawless in appearance, unbroken in posture, undefeated in spirit. And I know the truth: survival is not seen, survival is not applauded—it is endured, silently, proudly, and alone.