It kinda creeps up, doesn’t it? One day, everything feels… off. You’re doing all the usual stuff, working, chatting, nodding at people, but something inside just feels hollow. You keep saying you’re fine, because that’s what people do. But deep down, it’s like… nah. Not really.
It’s not even dramatic, most times. No breakdown, no big scene. Just this quiet sort of heaviness that won’t leave. Like the air’s thicker.
It doesn’t happen all at once. It’s slow — a drip, not a flood.
You stop replying to messages. You cancel plans with the same excuse every time. You scroll endlessly because silence feels too loud. You laugh at things that don’t feel funny anymore. And the wild part? Everyone still thinks you’ve got it together.
Then one day… You stop pretending. Not on purpose. You just run out of energy for it. Maybe you’re sitting in traffic or lying in bed, and it hits — the thought you’ve been dodging. “I’m not okay.”
It’s not a breakdown. It’s more like your body sighing for the first time in years. A strange kind of quiet settles in. Not peaceful, but real. You can feel the burden of all you’ve endured — the people you’ve pleased, the things you agreed to when you didn’t want to.
And weirdly, that honesty… it feels lighter than the pretending ever did.
When the mask slips, you start seeing things for what they are — and also what they’re not.
Little things start to feel softer. A walk. A warm drink. That friend who just listens and doesn’t try to fix you. You start noticing how peace doesn’t mean nothing’s happening — it’s just that not everything needs to.
When you stop pretending, people notice. They ask what’s wrong. Some try to comfort you, others stay silent because they don’t know how to handle it. That’s okay. Not everyone’s supposed to understand your unravelling.
But a few do. The ones who’ve sat in that same silence before — they get it. They don’t fill it with words. They just stay.
Sometimes that’s when people start reaching out for something real — not the quick-fix kind, but something steady. A space where the mess isn’t too much. Something like Bright Vista Counselling Geelong, a quiet room, and someone who actually listens without rushing to say “you’ll be fine.”
People act like healing is a straight line, though it really isn’t. It’s like going around in circles — you improve, then you’re back where you started. And somehow, that’s part of it.
Because maybe the goal isn’t to “fix” anything. Maybe it’s just learning to stay with yourself through all the noise. Learning that you can be okay and still live.
There’s a strength in that. A quiet, invisible one.
Eventually, the pretending fades. The smile starts coming back — not because you forced it, but because there’s space for it now. You laugh at real things again. You rest without guilt.
It’s not a movie moment. It’s small, ordinary stuff — standing in sunlight, hearing the kettle boil, remembering to breathe. Life feels… less like performing and more like just being.
Perhaps okay means you can keep going even when things aren’t fine, instead of pretending they are.
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