Tag: black writers

I was taught to be beautiful, no matter what I was going through.

A sacred ritual passed down—lipstick, clean clothes, perfume. Even in despair, my outer world had to glow. I’ve mastered the art of seeming fine.

High-functioning depression means I show up glowing—
even when I’m collapsing on the inside.
Because I was taught: no matter how you feel, look good so no one would know.

People assume I’m okay because I look okay.

Because I’m pretty. Because I dress well. Because I smile. Because I post.

But that’s the mask. That’s the part I learned young:
if you look put together, maybe no one will ask too many questions.
My mother raised and instilled in me to always show up looking good—no matter what. And so I did. Even when I was quietly dealing with depression, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts/attempts, a bottomless abyss of self-hate etc. I never wanted anyone to know. I just wanted to survive.

And now that I’m older that’s backfired. Now when I say, “I’m not okay,” people respond with, “But you look so good.”

As if beauty is proof of wellness.

As if pain can’t wear lipstick.

Not all sadness screams.
Some of it moves quietly—wrapped in silk, masked with laughter, walking through the world unnoticed.

High-functioning depression is being praised for your strength, carrying sorrow with elegance. All the while drowning in silence.
It’s shining bright, yet being invisible because you’ve mastered the art of seeming fine.

It’s exhausting.