There are things we talk about openly.

Our jobs. Our families. Our accomplishments. The vacations we’re planning. The renovations we’re doing. The everyday things that make up our lives.

And then there are the things we don’t talk about.

The arguments behind closed doors.

The financial worries.

The relationships that are falling apart.

The exhaustion.

The nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell we’re going to get through another day.

I became very good at keeping those two worlds separate.

From the outside, my life probably looked fairly ordinary.

I worked. I raised my family. I managed responsibilities. I laughed with friends. I made plans.

Life continued.

And for the most part, I continued right along with it.

But there’s something I’ve come to understand about appearances.

Just because someone is functioning doesn’t mean they’re okay.

I think we sometimes forget that.

We see someone smiling and assume they’re happy.

We see someone working and assume they’re managing.

We see someone taking care of everyone else and assume they must have everything under control.

But what happens when the person holding everything together is the one who needs someone to hold them together?

I didn’t spend my days walking around telling people how overwhelmed I was.

Partly because I didn’t always recognize it myself.

And partly because I wasn’t accustomed to being the person who needed help.

I was the person who figured things out.

If something needed doing, I did it.

If there was a problem, I found a solution.

And if I was exhausted?

Well, there was always tomorrow to worry about that.

Except tomorrow usually arrived with another list of responsibilities.

Another problem.

Another person who needed something.

And somewhere along the way, I became very good at answering the question “How are you?” with the same two words.

“I’m fine.”

Sometimes I even believed it.

Looking back, I wonder how many other women were doing exactly the same thing.

Walking through grocery stores.

Sitting in offices.

Driving their children to appointments.

Smiling at people they knew.

All while carrying things nobody else could see.

Maybe that’s why I’ve become so passionate about telling my story.

Not because I think mine is extraordinary.

But because I suspect parts of it are painfully ordinary.

And maybe that’s what makes it worth telling.

Because there are women everywhere quietly carrying more than anyone realizes.

Women who have become so accustomed to surviving that they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to do more than that.

I was one of them.

And I didn’t even know it yet.

If you’re reading this…

And you’re the woman everyone assumes is fine because you always seem to have everything under control…

I hope someone asks how you’re doing today.

And I hope you feel safe enough to tell them the truth.

You shouldn’t have to fall apart before someone realizes you need support.

Love,
Nova Leigh 🤍