I Smile at Work, Then Cry in the Bathroom

I Smile at Work, Then Cry in the Bathroom

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‎By 9 a.m., I am already smiling.

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‎I smile at the security man who never remembers my name but remembers my face well enough to wave. I smile at my colleagues as we exchange polite greetings that skim the surface of our lives. I smile during meetings, nodding at jokes I don’t find funny, agreeing at the right moments, performing competence and calm like it is part of my job description.

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‎My smile is neat. Practiced. Dependable. It arrives before I do and stays long after I feel myself fading. It has learned how to survive office lights, deadlines, expectations, and the unspoken rule that emotions should never interfere with productivity.

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‎No one asks if I’m okay. They never do. Strong people make others comfortable. Strong people are assumed to be fine, always capable, always handling things. Strength becomes a silence people rely on.

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‎At exactly 12:47 p.m., when the office hum settles into routine, I excuse myself. I walk quickly, head down, as if urgency itself is my permission. In the bathroom, I choose the last cubicle, the one furthest from the door. Privacy feels like mercy.

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‎I sit down, place my bag on my knees like armor, and let my face collapse. Not dramatically. Quietly. My breathing grows heavy, uneven. I press my lips together to keep everything contained. Even my sadness knows the rules here.

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‎I don’t know when this tiredness started. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that nests in your chest and reminds you of everything you carry—responsibility, expectation, resilience—and everything you’re not allowed to put down.

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‎After five minutes, I wash my face. Cold water. Deep breath. The mirror looks back without judgment. I adjust my clothes, fix my smile, and rehearse normal.

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‎By 1 p.m., I am back at my desk. Still smiling. Still surviving.