I argued with a stranger for forty-five minutes yesterday. Healthcare policy. I had sources.
My best friend called. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
Three weeks of panic attacks. Couldn’t sleep. Marriage falling apart. Father getting worse. But I said fine.
847 followers. They think they know me.
I post about climate policy, economic reform, tech regulation. I can cite sources. Counter arguments. Hold my own.
None of them know I cry in my car sometimes. Before work. Just sit there.
The medication bottles are in the glove compartment. High functioning anxiety looks like this—presenting competence online while suppressing emotions in private. I don’t post about those.
“You’re on your phone again.”
My wife stood in the doorway.
“Just reading.”
“You’re arguing.”
“It’s a discussion.”
“With people you’ll never meet.”
I didn’t look up.
“What problems am I ignoring?” I said.
She looked at me for a long time. “Yours.”
My father asked something last month. One of his clear days.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“Just tired.”
He looked at me with those eyes. “You’ve always done that. Hidden things. Even as a kid.”
“I don’t want to burden people.”
“People who love you want to know.”
“I don’t know how to talk about it.”
“You talk about everything else,” he said. “All that arguing with strangers. But you can’t tell your father?”
I didn’t have an answer. Learning how to stop hiding emotions from people who actually matter—that was the part I couldn’t figure out.
My friend called. Known him fifteen years.
“Hey, just checking in. How are things?”
“Good, busy. You know how it is.”
“Yeah. Work okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Family?”
“Everyone’s good.”
Ten minutes. Weather. Sports. Nothing real.
After we hung up, I posted a 500-word thread about wealth inequality. Passionate. Full of feeling.
But I couldn’t tell my friend I was struggling. Digital escapism made it easier to perform for strangers than to be honest with people I loved.
The therapy office smells like lavender. Fake lavender from a plug-in.
“Why can you share opinions with strangers but not this?” my therapist asked.
I looked at the clock. “I don’t know.”
“Opinions are about thinking. This is about feeling.”
“People share feelings online.”
“Do they?” she said. “Or do they share finished stories? Past tense? With lessons attached?”
She had a point. Nobody posts: I’m drowning right now. They post: I was drowning but I survived.
We share resolved struggles. Not ongoing ones. Masking depression becomes easier when everyone else appears to have it together.
My wife tried something different yesterday.
“I’m struggling,” she said.
Just like that.
“With what?”
“Everything. Us. Your dad. Work. I feel like I’m drowning and you’re on your phone while I drown alone.”
I put the phone down.
“I didn’t know.”
“Because I’ve been doing what you do. Pretending.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why don’t you tell anyone?”
We sat in silence for a while.
Then I said something I hadn’t said in months: “I’m not okay.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared all the time. About Dad, about us. I don’t sleep. I can’t focus.”
“I know,” she said. “Everyone can see it. You’re just the only one pretending they can’t.”
Marriage communication had broken down while we both performed being fine.
I posted less that week. Didn’t have the energy for it. For having opinions. For fighting strangers about abstract problems.
My friend called again.
“You okay? You’ve been quiet online.”
“Not really.”
Silence. Then: “What’s going on?”
So I told him. The anxiety. Insomnia. Father’s dementia getting worse. Marriage struggling. All of it.
“Jesus,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I don’t know.” Asking for help had always felt impossible.
“That’s not weakness. That’s just being human.”
We talked for an hour. Really talked. He shared his own stuff. Depression. Relationship problems. Career anxiety.
Two people who’d known each other fifteen years, finally being honest.
Last week I posted something different. Not about policy or current events. Just: “Having a rough time lately. If you’re struggling too, you’re not alone.”
Less engagement than my political threads. No debate. No algorithm boost.
But people messaged. Quietly. Others drowning. Grateful to know they weren’t alone.
One person wrote: “Thank you for saying this. I thought it was just me.”
Just them. As if everyone else has it figured out. Emotional isolation makes you think suffering is solitary.
My father had a good day yesterday. Clear. Present.
“You seem different,” he said.
“Different how?”
“Lighter.”
“I told people. About struggling.”
He smiled. “And?”
“They didn’t think less of me. Some of them are struggling too.”
“That’s what I tried to tell you.”
“I know.”
Caregiver burnout lifts slightly when you stop carrying it alone.
Tonight I’m having dinner with friends. Real dinner. Real conversation.
Not about politics. Not about intellectual debates.
About life. About the messy parts we usually hide behind strong opinions.
It’s uncomfortable. Much more uncomfortable than arguing with strangers online.
But it’s real. This is how to stop hiding emotions—by starting with people who already care.
The phone is on the table. Face down. Not checking it.
My wife reaches across. Takes my hand.
“You here?” she asks.
“I’m here,” I say.
Maybe I am. Maybe I’m still learning how to be.
The waiter brings water. Ice cubes knocking against glass.
Outside, people walk past the window. All of them carrying something. All of them hiding it.
Or maybe not.
Maybe some of them are learning too. Learning that emotional vulnerability doesn’t mean weakness. Just means being human.
I don’t know.
