You know that feeling when the sheer weight of expectation presses down on you, so dense it feels physical, like a lead blanket thrown over your head? That suffocating need to perform, to present a certain way, to be… *fine*. Always fine. I saw a student the other day, tucked into one of those anonymous cubicles in the university library, shoulders hunched, and they were clearly fighting back tears. Midterm probably. And it just hit me, hard, because I’ve been that person for decades, just in different settings. We learn early, don't we? That displaying true emotion, especially anything considered 'negative' or 'weak,' is an indictment. It's a flaw in the programming. It starts young. You fall, you scrape your knee, and the instruction is always "big boys/girls don't cry." Or "shake it off." And you do. You learn to swallow the lump, to blink back the sting, to rearrange your face into something palatable, something that doesn't inconvenience anyone. Then you get older, and the stakes rise. It’s not just a scraped knee, it's a failed exam, a cruel word, a crushing disappointment. But the lesson is so deeply ingrained, so utterly part of your being, that the impulse to hide, to retreat into some internal bunker, is instantaneous. You feel the tremor in your voice, the sudden hot flush behind your eyes, and your entire being screams *contain it*. I remember one particular incident. My youngest, barely three, had a fever that spiked out of nowhere. It was midnight, my husband was away on a business trip – again – and I was alone in that big, quiet house. The baby was burning up, whimpering, and I just… froze. A primal fear, cold and sharp, went through me. But I couldn't allow myself to panic. I couldn’t break down. Not then. I had to be the rock. I had to be capable. So I took her temperature, called the doctor's after-hours line, followed their instructions. All while my hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the thermometer. I held that child all night, whispering reassurances I didn't entirely feel, until the fever finally broke. And when the sun came up, when she was sleeping peacefully and the crisis had passed, I went into the bathroom, turned on the tap so no one could hear, and just… wept. Soundlessly. Because even then, the habit of discretion was paramount. It's a strange thing, this constant internal censorship. You become an expert at deflection, at the breezy change of subject, at the perfectly pitched laugh that says 'I'm fine, really.' You develop this sophisticated internal monologue that judges every micro-expression, every potential tell. Is my voice cracking? Is my chin trembling? Are my eyes too shiny? It's exhausting, frankly. It’s like living under constant surveillance, with yourself as the most vigilant guard. And for what? So no one sees the moment of vulnerability. So no one thinks you're falling apart. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like, just for a moment, to let it all go. To stand in the middle of a room, or even just in my own kitchen, and let the tears come. To let the frustration, the loneliness, the endless small disappointments that accumulate over a lifetime, just wash over me in a visible, undeniable wave. To not care who saw, or what they thought. But the thought itself feels so alien, so utterly revolutionary, that it almost makes me laugh. Or maybe it makes me want to cry, but I wouldn't, of course. Being a stay-at-home parent, especially in those early years, just amplifies it. You're constantly ‘on.’ The children need you, the house needs you, the husband needs you to maintain the domestic illusion of calm. There’s no space to just… be. To not be strong, not be nurturing, not be the stable center. And then, after years of this, when the children are grown and the house is quiet, the habit is so deeply ingrained it’s become part of your bones. You don't even know how to stop. It’s like a muscle you’ve trained for decades. It just flexes automatically. So I saw that student, head down, probably imagining all the judgments that would be hurled their way if they dared to let a single tear escape. And I felt a kinship. A recognition. Because we're all doing it, aren't we? So many of us, hiding in our metaphorical cubicles, convincing ourselves that showing emotion would prove some fundamental failing. That it would mark us as incapable, as less than. And the quiet tragedy of it is, we become so good at it that even we forget what lies beneath the perfectly composed surface. We forget the actual *feeling* of it, because the suppression is so absolute. And then we just… exist.