The Invisible Effort of 'Getting On With It

It’s no secret that I struggle. Between the constant worry about my heart and the general weight of anxiety, some days are just hard. Yet I’m always a bit baffled when people tell me I’m “coping well.” I know they aren't just saying it to be polite; I can tell it’s sincere.

And look, I get why they think that. I’m dressed. I’ve brushed my teeth. I’m not currently sobbing into my afternoon cuppa. On the surface, I’m simply “getting on with it.” I’m replying to the WhatsApps (well, eventually). I’m nodding in the right places and making the right noises so nobody feels awkward. I even show up to things looking relatively presentable.

But—and you knew there’d be a but—this version of me is mostly just a massive, exhausting performance.

It’s the “public-facing” me. I talk the talk and I walk the walk, but the internal reality is a completely different story. While I’m sat there listening to someone explain the latest plot twist in their favorite soap, half my brain is actually just calculating how much longer I have to keep my “human face” on.

Underneath the nodding, there’s a swarming jumble doing fifty laps in my head. I’m mentally doing the weekly shop before I’ve even found the car keys; I’m obsessing over the "spring clean" or trying to decide what’s for tea—which, honestly, feels like a Herculean task some days.

What people see is the “sorted” version I’ve spent all morning piecing together. It’s not that I’m actually “all right”—it’s just that I’ve become an expert at pretending I am, just so I can make it to bedtime without making a scene.

Which brings me to the "inner world" part. It’s a bit of a weird one to explain, because there isn't really a name for it. It’s just this private, frantic space that doesn’t show up on my face or in my daily routine.

It’s not some big, dramatic breakdown. It doesn’t announce itself with a megaphone. It just... sits there. It’s a place where tiny thoughts feel unnervingly heavy and where basic decisions require a full-blown internal negotiation that no one else can hear.

And because it’s invisible, it can feel impossible to describe. How do you explain a "heaviness" to someone when you’re standing there, perfectly upright, holding a bag of shopping? How do you put words to a feeling that doesn’t actually have any edges?

The truth is, most of the time, you don't even try. You don’t want to go down the rabbit hole of trying to explain why choosing which loaf of bread to buy felt like a mammoth task ten minutes ago. So, you just lean on the old faithful: “I’m fine.” Anything more honest just feels far too exhausting to unpack.

The real kicker isn’t just the inner world itself—it’s the way the invisibility of it all starts to mess with your head.

When nothing looks "wrong" on the outside, people naturally misread you. And after a while, you actually start doubting yourself. You think, “If everyone else thinks I’m doing fine, maybe I’m just making a fuss?” even though your brain is filled with “what ifs” and that nagging, back-of-the-mind chatter that never seems to take a day off. It’s that constant mental checking—scanning how you feel, wondering if you're really okay, and then immediately trying to look "normal" again before anyone notices you’ve drifted off.

If you feel this too, you know it's a lonely place to be. You’re being praised for “coping” by people who have no idea you’re actually white-knuckling the steering wheel. You end up feeling completely unseen, even when you're standing in a room full of people who care about you.

Eventually, you just stop trying to explain it. Words feel too small, or too dramatic, so you just keep quiet. You minimise it. You just "play the part."

Somehow you have fallen into that gap between how you actually feel and how the world sees you—just trying to function, trying to communicate, and trying your absolute best not to unravel in the middle of it all.

There is no neat solution, no sudden clarity that makes the inner world visible to everyone else. 

There’s no "quick fix" and it’s certainly not something you can just snap out of. But I’m learning that there are gentler ways to live with it—ways that don’t involve quite so much pretending.

Maybe it’s just about being honest with myself for a second. It’s acknowledging that, actually, today is a bit of a struggle, and that’s allowed. You don’t need a doctor's note or a visible bandage to prove you’re having a hard time. Your struggle is real even if you’re the only one who knows about it.

It helps to let at least one person see "the edges"—the bits of you that aren't quite so polished. You don't have to show them the whole chaotic mess, but just admitting, "I'm struggling a bit today," can take the steam out of the performance.

At the end of the day, "coping" shouldn't have to mean putting on a perfect show for everyone else. Sometimes, coping is just being a bit more patient with yourself when your brain is doing those fifty laps. It’s giving yourself the space to be "not quite right" without feeling like you have to justify it to the world.

The inner world might be invisible, and people might keep telling you how well you’re doing, but you don’t have to believe your own mask. You’re allowed to need a bit of gentleness. You're allowed to just be.

So, if you feel like you’re barely keeping the lid on things today, just remember the humble dishwasher. On the outside, it’s all sleek lines and quiet buttons, but inside, it’s a chaotic, clattering battle with half the kitchen's worth of crusty plates and awkward Tupperware.

You’re allowed to be the noisy dishwasher. You’re allowed to be a bit of a scramble behind a closed door. We don’t always have to be the polished showroom display—sometimes, just getting the cycle finished is a massive result in itself.

So here’s to the clattering chaos, the hidden scrambles, and just making it to bedtime in one piece☺️. 

Thanks for reading and virtual hugs to you all.