The Marathon Nobody Sees

In my last blog I wrote about the invisible effort of 'getting on with it,' and to be honest, at that time I was mostly focused on just surviving the day. But it got me thinking and I realised there’s this weird shadow that follows that effort—a double-life you end up leading when you’re struggling inside but still appearing 'fine' to everyone else.

It’s strange because the version of me people see—chatting, nodding, saying the right things—is clearly very convincing. When someone tells me I seem to be doing well, I can hear that they really mean it. They aren’t just being polite; they’re responding to the person I’m putting out there.

But there’s a massive gap between that 'public' version of me and what’s actually going on. I might be sitting there, genuinely wanting to be part of the conversation and hear about someone’s day, but half my brain is busy fighting a completely different battle. It’s like a constant mental calculation: How much longer can I keep this energy up? How much further can I stretch this 'okay' version of myself before the exhaustion takes over?

That’s the bit that's hard to explain. It’s not just the worry itself that’s draining; it’s the energy it takes to keep it all tucked away while I'm out and about. It’s that heavy, bone-deep tiredness that hits the second I’m back through my own front door and can finally stop holding it all together.

It’s a hard thing to explain because it’s not like I’m putting on a costume or a big performance. It’s more like a hundred tiny, quiet adjustments I’m making all the time. It’s making sure my voice doesn't sound too flat, or checking that my face doesn't look as tired as I actually feel. You end up watching yourself from the outside—checking that you're still hitting the right notes and making sure you don't look too 'not okay.' It’s survival, really. You’re just trying to stay level so the world doesn't see how much is actually going on underneath.

And the strange part is—it works. Nobody sees the internal battle or the chaos going on behind the scenes. They just see someone keeping up and even fully on board with their surroundings. It’s like you’ve become an expert at keeping the car on the road and looking steady, even when you can feel the engine struggling under the hood. You’re doing such a good job of appearing okay that the reality of how you’re actually feeling becomes yours alone to carry.

It’s the moment the 'performance' stops and you can finally just be. There’s no more monitoring your voice or checking your expression; the engine finally switches off, and you can just sit in the stillness of not having to be 'okay' for a while.

But staying ‘on’ like this definitely has its moments. There’s that instant slump when you’re finally alone—like your batteries have just given up the ghost. It’s also a bit of a weird feeling being told how 'strong' you are when you actually feel like you’re just winging it. You realise that because you’re doing such a good job of keeping things steady, people naturally only see the steady version.

And I suppose there’s always that little worry in the back of your mind about what happens if you just stop for a second. You wonder if people would know what to do if you weren’t the 'fine' version of yourself for a change—or if they’d just think you were having a bit of a moment. It’s not about some big dramatic collapse; it’s just the awkwardness of potentially letting the 'not okay' part of you show through the gaps.

Sometimes, the most grounded thing you can do is just acknowledge the difference between coping and functioning. Looking okay is not the same as being okay, and that’s alright. The effort you put into just navigating a normal Tuesday counts—even if no one else sees the internal marathon you’re running.

Of course, knowing all this doesn't mean you'll wake up tomorrow as a completely 'open book.' When you've been a professional 'fine-merchant' for as long as I have, those habits are pretty baked in. It’s not going to happen overnight, and there will still be plenty of days where the mask feels like the only thing keeping the wheels on.

But if you’re sat there right now, nodding along while your brain is doing its own version of a frantic internal scramble, just know you’re definitely not the only one. That’s why I’m writing this, really—if we’re all going to lead these strange double-lives, we might as well admit to each other that the 'human face' gets a bit heavy sometimes.

Think of it a bit like being a swan. Everyone sees the graceful gliding and the calm exterior, while underneath, our little legs are paddling for dear life like a frantic egg-whisk. It’s exhausting work, but at least we make the lake look good while we’re at it.

If anything, that invisible effort is the most human part of all.

Thanks for reading and virtual hugs to you all.