The Things We Hide Behind Our Smiles

Somehow, I powered through life until my early 30s, always saying I was doing well, that everything was fine, and smiling along the way.

Now, when I share with people close to me what I was actually going through during some of the most difficult moments of my life, they seem absolutely shocked. They tell me they genuinely had no idea what I was experiencing internally.

Is this a good thing? No.

Is it their fault? Absolutely not.

Some of us have become artists at hiding our struggles, and I don't think this is something we should celebrate or accept as normal.

My thought process was always the same: Why would I bother anyone with my problems?

I am writing this as I reflect on the two extremes I used to live in.

On one hand, I used to take it upon myself to solve everyone's problems and carry their pain, even though Allah never asked us to take responsibility for anyone's struggles. This can be particularly challenging for people who are highly sensitive or deeply empathetic, and finding balance in this area has taken me several years.

On the other hand, I was terrified of asking anyone for help because I feared rejection and worried about becoming a burden to others. This was a pattern I had learned in childhood without even realising it.

Alhamdulillah, through Allah's mercy, I gradually came to understand that this pattern was harmful in its own way.

I began to see how Allah invites us to learn to receive His gifts rather than close ourselves off from them, while developing the discernment to recognise whom we can safely turn to for support and how to support others without undermining their autonomy and free will.

For many people, finding this balance can feel so challenging and confusing that they end up withdrawing altogether, telling themselves, "I don't care about people. I'll never open up again."

Looking back, I can see how living disconnected contributes to a much bigger problem. When we keep powering through life with a smile, hiding what we're truly going through, we can end up in a world where we're surrounded by people and still feel profoundly alone.

We can attend gatherings, celebrate milestones, exchange greetings, and appear to belong to a thriving community while carrying pain we feel unable to share with anyone.

We might have people to celebrate things with, but who can we turn to when our lives fall apart? Who can we approach when we feel ashamed of our thoughts, confused by our emotions, or trapped in a struggle we don't know how to overcome?

Perhaps one of the reasons so many of us experience loneliness is that we have learned how to gather without necessarily learning how to connect.

And this raises an important question: What happens when the very communities we turn to for belonging become places where we feel unable to be honest about our struggles?

When faith becomes an answer that ends the conversation

We can gather for prayers, religious events, celebrations, and community milestones. We congratulate one another on marriages, children, careers, and achievements. Yet how much space do we create for the experiences that are far less comfortable to share?

When someone finally gathers the courage to open up about their pain, they may be met with words like, "Just trust Allah," "Just pray," or "Be strong."

Of course, trusting Allah, praying, and developing strength are essential parts of our faith. But when these words are offered without first listening to someone's pain, they can unintentionally make that person feel as though they are struggling because their faith is insufficient, or that they should be able to overcome everything on their own.

Instead of feeling supported, they may leave the conversation feeling ashamed for still hurting. The next time they struggle, they might choose silence over reaching out again.

Sometimes, people don't need us to remind them to trust Allah. They need us to help them feel safe enough to admit how difficult trusting can feel when they are hurting.

Tawakkul (trust and reliance on Allah alone) does not mean we never need support from one another. Sometimes, the help we receive through another person is part of the very mercy of Allah we are being encouraged to trust.

Our faith should give us hope, not make us afraid to admit that we are struggling.

The loneliness of pretending to be fine

Another reason we may feel isolated is that we have learned to present the parts of ourselves we believe will be accepted while hiding the parts we fear others will reject.

We celebrate when we feel broken. We say we're fine when we're overwhelmed. We share our successes while quietly comparing ourselves to others. We may even feel pressure to appear spiritually strong when, internally, we are struggling to make sense of our lives.

Perhaps we fear that admitting our difficulties will change how others perceive us.

We worry that people will judge our choices, question our faith, gossip about our private lives, or distance themselves from us.

So we protect ourselves by presenting an acceptable version of who we are.

But when everyone is busy maintaining an image, we can end up surrounded by people who are all hiding the very things that might help us recognise one another.

This doesn't mean we owe everyone access to our private lives. Privacy is important, and not everyone has earned our trust, and sadly, not everyone is willing to learn to be better listeners. We are allowed to have boundaries and to choose carefully whom we confide in.

The problem arises when shame makes honesty feel impossible, even with people who could offer us trustworthy support.

We may begin to believe that our struggles make us fundamentally different from everyone around us, when the truth is that many people are quietly carrying pain they have never felt safe enough to express.

We can share the same spaces, follow the same faith, and care about one another while remaining strangers to the struggles we most need help with.

When shame keeps us away from the help we need

Consider how many people carry painful attachments they cannot seem to release, habits they feel guilty about, resentment they are ashamed to acknowledge, or questions about their faith they are afraid to ask.

They may genuinely want to change. They may make dua, pray, repent, and try again, only to find themselves returning to the same patterns.

Eventually, they might begin to wonder what is wrong with them.

In some cases, they continue struggling alone because they fear that seeking help will expose something they believe should remain hidden.

Islam teaches us to value modesty and not unnecessarily publicise our sins. But protecting our privacy is not the same as refusing to seek trusted guidance when we need it.

There is a difference between exposing our private struggles indiscriminately and speaking to someone trustworthy because we genuinely need support, advice, or help changing a harmful pattern.

Allah tells us in the Qur'an:

"Do not despair of the mercy of Allah." (Qur'an 39:53)

Yet, so often, the messages people encounter within our communities seem to contradict this reminder. Instead of compassion and hope, they are met with judgment, condemnation, and rejection, particularly when others perceive them as having strayed too far from the path.

Depending on our cultural backgrounds and the environments we grow up in, certain struggles or mistakes can lead people to treat others as though they are beyond help, beyond redemption, or even beyond the mercy of Allah.

If Allah offers hope to those who feel burdened by their mistakes and shortcomings, why can't we do the same? Our struggles do not place us beyond the reach of Allah's mercy, and shame should not convince us that we must face everything alone.

We can acknowledge where we have gone wrong while still believing that change is possible. Sometimes, the first step towards change is finding a space where we can finally be honest about what needs to change.

What would it mean to build a more compassionate community?

Perhaps rebuilding our sense of community begins with examining our own relationship with Allah's mercy. The more deeply we understand the mercy He extends to us, the better equipped we become to respond with compassion when someone reveals a part of themselves that is hurting.

Can we listen without immediately correcting people?

Can we offer guidance without humiliating them?

Can we respect someone's vulnerability without turning it into gossip or using it to judge their spiritual worth?

Can we recognise that someone may need time, practical support, or professional help rather than a quick reminder to be patient?

And just as importantly, can we examine ourselves?

Sometimes, we offer advice because we genuinely want to help. At other times, we may rush to correct someone because their pain makes us uncomfortable, because we want to feel useful, or because acknowledging their struggle challenges the image we have of how a faithful person should behave.

Learning to recognise these tendencies within ourselves can help us become more compassionate towards others.

We don't need to have all the answers to support someone. We don't need to solve their problems or understand every aspect of their experience.

Sometimes, we can simply listen. We can acknowledge that what they are going through sounds difficult. We can remind them that they don't have to figure everything out today.

And when we don't have the knowledge or capacity to help, we can support them in finding someone who does, or simply with our prayers.

The sincerity we seek in others must also become something we practise ourselves.

We cannot expect every community to meet every emotional or spiritual need. Nor should we feel pressured to share our deepest struggles with people who have not shown themselves to be trustworthy.

But we can challenge the belief that needing support makes us weak, that struggling means we lack faith, or that we must resolve every difficulty privately before we can feel close to Allah again.

We all have a part to play in creating such spaces in whatever capacity we can offer. Sometimes, it begins with the people closest to us and learning to listen to them differently. Other times, it begins with allowing ourselves to seek the support we have been denying ourselves.

A space for your inner struggles

Over the past seven years, many of you have expressed surprise that I actually reply to your messages on Instagram and through these conversations, you've also shared your questions and personal struggles with me.

Yet I still notice hesitation from some of you to seek support for experiences considered taboo, especially when people fear they are "too far gone" to find understanding without judgment.

This is why I created a private subscription space on Instagram where you can share one personal struggle with me each month and receive a personalised dhikr practice rooted in the Islamic psychology of the 99 Names of Allah, tailored to the personal struggle you're working through.

You'll also receive guidance on your practice and exclusive weekly check-ins through IG Stories to help you remain consistent.

I'm opening this space with the intention of seeing how Allah guides it forward, so I'm not sure how long I'll keep it open. Perhaps for as long as there is one person is benefiting from it!

If you feel drawn to join, you're welcome to stay for as long as it feels right for you. You might need this space for a month, two months, or longer. Trust your own journey and let your heart guide you. 🤍

This isn't about promising overnight transformation, but creating space for honest, consistent practice for a particular issue at a time.

If this is the kind of support you've been looking for, you're warmly invited to join through my Instagram profile. If you're interested but don't have an Instagram account, you can contact me at questions@sufiquest.org.

May Allah help us build communities where we celebrate one another's joys, hold space for one another's pain, and remind one another of His mercy without making anyone feel ashamed of being human. Ameen. 🤍 🤍