The Illusion of Happiness: Pride, Dignity, and the Hidden Struggles Behind Closed Doors
“You have only ever given me the impression that you and Paul are happy in Spain.”
Those words, spoken by his sister, echoed in my mind as I sat there, digesting them. Yes, of course, I gave that impression. Because that is what people with pride and dignity do. We do not play the victim. We do not air our struggles for all to see. We smile, we entertain, we present a life that appears stable and fulfilling, even when behind the scenes, the reality is vastly different.
Robin Williams always looked happy, always joking, always bringing light into the lives of others—until we learned of the darkness he had been carrying within. I, too, smiled. I, too, laughed. And I, too, concealed the weight of what was happening behind closed doors. Because that is what proud people do.
Throughout my marriage, I worked relentlessly to ensure that the outside world saw an image of success and happiness. I painted old furniture to make our home look beautiful, I altered second-hand clothes to make them look elegant, I made curtains, I scrubbed up discarded items and transformed our garden—all on little money—to give the impression that WE were doing well. But let’s be honest: it wasn’t WE who were making this happen. It was me.
I entertained our friends, cooked and cleaned, and maintained a home that radiated warmth and care. Not because I had to, but because that is how I was raised. My mother, a woman of unshakable strength and dignity, brought up three children on her own without a man to support her. She instilled in me the values of resilience, hard work, and the unwavering determination to never be seen as a victim. And so, I carried that legacy forward.
No one saw the struggle, the sacrifices, the quiet moments of exhaustion when no one was watching. No one saw the way I held everything together while behind the scenes, the cracks in my marriage deepened. Because I made sure they didn’t. Because that is what women like me do—we fight, we endure, we keep going, and we never let anyone see us falter.
But dignity does not mean silence. Pride does not mean erasure. And refusing to play the victim does not mean that we were never harmed. There comes a time when the truth must be spoken—not to seek sympathy, not to gain validation, but to reclaim our own narratives. To say, “This is what happened, and I will no longer pretend it did not.”
So, to those who say, “But you always seemed happy…” understand this: what you saw was the product of immense effort, of learned resilience, of a deeply ingrained need to present strength. But strength is not the absence of pain—it is the ability to rise despite it. And rise, I have.
