Functional - by Chukwuka Valentine

I wake up before the ache announces itself,before my body remembershow heavy being alive can feel.The ceiling stares back at me—neutral, patient—as if it already knowsI will rise anyway. And I do.Because I always do. I brush my teeth.Tie my shoes.Answer messages with exclamation pointsso no one hears the quiet flatlinebehind my words.I learn how to sound okaythe way others learn new languages. I wake up on time.I answer my name.I smile when spoken to,play my part in the frame. I laugh at the jokes,I show up, I cope,but inside I am balancingloss dressed as hope. I finish the tasks,I tick all the boxes,carry my painin invisible pockets. They call it discipline.They call it strength.They call it “Wow, you’re doing so well.” They say, “You’re strong,”because I still stand.They don’t see the shakingdeep in my hands. They don’t knowthat functioning is not the same as living,that movement does not mean momentum,that surviving can look identical to thrivingfrom the outside. Inside, everything moves slower.Thoughts sink instead of float.Joy arrives, but it never stays long—like a guest who’s uncomfortablewith the furniture of my chest. I am tired in wayssleep can’t repair,a hollow that echoeseven when I’m there. I tell myself softly,“Others hurt more.”So I swallow my sadnessand lock the door. I feel things dimly,as though emotions pass through glassbefore they reach me.Pain is familiar—it knows my name,knows where I hide the worst parts,knows how to sit beside mewithout saying a word. Some days, I feel nothing at all.And somehow, that is worse. Because sadness hurts,but numbness erases.It steals color from memories,drains meaning from momentsI know I’m supposed to cherish. I attend my own lifelike a meeting I cannot leave. I laugh on cue.I show up on time.I perform wellnesswith award-winning consistency. At night, the mask loosens.The silence grows louder.My chest feels crowdedwith unsaid things—with grief that has no headline,with exhaustion that no nap can cure. I scroll.I distract.I bargain with tomorrow. Just get through today.Just one more week.Just don’t fall apart where anyone can see. I tell myself I have no rightto feel this way.That others have it worse.That my life looks fine on paper.That sadness needs a reasonand mine doesn’t come with evidence. So I become my own judge.My own jailer.I minimize my painuntil it fits neatlyinto everyone else’s comfort. But pain does not disappearwhen ignored.It learns how to whisper.How to wait.How to live in the bodywithout asking permission. This is what breaks youwithout leaving a mark—functioning perfectlywhile living in the dark. And still, I breathe.Still, I try.Still, I carry a quietplease see me inside. There are moments—small, dangerous ones—when I wonder what it would feel liketo stop trying so hardto be okay. Not to vanish.Just to rest.To be held without explanation.To be seen without performing.To say I’m not fineand not be met with silenceor solutions. Still, something in me stays.Not hope—hope feels too loud, too fragile.Something quieter. Persistence.Habit.The soft refusal to disappear. I keep breathing.Keep showing up.Keep choosing to existeven when existence feelslike carrying waterin open hands. This is functional depression:the art of endurance,the loneliness of being praisedfor surviving in silence,the ache of being visibleand unseen at the same time. If you ever meet someone like me,don’t say, “You don’t look depressed.”Say, “You don’t have to carry this alone.” And if you are someone like me—still standing, still trying,still tired beyond words—know this: Your pain is realeven if you never fall apart.Your strength does not cancel your suffering.And one day,you won’t just function. You’ll feel alive again.

Other insights from Chukwuka Valentine

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons