Falling Apart in Public? Here’s How We Pretend Everything’s Fine

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So there you are, standing in the aisle of Checkers, staring at a loaf of low-GI rye bread like it personally offended you, and suddenly it hits you—you’re not okay. But instead of crumbling into a heap between the peanut butter and the almond milk, you take a deep breath, smile like a hostage in a toothpaste advert, and push the trolley like everything’s just dandy. Congratulations, you’ve just said “I’m falling apart” without saying it. Gold star for emotional camouflage.

There’s an art to it, really. We’ve become masters of emotional euphemism—genius-level emotional ventriloquists who can say everything’s terrible in 117 charming ways, all while maintaining the delicate social illusion that everything’s fine. Fine, of course, being South African for I’m emotionally imploding but I still have to pay for parking.

Take “I’m just really tired,” for example. A classic. A timeless expression. Perfectly vague. It suggests maybe you’ve been staying up too late watching murder documentaries, but not that your soul feels like it’s been through a tumble dryer full of bricks. And somehow, everyone understands. “Ag shame, man. Same here.” We nod in solidarity, like a secret club of people pretending we’re functioning.

Or there’s the subtle “It’s just a busy week.” This one is top-tier. It implies productivity, purpose, and maybe even success—none of which are true. You’re busy, sure, but it’s more emotionally wrestling with the void than corporate hustle. But no one questions it. Busy is socially acceptable suffering. It doesn’t invite follow-up questions. It’s safe.

Some of us get creative. I once heard someone say, “I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now,” while pouring a glass of wine at 11 in the morning. The plate, in this case, was clearly metaphorical. The wine? Not so much. But the beauty lies in the ambiguity. A lot on your plate could mean deadlines. It could mean existential dread. It could mean you can’t face replying to that one WhatsApp group chat that still sends 40 messages a day about a party that happened three weeks ago. The point is, it says everything and nothing.

Then there’s the overcompensators. The ones who suddenly start baking bread from scratch, learning Zulu on Duolingo, and training for a half-marathon despite never running anywhere but to the microwave. These people are not okay. They are doing mental gymnastics to avoid sitting with their feelings, and you know what? I respect it. There’s something wildly admirable about the commitment it takes to pretend you’re thriving while mentally wearing socks as gloves and arguing with the walls.

And let’s not forget the hyperfunctional types—you know the ones. Immaculate flat, colour-coded calendar, and a morning routine that includes yoga, journalling, and three affirmations before breakfast. They are not okay either. They are controlling what they can because the rest of their inner world feels like a Woolworths bag filled with feral cats and unpaid bills. They post inspirational quotes in Helvetica on Instagram, like “Healing isn’t linear” and “Progress, not perfection,” and then sob quietly in the shower to an indie playlist titled Vaguely Holding It Together.

Then there are the silent fall-aparters. The ones who don’t say anything. Who just disappear a little bit. Maybe they cancel plans. Maybe they ghost a group chat. Maybe they stop posting selfies and start sharing abstract photos of rain on windows and leaves blowing in the wind. The visual metaphors are strong with these ones. They’re not going to say they’re falling apart, but their vibe is louder than a vuvuzela at a funeral.

Let’s be honest, though—why don’t we say it? Why do we smother our truth in politeness and productivity and perfectly filtered photos of vegan bowls? Maybe it’s because falling apart feels like failure. Maybe it’s because society rewards composure, not collapse. Maybe it’s because if we started telling the truth, we’re afraid the dam wall would crack and all that pent-up grief and worry and soft, bruised sadness would spill out onto the floor—and someone would have to mop it up.

We’ve been taught that resilience means smiling through it, that strength looks like silence. But honestly? That’s nonsense. True resilience isn’t pretending you’re fine. It’s admitting when you’re not and still showing up. It’s knowing when to stop pretending and when to let yourself rest, fall apart, or call a friend and say, “Listen, I feel like a haunted washing machine.”

I once told someone I was “feeling a bit cloudy.” It was a weird thing to say. But it was the only word that made sense. Not a storm. Not a breakdown. Just… fog. Greyish. Blurry. And you know what they said? “Same.” That was it. Two humans. Cloudy. Sharing an emotional weather report over coffee.

We need more of that. More honesty. More space to just say what’s real, without needing to dress it up in productivity or jokes or project plans. Sometimes you’re just a person on the edge, trying to remember what day it is and whether you’ve eaten anything green this week. And that should be enough.

But until we get there—until we live in a world where “I’m not okay” is met with grace instead of awkward silence—we’ll keep speaking in code. We’ll keep saying things like:

“Just trying to keep my head above water.”

“Taking it one day at a time.”

“Running on fumes.”

“Feeling a bit meh.”

“Cried in the car but I’m here now.”

“Doing my best.”

“Okay-ish.”

We’ll keep sipping our tea, smiling at cashiers, replying “Haha no worries!” to emails that absolutely did cause worries, and quietly wondering if anyone else is also just barely holding it together with caffeine and delayed voice notes.

And if all else fails, we’ll make memes. Because if there’s one thing South Africans are exceptionally good at, it’s using humour as a coping mechanism. Our ability to find comedy in calamity is practically a national superpower. We’ll make a joke, laugh about it, and then cry about it later under a blanket that smells like nostalgia and fabric softener.

But here’s the thing. Every time we say “I’m falling apart” without saying it, what we’re really doing is whispering see me. And if someone’s listening—really listening—they’ll hear it. They’ll see the cracks and love you anyway. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll tell you about their cracks too.

Because falling apart doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re human.

And humans? We fall apart all the time. But we also come back together. Often stronger. Sometimes messier. But always real.

So if today all you can manage is putting on pants and pretending your rye bread isn’t judging you—hey, that’s enough. You don’t need to say you’re falling apart.

You’re already speaking volumes.