It’s Sunday morning.

The coffee is brewing.

The newspaper is spread out on the kitchen table.

And maybe, just maybe, you have somehow found a way to manage a moment of peace before the week’s anxieties begin.

But in this one, single moment … let us be honest.

How many of you reading this right now, are sitting there knowing how tomorrow you will once again be forced to wear the disguise of a smile on your face?

Because just beneath the surface, your entire world feels as if it is a house of cards ready to crumble at any moment?

For those of you who understand, I want you to know … I see you.

We all do.

We have become masters of wearing a mask, a mask which portrays the ideal that we are “just fine.”

It is an unspoken rule. Isn’t it?

How every time we walk out the door, or even merely answer the phone, our prescribed response to that three-word phrase “How are you?” is always, without fail, “I am fine,” or “I’m good.”

And we say this while wearing our signature smile, the mask to hide our pain.

Never mind that your heart is in a million pieces over a lost love.

Never mind that you are dying a little more inside with each and every breath because you are lonely, or that the mounting bills are keeping you awake until 3 a.m.

Never mind that the constant stress of juggling work and family has left you feeling hollow.

Hollow. Like a beautiful ceramic vase that has cracked all the way through and yet, cannot be seen upon first glance.

Yes, even when we wear our masks … I see you.

The unspoken suffering.

I am you.

We live in a community — no — in a world, where everyone is quietly fighting something.

Everyone.

That sweet cashier at the grocery store? She’s deathly worried her mother’s health will fail at any time.

Your impeccably-dressed neighbor? His job is on the line and despite his intelligence and hard work there is nothing he can do to save it.

The friend who always has the perfect, witty anecdote? She is struggling with loneliness.

It is a bizarre, collective theater.

Yet, we all know the play.

“Everything is wonderful, Thank you for asking.”

And we all portray our part to perfection.

We create our lives on social media, posting pictures that capture a fleeting moment of sunshine, but never the three hours of crying that preceded it.

We talk about our new projects, our travel plans, our children’s successes.

But we never mention the soul-crushing disappointments, the quiet heartbreaks, those moments when all we want is to just scream into a pillow and release all our anger raging inside.

Why is it so hard for us to just admit, “No. You know what? I am not all right and am having an extremely difficult day.”

“My world feels like a tornado is about to descend and tear apart my entire life.”

But we can’t admit that, can we? At least not to others.

Instead, we put on our masks.

I think that resistance to admit our heartbreaks, our anxieties, our failures, comes from a deeply-ingrained fear.

We fear being a burden to others.

We fear being seen as weak. As dramatic. As someone who just can’t get it together.

And in a society that worships resilience, admitting pain feels like admitting failure.

So, we smile wider.

We laugh a little louder.

We perfect the art of deflection, pivoting to a less painful topic the moment the conversation becomes too real.

It’s exhausting, isn’t it?

Wearing that mask?

Maintaining that perfect surface?

It actually takes more energy than if we would simply just face our problems.

It isolates us and creates a great distance between those who are genuinely aching for connection and understanding.

We walk around as if we are ships passing in the night. And each of us is flying a flag that reads “I am OK,” while secretly taking on water.

I am in no way suggesting we all break down crying in the produce aisle. Although sometimes, it can seem tempting.

But maybe, just maybe, for this one week, we can try to remove the mask.

If only for a moment.

Maybe with just one trusted soul, we can take it off and be ourselves.

And maybe, just maybe, when we ask someone how they are doing, we can actually wait for them to answer.

More often than not, we ask the question, but we never wait for the reply.

We assume.

Assume they will give the prescribed response, “I’m good,” or “I am OK.”

Maybe, just maybe, we will create a small, safe space where a loved one can confess they are not “great” without having to apologize for it.

And perhaps, whenever someone asks you, rather than replying “fine,” you could try saying, “I am struggling a little bit,” or “I have been better.”

Because the truth is, pain and heartbreak are part of being human.

They are the threads that form the tapestry of our lives.

They are what connects us — far more than any staged smile ever could.

So, this Sunday, do something different.

Take a breath.

Know that you are not alone in your secret suffering.

I see you.

I am you.

And remember … the smile that you offer to the world?

It doesn’t have to be a lie.

It can be an act of defiance.

It can be a promise to yourself to keep going.

And it is OK if it cracks a little around the edges.

Because the real resilience is not pretending the storm isn’t raging.

It is simply choosing to stand in it.

To anyone reading this who is currently navigating a silent storm, to anyone who feels the weight of having to perform happiness when your spirit is in reality, truly breaking … I see you.

I know you.

I am you.

And I understand.

Even if you believe that no one else does or ever will.

And I am so genuinely sorry that you are suffering while having to maintain this façade that life has treated you fine.

I pray this Sunday will bring you a moment of genuine, unmasked peace.

And may it be your secret sanctuary for where your heart can truly rest before having to face the world once again.

(Stenger is the community editor of the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at jstenger@heraldstaronline.com.)