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It begins quietly, almost politely. I remember a classroom introduction during my graduation days. One by one, students stood up and answered the usual questions. Name. Interests. Hometown. A harmless ‘Where are you from?’ floated through the room, the kind of question people ask without thinking because it feels neutral and friendly.
A girl smiled before answering. It was a quick, practised smile. Then she named a metropolitan city, one that instantly fit into the room. The reaction was immediate and effortless. People nodded. The conversation moved on comfortably because the answer required no explanation.
Later, when we were alone, the truth emerged casually, almost accidentally.
“Actually, I’m from a small town,” she admitted. “But you know how it is.”
And I did know. Most of us do.
In many spaces, ‘small town’ is not treated as a geographical detail. It becomes a personality assessment. People attach assumptions to it – about ambition, exposure, confidence, language, fashion, and even intelligence. A hometown turns into a prediction about a person’s future. So people edit themselves before the world can edit them.
That day I realised something I have been noticing everywhere, in different forms, in different rooms: many of us are living two lives: one real, one acceptable.
The real life is private. It has ordinary mornings, a little worry about money, a phone battery that dies at the wrong time, failures, parent’s expectations, relationship uncertainty, and an overthinking mind.
The second life is public. It is clean, confident, looks like progress, like happiness, more like designed for public acceptance.
This life is not always a lie, rather an armour. A strategy. A way to move through the world without inviting unnecessary judgement.
But armour, worn long enough, starts to feel like skin. And that’s where the trouble begins.
I once worked with a woman who carried herself with remarkable professionalism. She was talented, respected and consistently good at her job. Yet every morning before meetings, I noticed the same ritual. She would check her reflection repeatedly, smooth her hair, adjust her sleeves, inspect her shoes and ensure every detail looked perfect.
Over time I noticed, she never repeated an outfit. Not ‘rarely’ – never.
Not because she loved fashion or had endless time. But because repetition, she feared, creates a story. A stereotype. A quick judgement people make without even meaning to: ‘maybe she can’t afford more’ or ‘maybe she isn’t polished’ and what not. Social media intensifies this pressure further.
People no longer merely live experiences; they package them. Vacations become proof of achievement. Fitness becomes evidence of discipline. Relationships become public relations campaigns. Even rest now has to look aesthetic and productive.
The strange part is that everyone knows these performances are incomplete, yet everyone continues. Perhaps because opting out feels risky.
In families, the performance often becomes larger and far more expensive. A relative of mine recently decided to renovate their house. The existing home was perfectly comfortable. There was enough space, enough light, enough practicality. But another family member had built a bigger house, and suddenly satisfaction disappeared.
Of course, nobody openly admitted this. Instead, the decision was framed as ‘future planning’ or ‘investment’. But beneath the practical explanation was something far more emotional: comparison.
And then there are the celebrations too. How many times have we celebrated something we didn’t like? Attended something we didn’t enjoy? Hosted a party being the ‘forced host’? Applauded decisions we didn’t fully support?
We do it to keep the peace. To fit in. We don’t even disagree loudly, we disagree silently with participation.
That quiet compromise seems harmless in the moment. But repeated over years, it builds a life that looks ‘fine’ and feels strangely empty. Because a life made only of social approval is not a life. It’s a performance review.
We don’t only want to be happy; we want to be seen as happy and people to agree that we actually deserve it.
A good day doesn’t feel complete until it is acknowledged. A milestone doesn’t feel real until it is witnessed.
There is a thought attributed to Gautama Buddha that echoes strongly in modern life: we suffer not only because of our sadness, but of comparing ourselves with others’ happiness.
Sadly, today we aren’t even comparing ourselves to real happiness, but to curated happiness, selected highlights, edited achievements, filtered faces, the smoothest versions of other people’s lives.
There will always be someone richer, cooler, more celebrated, more ‘sorted’. Someone will always look ahead in the race you didn’t consciously choose. But if happiness is rooted in honesty about your limits, values and pace, then you can finally stop performing and start living.
So we keep asking the wrong question maybe. Instead of: “Does this make me happy?” We ask: “Will this make me look happy?”
And the gap between those two questions is where the mask is born, the mask we wear in our performance of happiness in this world.
Pratyoosh Vatsala
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