“Everything’s Great, Thanks!” Why Do We Sugarcoat our Lives and What Is the Price We Pay?

Last week, my husband and I learned that a couple we know is splitting up. Our first reaction was identical: sadness for the family’s two young children. But once that had settled in, we both were left with another nagging sensation.

We didn’t see it coming.

Not that divorce shows its symptoms like other ailments, but shouldn’t outsiders be able to see some chinks in the armor? In this case, we didn’t see a one. Not a terse word, angry body language, even a raised eyebrow. Nada.

This bothers me. Partly because it makes me wonder if my radar for human emotion is out of whack. Shouldn’t I be able to sense tension between a couple who wakes up one day and decides they’d rather live apart than together?

It also disturbs me because I wonder why we feel the need to make everything look so damn perfect to outsiders instead of telling the truth and maybe getting support that could actually help – even change – the situation. My friend, Claire, calls this “my storefront.” We all merchandise our lives like store windows, putting the prettiest things up front, and hiding the undesirable inventory in the back room.

Years ago, I suffered an early miscarriage. I had already announced my pregnancy to friends and family, so I had to announce the miscarriage as well. One less-than-sensitive friend said to me, “Katherine, this is why people don’t usually announce their pregnancies until the second trimester.”

Huh?

You mean, I shouldn’t announce my pregnancy (a happy event) so that in case anything goes wrong, I can hide this sad occurrence and suffer alone? What kind of logic is that? I was most in need of the comfort of friends at this time and wouldn’t have received it if my pregnancy had been a secret. Several friends actually confided to me that they, too, had suffered miscarriages (some more than one) and I wondered at this conspiracy of silence.

My vow going forward is this: I’m not playing the “perfect” game anymore. If things are hard at home, I’m going to answer truthfully when friends ask how I am. I might not reveal all the details, but a simple “I’ve been better” feels more sincere. Then maybe, just maybe, that person will share her own truth in response. And, instead of acting like strangers, we can start being what we claim to be to each other: friends.