The Faces We Wear: And Why Kindness Matters More Than We Think

Hi there,

Welcome to G&T’s World: A Journey of Purpose, Passion, Curiosity, and Freedom

This post is dedicated to my colleague and friend, Kate Maroske.

Earlier this year, Kate was diagnosed with cancer. The news landed heavily for everyone who cared about her. It carried the familiar questions that arrive uninvited in moments like these: how can this be, why her, why now?

From the outset, Kate showed remarkable courage. As family, friends, and colleagues gathered around her, it became clear that this would not only be a deeply personal journey, but also one that invited reflection and learning for those walking alongside her.

As Kate moved from diagnosis into treatment, I was struck by how she presented herself to the outside world. In professional and social settings, she appeared calm, strong, and composed. She radiated optimism and, at times, humour. To anyone observing from a distance, she seemed resilient, centred, and coping well.

Around her, a quiet network of support formed. People stepped in with practical help, small acts of care, and steady presence, all with the same intent: to give Kate space to focus on healing. Trina and I found a modest way to contribute. Kate is a genuine lover of good food, so each Sunday during the early stages of treatment we delivered a meal from some of our favourite restaurants. It was a simple gesture, intended to remove one task from her week and offer a moment of comfort before another cycle of treatment began.

It was during these quieter visits, away from the pace of work and the expectations of daily life, that something else emerged. In those brief, unguarded moments, the outer mask softened. Beneath it were the things we rarely show the world: vulnerability, fatigue, fear, uncertainty. The reality of a life suddenly measured in scans, results, and unknown outcomes.

What stayed with me was not the contrast itself, but how familiar it is.

We all do this, every day.

We carry strength outwardly while holding private fears inside. That space between our public composure and our inner story is profoundly human. It is also a quiet reminder of why kindness, patience, and awareness matter far more than we often realise.

The Two Worlds We Live In: The External Self and the Inner Self

Psychologists often distinguish between the public self and the private self, a concept explored by thinkers such as Erving Goffman, who described everyday life as a kind of stage on which we manage what others see. Externally, most of us present a version of ourselves that appears capable, composed, and strong enough to meet the demands of the day.

Internally, a different world exists.

This is where unspoken fear resides. Where uncertainty lingers without an outlet. Where pain resists explanation. Where hope is held quietly, sometimes cautiously, in case it disappoints.

When someone is navigating a major life event, illness, grief, chronic stress, burnout, or personal crisis, the distance between these two worlds often widens. The effort required to maintain outward stability increases just as the inner landscape becomes more fragile.

The smiling friend in the hallway may be awake with panic at 2 a.m.
The colleague delivering results may be privately afraid of losing control.
The neighbour who “seems fine” may be carrying news that has not yet found words.

This divide between the outer and inner self is not deception.
It is protection.
It is how many people endure what they are not yet ready, or able, to share.

Why We Hide Our Hardest Moments

People conceal their inner struggles for many reasons, most of them rooted not in avoidance, but in care and self-preservation.

Often, it is to protect others. There is a quiet fear that sharing pain will place an emotional burden on family, friends, or colleagues who are already carrying enough of their own.

Sometimes it is about preserving identity. Illness, uncertainty, or vulnerability can feel like a direct challenge to who we believe we are meant to be. Admitting fear can feel like losing a version of ourselves we have worked hard to maintain.

For others, it is a way to retain control. When the inner world feels unpredictable or overwhelming, presenting calm and competence externally can be a stabilising strategy, a way of anchoring oneself amid internal chaos.

There is also the simple desire to feel normal. In the face of something as disruptive as cancer or grief, everyday routines and familiar interactions offer moments of relief from being defined by what is happening inside the body or mind.

And then there is the broader cultural pressure. Despite widespread conversations about authenticity, society still tends to reward resilience over vulnerability, positivity over honesty. The expectation to “stay strong” or “look on the bright side” remains deeply ingrained.

The result is a quiet emotional dissonance; a world that sees strength, and a heart that is quietly managing fear.

The Hidden Cost of Holding It Together

Living with two identities, the one presented to the world and the one carried privately, is deeply draining. Sustained emotional suppression comes at a cost. Research led by psychologist Dr Susan David shows that routinely pushing emotions aside increases psychological stress and, over time, erodes resilience.

Kate experienced this reality firsthand. The effort required to remain “strong” for others became its own quiet burden.

In the moments when she felt safe enough to let the mask fall, to allow tears, tremors, and truth to surface, something shifted. Her vulnerability made the emotional toll visible. It revealed the energy required simply to keep going. And it created the opening those supporting her needed to respond more fully, with deeper presence and care.

Authenticity was not a weakness.
It was a relief.

And that brings us to the heart of this post.

Kindness is the Antidote: Because None of Us Know the Full Story

Kindness works because it creates space.
Space for someone to stop performing.
Space to breathe.
Space to allow the inner world to be seen without shame.

When we choose kindness, especially in the absence of visible need, we acknowledge a simple truth: everyone is carrying something we cannot see.

Small acts matter more than we often realise.
A gentle question, asked with genuine intent.
A willingness to listen without trying to fix.
The patience to offer time that hasn’t been requested.
A softer tone in moments of tension.
A pause before judgment.
A choice to extend understanding rather than assumption.

Kindness was not a solution to Kate’s cancer diagnosis.
It did not erase her fear or uncertainty.

But it is a comfort.
A grounding presence.
A quiet reminder that even in the hardest moments of life, no one must carry the weight alone.

A Call to Softer Eyes and Gentler Hearts

Kate’s experience revealed something quietly powerful: those who appear the strongest are often the ones who need kindness the most.

Not because they lack resilience, but because they are carrying more than most people realise. Holding composure on the outside while managing fear and uncertainty within is an exhausting emotional load.

Those who project strength are also often the least likely to ask for help. They are practiced at coping, accustomed to responsibility, and hesitant to impose.

Which is why kindness cannot always wait to be requested.
Sometimes, it must be offered first.

If we could see the private battles people carry, we would move through the world differently. We would be slower to judge. Quicker to forgive. More intentional with compassion. More generous with time. Less preoccupied with perfection, and far more attuned to our shared humanity.

So, as you move through your days, at work, at home, and in the wider world, consider a simple shift: assume that everyone is carrying something you cannot see. Because often, they are.

Let kindness become the bridge between the inner world people are navigating and the outer world they are doing their best to hold together.

To Kate, I am deeply proud of the way you navigated your journey, with strength, courage, integrity, and grace. You reminded all of us that kindness is not only something we receive, but something we are responsible for extending to others.

The day you shared that your treatment had been successful and you were cancer-free was, for many of us, a moment of release. It carried relief, joy, and the quiet exhale of fears we had been holding alongside you. Your journey, with all its uncertainty and resilience, left us with something lasting: a renewed awareness of how much compassion, patience, and care matter, especially for those who appear strong while carrying private burdens.

That lesson will stay with us.

With kindness,

G&T

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