"Not all wounds are visible. That’s a truth that quietly shapes the lives of so many women. Some wounds are stitched into the fabric of who we are, hidden away beneath layers of laughter and routine, invisible to the naked eye but felt with every breath. There are women everywhere—at the grocery store, in the office, walking down the street—wearing bright smiles while carrying hearts heavy with grief, fear, and disappointment. They are the masters of disguise, the keepers of silent storms, the ones who have learned to keep moving even when everything inside them is begging for pause.

There are days when the world demands everything from you, and you give it—your effort, your energy, your care—while quietly mourning the pieces of yourself you’ve lost along the way. You show up for others, because that’s what you do. You offer help, lend a hand, give a listening ear. You crack jokes, share stories, and make people feel seen, while inside you are aching for someone to see you. To look past the practiced smile and notice the sadness that flickers in your eyes when the laughter fades. To ask, “Are you really okay?” and mean it.

The truth is, some of us are exhausted in ways that sleep can’t fix. Our tiredness goes deeper than our bones. It lives in our souls. We keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other, not because we’re strong, but because we don’t have the luxury of stopping. There are bills to pay, people to care for, promises to keep. So we stuff down the pain, patch up the cracks, and tell ourselves we’ll deal with it later—on a day that never seems to come.

Some women are grieving losses the world knows nothing about. They mourn the absence of loved ones, the death of dreams, the ending of chapters they never wanted to close. They miss mothers, fathers, children, or friends who have become distant memories. They carry the weight of heartbreak silently, sitting at dinner tables or in work meetings, going through the motions while their minds drift to places of sorrow. They have learned the art of holding it together, of not letting the tears spill over, because they don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. They don’t want to be the problem, the burden, the one who needs too much.

You never know what wars are being fought behind someone’s eyes. Some are locked in battles with anxiety, depression, or fear that creeps in like a shadow at the edges of their happiest moments. They show up, they perform, they tick every box, all while fighting a war inside their own minds. The effort it takes just to exist, to function, to keep up the appearance of normalcy, is Herculean. And when the day ends, they collapse in silence, wondering if anyone even noticed the courage it took to make it through.

Other women are caretakers to everyone but themselves. They are the ones who hold families together, who remember birthdays and appointments, who make sure the laundry is done and the fridge is full. They give endlessly, pouring from a cup that never seems to refill. They are the first to show up when someone else is hurting, the first to offer help, the last to ask for it. Their own needs are tucked away, deemed less important, less urgent, always waiting for a quieter day.

Some wounds are born from betrayal, from trust broken by those who promised to protect us. These wounds are quiet, but they shape the way we move through the world. We learn to build walls, to keep people at arm’s length, to act strong, so no one sees the vulnerability beneath. We may laugh the loudest, but our laughter is armor. We may offer the most support, but our kindness often comes from knowing what it’s like to feel alone.

And then there are the women who are simply tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of pretending. Tired of carrying the weight of everyone else’s happiness on their own shoulders. They long for a place to rest, for someone to say, “You don’t have to be everything for everyone.” They want to be held without expectations, to be loved without conditions, to be seen without having to perform.

We are taught to hide our pain, to “keep it together,” to not make a fuss. So we become experts at invisibility, at masking our wounds, at making it look easy. But it isn’t easy. It never has been. The invisible wounds are the heaviest. They shape our posture, the cadence of our voices, the way we walk through the world. They make us cautious, sometimes distant, sometimes too eager to please.

If you look closely, you might see the signs: the forced smile, the quick deflection, the tiredness that lingers in the eyes even after a good night’s sleep. You might notice the way she hesitates before answering, or the way her laughter sometimes sounds more like a shield than a song. You might see her helping everyone but herself, giving everything but asking for nothing.

Be gentle with others. You never know the battles they’re hiding. Your patience, your understanding, your small acts of kindness—they matter more than you can imagine. Sometimes, a single moment of softness can be enough to keep someone going. Sometimes, your gentle words are the only thing standing between someone and the edge of despair.

The world can be harsh, unforgiving, loud. We are all trying to survive in our own ways. Some days, the bravest thing a woman can do is simply get out of bed and face another day. Some days, the strongest thing she can do is ask for help. Some days, the most powerful act is to let herself feel, to let the tears fall, to let the mask slip just for a moment.

So when you meet a woman who seems distant, distracted, or exhausted, remember: not all wounds are visible. Offer her your kindness, your presence, your patience. Don’t demand explanations. Don’t push her to “snap out of it.” Just let her be, and let her feel safe in your company.

And if you are that tired woman, know this: you are not invisible. Your pain is real, your struggle is valid, and you do not have to hide. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to need help. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to put yourself first, even if just for a moment.

The most courageous thing you can do is to be gentle with yourself. To treat your invisible wounds with compassion. To offer yourself the same grace you give so freely to others. You are not weak because you are hurting. You are not broken because you need time to heal. You are simply human, and that is more than enough.

We all have battles that no one else can see. We all carry burdens that are too heavy to speak aloud. If you can do nothing else, be gentle. Be the soft place someone can land. Be the reason someone believes in the goodness of people. Let your kindness be the balm for wounds you may never fully understand.

Not all wounds are visible. But your gentleness, your warmth, your empathy—they shine through. They make the world a softer, safer place for everyone, tired or not. And in that softness, there is strength beyond measure.

So let’s promise to be a little kinder—to ourselves, to each other. Because sometimes, the gentlest touch is the most powerful thing we can offer. And for some of us, it is the very thing that helps us keep going, one beautiful, brave, invisible step at a time."

-Steve De'lano Garcia