THE KINDNESS IN LETTING SOMEONE PRETEND THEY'RE FINE

— Because not every wound needs to be named to be seen.

There’s a particular kind of silence that isn't cold or distant—but deeply compassionate. It happens when we know someone is not okay, and yet we choose not to ask, not to push, not to expose. Instead, we sit beside them in the quiet, pass them the water, talk about the weather, maybe even laugh at something absurd. We let them pretend they’re fine.

Not because we believe the act. But because we understand the need for it.

In Nepali society—especially in close-knit families, where emotions often mix with roles, expectations, and boundaries—grief, stress, or heartache don’t always have a proper space to be expressed. So, people carry it quietly. They still serve tea, show up to work, attend family functions, smile politely. They pretend. And sometimes, that pretending is a form of survival. A thin shield between them and collapse.

We often think kindness means probing, asking, insisting: “Tell me what’s wrong.” But some of the deepest kindness comes in knowing when not to. It takes sensitivity to see the tension behind someone’s smile—and even more to let them keep it. It is not avoidance. It is respect. It is saying: I see your pain. I won’t demand it perform itself for me.

In Nepali homes, this shows up in small ways. A mother quietly adds more tarkari to a child’s plate even if they’re barely eating, without asking why they’re not hungry. A friend who senses something wrong but sticks to light conversation. A teacher who doesn’t question a student’s sudden silence, but gives a longer deadline. These are not failures to “intervene.” These are silent acknowledgements: I know something hurts. I’ll walk beside you until you’re ready.

Sometimes, that moment never comes. Sometimes, the only conversation that takes place is in gestures. A warm meal. A shared seat in the sun. A hand on the shoulder. And still, it is enough.

In a world that increasingly demands vulnerability be made public, posted, or verbalized to be validated, we forget the grace of restraint. Not everyone wants to explain. Not everyone is ready. And not every sadness needs to be solved. Some simply need space.

Letting someone pretend they’re fine isn’t always indifference. It can be the gentlest way of saying: I’ll be here when you’re ready to stop pretending. Until then, I’ll protect your silence.

Because sometimes, the most profound form of love is not asking someone to undress their wounds—but offering them a place to rest while they heal, in their own time, on their own terms.