She woke up with the weight of the world on her shoulders and a silent soul. The coffee cooled in the cup while the city outside roared, demanding presence, posture, courage. But that day, courage was a luxury. And strength? A distant, almost mythical concept.

Still, she rose.

She dressed as if putting on armor. Applied lipstick like painting a war flag. And walked out the door. Because she had learned, through stumbles and scars, that you’re not always strong — but you must look like it. You’re not always brave — but you must pretend.

Not out of vanity. Not out of pride. But out of survival.

The world, she knew, has no patience for fragility. And there are places where the scent of fear attracts predators. Where vulnerability is read as weakness, and weakness as an invitation. Sharks don’t forgive. They circle, sniff, attack. And if you bleed, they will come.

So she learned to smile with steady eyes, even when her heart trembled. To speak with a confident voice, even when her throat burned with insecurity. To walk with determined steps, even when everything inside her wanted to run away.

Pretending isn’t lying. It’s resisting.

And sometimes, resisting is all you can do.

She wasn’t made of steel. She was made of flesh, of dreams, of fears. But also of a fierce wisdom: when you don’t feel strong or brave, pretend — but don’t bleed among the sharks. ✊🏾👊🏾

©️ Beatriz Esmer