Choosing Myself Over the Version I Pretended to Be

By Ivanna Sintes, The Jed Foundation Youth Advocacy Coalition Texas Fellow ’25

I was the best actress I knew, and I never even had lessons.

Growing up, I was always drawn to acting. I’d perform skits with my friends and family, and I joined every play I could. Acting was something that came naturally to me.
Cry on cue? Easy. Smile in photos? Convincing. Pretend everything was fine? That was my greatest role of all. My teachers, friends, and family thought I had it all together. But the truth was, I wasn’t just acting on stage. I was acting every single day of my life.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that pretending to be fine was something I’d later have to unlearn, and that being open about how I truly feel would become the role that took the most practice.

It took me years to realize there was a word for what I’d been doing all along: masking.
I would later learn that masking means hiding how you truly feel to appear okay, smiling through sadness, laughing when you want to cry, or keeping busy so you don’t have to feel. For many, it’s not a choice. It’s survival.

For me, masking started young. After my parents divorced, my mom moved out, and my self-esteem faded. Feelings of depression arrived at my door like an unexpected visitor; it didn’t just knock; it moved in. At the time, I didn’t understand what it was, only that it made everything feel heavier. That I woke up tired even after sleeping, that the things I used to enjoy didn’t feel fun anymore, and that I didn’t have the motivation to do anything. 

Occasional sadness is a normal part of life, but what I was feeling was different. It lingered for long periods, clouded everything, and took energy. I thought that if I ignored it, it would go away. It didn’t. It actually made everything worse. 

But instead of reaching out, I did what I’d been taught: I stayed quiet and looked “fine.”

In Hispanic culture, mental health struggles are often treated as a taboo topic. Growing up, I was taught to never say, “I feel depressed.” In my family, therapy wasn’t something we turned to. Instead, we prayed, toughed it out, and stayed quiet. We didn’t talk about mental health — not because we didn’t care, but because strength and love were how we showed support and gave hope to others. It took me a long time to realize that asking for help doesn’t go against those values; it honors them. Before I had that realization, I acted as if vulnerability was something you hid behind closed doors and sadness was something you fixed in silence.

So, I smiled. I made jokes. I got good grades. And when people said, “You’re always so happy,” I took it as a compliment, even though it was really just proof that my mask was working.

At home, however, the performance would come to an end. I’d close my door, collapse on my bed, and finally let the tears fall. I’d wish it would be okay to stop pretending.

When I finally told my dad I felt depressed, he didn’t believe me. 

How could he? I had hidden it too well. 

My parents told me not to tell anyone, to keep it private, because people might see me differently. And so I listened. My silence became another costume.

But after that conversation, something changed. When I told my dad I was depressed, he said, “If that’s true, let’s go to a psychiatrist.” He didn’t mean it harshly. He just didn’t understand. He had never struggled with mental health himself, and neither had the people around him, at least not openly. Because of that, it was hard for him to grasp that many people, including me, learn to mask their depression behind a smile.

That’s when I was officially diagnosed with major depressive disorder. It was the first time I realized what I’d been feeling had a name. I was able to see that many people my age were going through the same thing, often in silence, and that help existed.

Since the stigma had been ingrained in me from an early age, I still didn’t feel comfortable talking to people, but I would talk to the pages in my journal. Writing was my outlet, the one place I didn’t have to act. I wrote about the sadness, the secrecy, and the ingrained shame, often in metaphors. I wrote about how I could help others. I wrote about plans on how I could be an advocate. I wrote letters to my younger self, writing what I wish someone had told me. 

It wasn’t until I got to college that I finally allowed others to see the real me and removed my mask. 

It took me a long time to understand how common masking is, especially in my community, where showing emotion can be seen as weakness or shame. But those messages don’t protect us — they isolate us.

Masking can look different for everyone. For some, it was staying productive to avoid breaking down. For others, it’s being the “funny” one or the “strong” one. But underneath, there’s a quiet exhaustion, the kind that comes from pretending your feelings don’t exist.

The truth is, masking works until it doesn’t. Eventually, it becomes too heavy. You start forgetting who you are underneath it all. And when that happens, the bravest thing you can do is take off the mask, even if just a little.

That’s what I’m learning to do now: to be honest about how I feel, even when it’s uncomfortable. To let people see me when I’m not okay. Because pretending to be fine doesn’t make the pain go away, it just hides it. 

Healing can only start when we stop hiding.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been acting, too, know this: Your truth deserves space to breathe. You don’t have to perform to be loved. You don’t have to be “strong” to be worthy. It’s okay to be real. Because you were never meant to be an actor in your own life. You were meant to live it.

Visit JED’s Mental Health Resource Center to find easy-to-use tools and tips for managing feelings like anxiety and sadness, as well as guides to supporting the people you love, including how to get professional support if you—or they—need it. You can also find specific resources about sadness and depression.