There is a very specific reflex many of us have developed over the years. When life gets hard, when we are exhausted, sad, overwhelmed, lonely, or quietly falling apart, we don’t retreat. We post. We show up online with better lighting, sharper angles, curated smiles. We tell the story of success again — not only to convince others, but to reassure ourselves that everything is still under control.

This reflex didn’t appear out of nowhere. Millennials were the first generation to grow up alongside social media — not as an accessory, but as an extension of identity. We learned early that visibility equals value. That success should be documented. That failure should be managed quietly, preferably offline. We didn’t just learn to live — we learned to perform living.

Psychologists call this impression management: the conscious or unconscious process of shaping how others perceive us. In moderation, it is normal. In excess, it becomes a psychological burden. Researches show that sustained self-presentation — especially idealised self-presentation — increases anxiety, emotional dissonance, and depressive symptoms. When the public version of you consistently contradicts your internal state, the nervous system doesn’t relax. It stays alert, guarding the narrative.

Over time, this creates a strange split. You can be objectively successful and emotionally depleted at the same time. You can be admired and deeply lonely. You can look like you are winning while feeling like you are constantly catching up with a version of yourself you no longer recognise.

Dubai amplifies this effect.

It is a city built on visible success. Progress here is loud. Achievement is aesthetic. Life is presented as an upward trajectory, preferably without pauses. There is an unspoken expectation that if you are here, you are doing well — financially, physically, emotionally. Struggle feels out of place. Vulnerability feels like a malfunction.

So we adapt. We curate. We minimise discomfort in conversation. We learn to say “busy but great” instead of “tired and lost”. We show momentum even when we are running on fumes. And because everyone else is doing the same, the illusion becomes collective. No one is struggling — because no one is admitting it.

The cost of this illusion is connection.

Human bonding relies on emotional reciprocity — the ability to show up as we are and allow others to do the same. When everyone performs strength, there is nothing to attach to. Friendships remain polite, impressive, and shallow. Relationships stay transactional. People orbit each other without ever landing.

This is where the generational contrast becomes obvious.

Gen Z and Gen Alpha approach visibility differently. They are less invested in polish and more tolerant of mess. They talk openly about burnout, anxiety, confusion, therapy, loneliness. Sometimes clumsily, sometimes excessively, but undeniably honestly. Older generations often label this as fragility — as an inability to cope with “real life”.

But neuroscience suggests a different interpretation.

Emotional expression, when regulated, reduces physiological stress. Naming emotional states lowers amygdala activation and increases prefrontal regulation. In simple terms: acknowledging how you feel makes it easier to function, not harder. Suppressing emotions, especially over long periods, does the opposite — it increases cognitive load and emotional exhaustion.

What we often interpret as weakness in younger generations may actually be emotional efficiency. They externalise early. We internalise indefinitely.

And here is the uncomfortable truth: we envy that freedom.

We envy the permission to be unfinished. To be confused publicly. To admit we aren't okay without attaching shame to it. Millennials were taught that resilience means silence. That coping means pushing through. That admitting difficulty is a sign of incompetence or failure.

But resilience without honesty becomes rigidity. And rigidity eventually breaks.

Research on burnout consistently shows that emotional suppression is a stronger predictor of long-term exhaustion than workload itself. It isn't just what we do — it is how much of ourselves we hide while doing it.

The idea that we “owe” constant strength to ourselves is one of the most damaging myths we have internalised. We don’t owe productivity to our identity. We don’t owe optimism to our friendships. We don’t owe success narratives to the internet.

And yet, many of us still feel that if we stop performing, everything will collapse. That people will leave. That respect will disappear. That momentum will be lost. In reality, the opposite often happens.

Honesty filters relationships. It slows life down just enough to become real again. It invites depth instead of admiration. It creates space for others to drop their armour too.

Dubai doesn’t lack ambitious, interesting, driven people. It lacks places — emotional and social — where people can stop proving that they are okay.

Strong long-term connections don’t grow out of curated excellence. They grow out of shared reality. Out of conversations that aren’t impressive. Out of moments that don’t photograph well.

We don’t need to disappear from social media. We don’t need to trauma-dump. We don’t need to overshare every feeling. But we do need to loosen the grip of performance.

To allow neutral days. Quiet days. Unsuccessful days. To stop convincing ourselves that thriving is the default state of adulthood.

Because the truth is simple and deeply unglamorous: life isn't a highlight reel. And connection doesn’t survive pretending. It survives presence.

And maybe — especially here — learning to be honest instead of impressive is the most radical thing we can do.