The masks

Do you ever feel that you’re putting on a show all your days? Whether it’s gentle alterations of your personality to fit in with certain people and/or impress them, self perception as someone who you’re not to “fake it till you make it” or putting on a tough face in hard times, sometimes it feels like you’re switching between a hundred roles in your one man show, and suddenly, the person in the mirror seems familiar yet unknown– like a childhood memory that never disappears, but seems to keep fading.

We all wear masks. Some are stitched from necessity, others from fear. The smile you force when you're hurting, the laughter that feels just a second too delayed, the nodding when you don't quite agree. Sometimes, the mask is charm. Other times, it's indifference. With every setting, every room, every person, a new version of you emerges. It's not dishonest, not entirely—but it can grow to be exhausting. 

It’s not that you actively choose to not be your true self– you simply alter the little things like your sense of humor within different friend circles, or even the vocabulary you use with different people. You may not even feel that you’re holding your true self back or that you’re trapped in a world where you cannot be you. However, some memories flash back and you remember who you used to be—before you learned the codes, the filters, the rewrites. Before the edits to your voice and the softening of your edges. You remember laughing without hesitation, speaking without calculating. You remember being unapologetically you.

And somewhere in that remembering, a quiet grief settles. Not loud or dramatic—just a soft ache, like realizing a song you once loved has started to sound unfamiliar. You begin to wonder: Did I evolve, or did I drift away from myself?

As you grow, you are bound to change. You won’t be the same happy-go-lucky kid you were, and that’s okay. And it’s okay to not be able to answer the seemingly simple question “who are you?” quite as easily as people expect you to. But the moment the mask starts feeling less like something you wear and more like something you are—that's when it gets heavy. That’s when the quiet ache turns into restlessness. When even in a room full of people, you feel strangely invisible. Because how can you feel seen when you’re not showing what’s real?

Maybe the mask isn’t meant to be completely discarded—it has, after all, helped you survive. But maybe it’s time to start loosening it. To let parts of yourself peek through. To sometimes be awkward, unsure. unfiltered—and not immediately try to cover it up.

It starts small. Being honest about how you feel, even if it’s uncomfortable. Allowing silence instead of forced smiles. Saying “I don’t know” without shame. Laughing the way you used to, not the way you think you should.

You won’t always get it right. Some people may not like the unmasked version. But the ones who do—the ones who truly see you—will make it all feel worth it.

And one day, you’ll catch your reflection not as a stranger, not as a character, but as a soft, evolving version of you. Not a performance. Not a role. Just you.