Member-only story
I’ve often heard people say that we all wear masks.
Sometimes, I wonder if my face is not just hidden behind a mask, but behind an entire wardrobe of them, each one tailored for a different occasion.
I’ve spent years perfecting this art of disguise, slipping from one persona to another with a chameleon-like ease that has become second nature.
But lately, I’ve started questioning what it really means to be a person with many different faces.
Growing up, I quickly learned that certain behaviours and attitudes garnered more acceptance than others.
At home, I was the dutiful child, always eager to please, to avoid conflict, to be the glue that held our fragile family together.
At school, I was the class clown, masking my insecurities with humour, wearing a smile that belied the turmoil inside.
With friends, I was the confidant, the one who always had time to listen, to give advice, even when my own heart was heavy with unspoken worries.
Each face I wore served a purpose.
They were shields, protecting the vulnerable core of my being from judgement, rejection, and pain.
But as the years passed, I started to feel the weight of these masks pressing down on me…
