Mask

Clutching at the mask as though we need it to breathe,

we pull it tighter and tighter. It fuses with our face.

It fits so tight that soon the skin grows over it

and we forget altogether that it was never us.

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I used to be the one who could fix it. Not in a messianic way—no white horses, no fanfares. I was a person people leaned on when syllabi needed designing or group projects needed herding or existential meltdowns needed quiet containment. You know the type: dependable, unflappable, “generous with their time.” It’s a decent job. It gets you thanked, occasionally admired. And, of course, you start to believe the role is who you are. Until one day, you find yourself sitting at your desk, dreaming of slipping into solitude and never opening your inbox again.

Here’s the truth: we don’t embody these roles because they’re our real Self. We hold onto them because they wrap us. They’re like old coats—too tight in the shoulders, full of moth holes, but familiar and comfortable. They shield us from the fear that, on our own, we’re not enough. That if we stopped being useful, we’d stop being. So the ego, always crafty, puts on its halo and flowing robe.

For me, the unraveling of the old coat began with a year-long collaboration that I didn’t want, didn’t enjoy, and yet found easier to go along with than to decline. A colleague—intense and fiercely insistent—had ideas about reworking a course I’d designed and taught along with others for a decade. She wanted us to do it together because I was higher up in the pecking order and could easily get approval for the changes. By “together” I mean I was the hood ornament on a car she was flooring through every turn. I told myself it was temporary, survivable. I was going on sabbatical soon. I could endure it. Then, with the revisions behind us, she said we should make music together. For fun.

Something broke. I said No. Not kindly, just “No.” I was done. She walked away and we didn’t have much to do with each other after that. I kept telling myself that I had to draw the line somewhere or I’d never break free from an association I never wanted. But I didn’t wholly believe that.

The false self will wear any mask to survive—even the mask of virtue. It’s tragicomedy when we confuse our personas with our souls. I was the team player, the competent advisor, the expert teacher. But really, I was just scared—scared to say no, scared to seem selfish, scared to let anyone down. But this time I said No—and I meant it.

There was grief in surrendering that identity. We mourn even masks that constrict when we take them off. But after the grief, the pressure releases—the pressure to be needed, to be, well, good. When the compulsion is gone, there is just you, resting, breathing, sitting with your own life—and being okay with that.

What threadbare old coat are you wearing that used to fit but now hurts? What mask do you put on every morning to hide behind? There’s no shame in wearing it. We all do. But there is peace in laying it aside. Even when you’re not being helpful. Especially then.