The Masks

We learn early that silence is not enough.

So we stitch disguises from laughter, from busyness, from the glitter of being “fine.”

We paint our faces with resilience,

layer our bodies with costumes of competence,

and call it survival.

Behind the mask, the cracks spread.

Shame festers in the quiet.

Grief gnaws at the edges.

But the world applauds the performance—

the party girl, the strong mother, the tireless worker,

each mask convincing enough to keep pity away.

We wear them until they fuse to our skin.

Until we forget the shape of our own face.

Until the mask becomes the only language we know.

But masks rot.

They slip.

They betray us in the mirror,

in the tremor of a hand,

in the hollow of a laugh that echoes too long.

And when they fall,

we are left with the rawness of our brokenness—

not polished, not palatable,

but true.

And truth, even jagged,

is the first breath of freedom.