Who I Am Without the Mask

For most of my life, I didn’t even realize I was wearing a mask. It wasn’t something I consciously put on—it was just how I survived. How I fit in. How I moved through a world that never seemed built for me.

One small but telling example: I vividly remember a student ambassador trip to Russia, just after the fall of communism in 1991. After only a few days there, I began speaking with a Russian accent to Russians who spoke English. I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t trying to be offensive or silly. It just happened. A kind of instinct—camouflage. It actually took a few days after I got home to shake the accent. That’s just one sliver, one of many masks I’ve worn without realizing.

But now, as each layer falls away, I find myself asking:
Who am I, really?
Not the version others needed me to be.
Not the one built on fear, performance, or exhaustion.
Just me.

And maybe that’s what worries me most on this journey—if “worry” is even the right word. Do I have enough time left to become who I was meant to be? There are days I dream of starting over, going back to school, learning something new. But time isn’t infinite. Not for an individual. Not for a body.

Unmasking isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about returning to someone who’s been here all along. It’s about becoming the truest, kindest version of myself—who I am, and who I’ve always quietly hoped I could be.

And that’s where this begins.
Not with reinvention.
But with a return—to a home that’s been waiting. Neglected, perhaps. Abandoned for a time.
But still mine.

The Shape the Mask Took

It wasn’t one single mask—it was dozens, maybe hundreds, each crafted for a different setting.

At school, this was both a source of ostracization and acceptance. I shaped different masks, different personas, for different groups. It was never to deceive—on the contrary, it was about survival. About creating a sense of belonging—not just for myself, but for others, too. But that adaptability confused people. Some didn’t know where to place me, and that made them angry. I became an enigma. Even to myself.

At work, I became the capable problem-solver. Bosses would try to observe how I did what I did and leave more confused than when they arrived. Still, they left happy—problems got solved. I saw angles others didn’t. I made a lot of bosses look good just by being able to hold that kind of complexity.

In public, I was easygoing. Polite. Calm. Solid as granite.
Around certain family members, I became small. I tried not to take up space. Not to be seen or heard. Some of them were loud, overbearing—it was safer to disappear.

And with friends, when it was time to let loose, I became the party animal. Not because it came naturally—but probably because of the alcohol it took to tolerate socializing. Even that couldn’t numb it completely. I’m lucky for the time I grew up in. There were moments when I’d crack—meltdowns, overstimulation, overheating. My skin would scream, and I’d strip down and run. Today, that could’ve gotten me labeled a criminal, a threat, when it was really just a desperate escape from sensory hell.

I studied people the way others studied textbooks.
I mimicked speech patterns, facial expressions, even laughter.
I anticipated moods, filtered my words, and answered questions before they were even asked.
I absorbed the catchphrases I hated just to sound like “one of us.”

That’s the trick with masking: it works. It gets you praise, approval, even admiration.
But it hollows you out.

You lose the line between performance and personhood.
You forget how to speak without rehearsing.
How to move without scanning.
You forget what your own voice even sounds like.

And the hardest part? People grow to love the mask.
They thank it. Befriend it. Reward it.
And in doing so, they never truly meet you.

Worse still—you begin to forget who you are.
If you ever really knew.

Grieving the Lost Time

There’s a quiet mourning that lives beneath the surface—
not for what was, but for what never got to be.
Not a single moment,
but a lifetime of almosts and what-could-have-beens.

The years spent shape-shifting,
softening my edges,
tightening my voice.
The dreams I whispered only to myself,
because the world didn’t seem to have ears for them.

I grieve the parts of me I had to keep small.
The passions that dulled under the weight of
“you’ll never support yourself doing that.”
I honestly don’t know what I’d be doing now,
but anything in the corporate world wouldn’t be on the list.
Maybe something with animals—bonus if penguins—
or archaeology, or psychology.
Those interests weren’t just ignored.
They were actively squashed by certain family members. They simply wouldn’t “pay the bills.”

The joy that waited quietly,
always waiting for the right moment,
the safe space,
the permission that rarely came.
There were moments, sure—
but never enough time to foster any dreams.

I wonder sometimes—
Who might I have become if I hadn’t been so busy becoming who they needed?

I’m in the profession I’m in because I love my spouse—
my very favorite human in the world.
It was once suggested that, if I wanted to be with her,
I should get a “real job.”
Fast forward 25+ years and here we are.
I don’t blame anyone. That’s not who I am.
But it’s an example—maybe a clue—
to just how lost I really am.

I was the kid who marched to “Free Mumia Abu-Jamal,”
because I didn’t believe he’d gotten a fair trial.
Injustice hurts me at my core.
It always has.
It still does—
even when it happens to someone I may not like.
An injustice is still an injustice.

Not out of blame.
Not out of bitterness.
Just… wondering.
Just missing someone I never got the chance to know.

Maybe I’d be in Antarctica right now,
studying my favorite creatures, the Adélie penguins.
I must have been one in a former life.
Or maybe I’d be teaching archaeology,
spending summers on digs in distant lands,
uncovering the stories buried beneath time.

There is sorrow here.
For the exhaustion mistaken for laziness.
For the silence mistaken for agreement.
For the kindness mistaken for compliance.
For the dreams tossed on the bonfire
before they even had a breath of life.

And still, I honor the one who survived it all.
The one who found a way to keep going,
to keep loving,
even with a half-lit self.

Grief is part of unmasking.
Not a detour.
Not a delay.
But a doorway.

One I have to walk through,
slowly,
honestly,
before I can truly come home.

Reclaiming the Self

Unmasking leaves you raw at first.
Exposed. Like a hermit crab without its shell.
Like standing in the sun after years underground—
your eyes unable to filter the light,
no shape defined,
just brightness everywhere.

It’s disorienting—
but it’s also the first time the light feels like it belongs to you.

For a long time, I wasn’t sure who I was beneath all the layers.
I still don’t know fully. That’s why I’m here—on this journey.
Not with some deep, unshakable sense of self,
but with questions:

What did I like because I liked it—
and what did I like because it helped me belong?
What parts were real?
What parts were just well-rehearsed survival?

So I started small.

I noticed the things that brought ease instead of pressure.
I’ve let myself snuggle with stuffies again.
I love soft things—they calm my mind.
I like pressure—a lot—and some smells feel like a warm embrace.

I’m learning to notice the places where my body feels safe enough to unclench.
I dance freely. I sing.
I love vocal stimming—there’s joy in that rhythm, that release.

I’m practicing being with people who don’t ask me to explain myself.
This one's still hard. I often feel misunderstood.
But I’m sculpting something here. Slowly.

I’m remembering what made me curious.
I’m letting new interests pull me forward.
I’m beginning to chase joy, not just endure.

I’m noticing what drains me—
and what restores me.

And piece by piece, I begin to reclaim the self that’s been waiting.
The one who stood quietly in the shadows,
hoping I’d turn around.

Sometimes, it feels like learning to walk again.
Other times, like remembering a song I used to hum
before the world got too loud.

I’m not building a brand-new me—
but I do know the values I want to build on:
love, curiosity, growth, and kindness.
That’s a sturdy foundation.

I’m finally meeting the one who’s been here all along.
And for the first time,
I’m letting him stay—
longer than just an hour here or there.
To stay in the house he was always meant to live in.

If this resonated with you, I want you to know: you’re not alone.
Unmasking can feel like walking into the unknown—
but you don’t have to walk it in silence.
If you’re finding your way back to yourself,
I’d love to hear what that looks like for you.

You can share your story in the comments,
or simply subscribe to follow along.
We may be building different lives,
but we’re doing it side by side.