The Day I Stopped Pretending to Be Fine (And Why You Should Too)

I was standing in my perfectly organized kitchen at 11:47 PM, hot-gluing felt balls onto foam for my son’s school project, when it hit me: I was going to die like this.

Not literally die making crafts (though the scent was not pleasant). I was going to die performing. Die pretending. Die wearing masks that had become so permanently attached, I'd forgotten what my actual face looked like underneath.

The realization didn't come gently. It arrived like a spiritual slap—sharp, shocking, and impossible to ignore.

When Good Enough Became Never Enough

Somewhere between becoming a mother and trying to be the "right" kind of woman, I'd enrolled in a master class in performance art. The curriculum? Advanced People-Pleasing with a minor in Self-Erasure.

I learned to smile at school pickup while internally screaming. To volunteer for committees I despised because "good moms" sacrifice their sanity for bake sales. To say "I'm fine" when asked how I was doing, even when I was drowning in plain sight.

The mask collection grew daily: Perfect Mother, Grateful Wife, Team Player, Always Available, Never Complains. Each one heavier than the last. Each one stealing another piece of who I used to be.

But here's what nobody warns you about chronic performance: You become so good at it, you forget you're acting.

The Performance Review That Changed Everything

That night, surrounded by craft supplies and existential dread, I did something radical. I audited my own performance.

I made a list of every role I was playing, every mask I was wearing, every way I was contorting myself to fit other people's expectations. The list filled pages. Pages of ways I was betraying myself daily.

The Corporate Achiever who stayed late to prove her worth while her family ate dinner in peace while she quickly shoveled hers down.

The Pinterest-Perfect Mother who spent weekends at the soccer field for her children while ignoring her own needs.

The Accommodating Friend who said yes to everything while slowly suffocating on resentment.

The Grateful Woman who smiled through exhaustion because complaining wasn't allowed in her version of femininity.

Looking at that list was like seeing surveillance footage of my own spiritual murder. Slow, methodical, and entirely self-inflicted.

The Sacred Burn Begins

I started small. Revolutionary change often does.

The first mask I dropped was The Always Available. I stopped answering texts immediately. Stopped checking email after dinner. Stopped being the first to volunteer for every thankless task.

The reactions were swift and predictable. Concerned friends asking if I was "okay” confused by my sudden boundaries. Colleagues who seemed personally offended by my refusal to work through lunch.

"You've changed," they said. As if this was the most devastating accusation possible.

They were right. I had changed. I was changing from a woman who performed her life into a woman who lived it.

What They Don't Tell You About Dropping Masks

The hardest part wasn't other people's reactions. It was sitting with myself—the real me—after decades of performance.

Who was I without the roles? What did I actually want when I stopped asking what everyone else needed? What did my voice sound like when it wasn't modulated for other people's comfort?

The silence was deafening. And terrifying. And necessary.

Because underneath all that performance, underneath all those masks, was a woman I'd abandoned long ago. A woman with opinions. With needs. With the audacity to take up space without apologizing.

She was still there. Waiting. Patient but pissed about the delay.

The Resurrection Phase

Dropping masks isn't about becoming someone new. It's about excavating who you've always been.

I started saying no to things that drained me. Yes to things that lit me up. I stopped explaining my choices to people who weren't living my life. I started showing up as myself—messy, tired, real—instead of the sanitized version I thought the world needed.

Some people didn't survive my authenticity. They needed my performance more than they wanted my truth. The revelation was brutal and liberating: They loved what I did for them, not who I was.

But others—the right others—showed up for the real version. They weren't threatened by my boundaries. They didn't need me to be small to feel big. They celebrated my voice instead of trying to silence it.

Your Turn to Burn

Maybe you're reading this at your own 11:47 PM moment. Maybe you're tired of performing your life instead of living it. Maybe you're ready to drop the masks that are suffocating your soul.

Start here: What performance are you exhausted by? What role are you playing that feels like spiritual death?

You don't have to burn it all down at once. Revolution can start with one small act of authenticity. One boundary. One honest conversation. One moment of choosing yourself over their comfort.

The world has enough performers. We need more women brave enough to show their real faces.

Your masks served their purpose. They helped you survive environments that couldn't handle your truth. They got you through situations where authenticity wasn't safe.

But survival mode has an expiration date. And yours has passed.

It's time for resurrection mode. Time to burn what's dead so what's real can finally breathe.

The woman you abandoned is still there, underneath all that performance. She's been waiting for you to come home to yourself.

Stop. Performing. Start. Living.

Your real face is too powerful for their comfort anyway.

Time to prove them right.