Till when do our masks stay on ?

Till When Will We Keep Wearing Masks?

I wake up and the first thing I do is reach for the mask. Not the one on my nightstand, not cloth, not porcelain. The invisible one. The one I’ve been wearing so long it feels like part of my skin.

It’s automatic. Like brushing teeth. Like breathing. Before I step out the door, it’s already strapped on — the polite smile, the agreeable silence, the careful tone that says, “Don’t worry, I’ll behave. Don’t worry, I’ll fit.”

And most of the time, people love this version of me. They find me easy, charming, safe. What they don’t see is the raw face underneath, the one that aches to be seen even if it’s messy, even if it’s too much.

So the question that circles in my head, the one that keeps me awake at night is this: Till when? Till when will I keep wearing masks?

The First Time It Slid On

I can’t name the exact day I started, but I remember the feeling. Maybe you do too.

The moment I realized being myself wasn’t enough. Maybe someone laughed. Maybe they called me weird, too quiet, too loud, too different. That sting is unforgettable.

And so the mask slid on. Easy. Effortless. A little smile when I felt like crying. A shrug when I wanted to scream. A soft agreement when every cell in my body was shouting no.

At first it worked. It protected me. Kept the bullies at bay. Made me invisible when invisibility felt safer than attention. The mask was armor.

But armour isn’t light. It clings. And once you get used to it, you start to forget there’s a face beneath.

The Heavy Weight We Pretend Isn’t There

People think masks are light. They’re not. They’re heavy. Crushing, even.

It’s smiling when you want to scream.

 It’s saying you’re fine when you’re breaking inside.

 It’s laughing when your chest feels like it’s caving in.

Sometimes I come home and collapse, drained not by the work I did, but by the performance I gave. Because that’s what it is — performance. Day after day. Scene after scene.

And the cruelest part? Most people never notice. They see the mask and assume it’s me. And after years of wearing it, I start to assume the same.

When It Starts to Crack

But masks are fragile. They crack. Always.

In moments when the real self bursts through: an unguarded laugh, too loud for the setting. A sudden tear in the middle of a story. A sharp comment that slips past your filter.

For a second, the raw face flashes through. Someone glimpses the truth.

And sometimes they love it. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they step back. And that’s when you remember why the mask was there in the first place.

The raw self is risk. The mask is safety. But what’s the point of safety if it means never being seen?

The Loneliness of Being Loved for a Mask

Here’s the thing nobody admits: being loved for your mask is lonelier than being unloved at all.

Because you know, deep down, they don’t love you. They love the version you rehearsed. The easy you. The agreeable you. The safe you.

They don’t know the chaos, the fire, the secrets, the softness. They don’t know the laugh that rattles out of your chest or the tears that sneak up on you in the dark. They don’t know your truth.

And so you can be in a crowded room, surrounded by smiling faces, and still feel completely unseen. Because they’ve never met you. They’ve only met the mask.

Why We Keep Wearing It

Fear. Always fear.

Fear that if I take it off, people will scatter.

 Fear that my real voice will be too sharp.

 Fear that my raw self will be too much, too heavy, too unlovable.

So we stay safe. We keep performing. And in that safety, we suffocate.

What If We Stopped?

I wonder sometimes. What would happen if we all dared to drop it?

Conversations would be messier. Friendships riskier. Love scarier.

But maybe they’d be real. Maybe they’d finally taste alive.

I imagine sitting with someone and saying exactly what I feel, no filter. I imagine them doing the same. No script. No pretense. Just two humans, faces bare.

It terrifies me. But it also makes my heart race in a way the mask never could.

Small Rebellions

I’ve tried it, in little ways. Not dramatic confessions, just small cracks in the armor.

Letting myself say no. Letting my voice tremble. Letting someone see me when I’m not okay.

And the world didn’t collapse. Some people drifted, sure. But the ones who stayed — they stayed for me, not for the mask. And that feels like the beginning of freedom.

The Painful Beauty of Being Real

Being maskless isn’t comfortable. It hurts. It exposes. It risks rejection.

But it’s also the only way to find the ones who can meet you there. The ones who aren’t afraid of your cracks or your storms. The ones who look at you — trembling, messy, unfinished — and say, “Yes. That’s enough. That’s you. That’s what I want.”

And every time you do it, every time you let a piece of yourself be seen, you give someone else permission to do the same. The courage multiplies. The masks slip, one by one.

“The trouble with a mask is it never changes.” — Charles Bukowski

That line has been haunting me. A mask doesn’t grow. It doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t evolve.

But we do. We’re messy, we change, we crack, we rise, we break again. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe being human is less about perfecting the mask and more about daring to show the face that shifts underneath.

So how do I take it off? Honestly, I don’t know. Some mornings I wonder if my real face even remembers its own shape. Maybe it’s blurred. Maybe it’s waiting.

But I’ve noticed this: every time I whisper to myself, “Yes, I’m wearing a mask right now,” I feel lighter. Almost amused. Admitting it makes me smile. Because for a moment, the trick isn’t working anymore. For a moment, I see the disguise for what it is.

Maybe that’s how it starts. Not with a dramatic ripping away, but with a quiet acknowledgment. A half-smile in the mirror. A private confession that says, “I know you’re there.”

The way, the means, the courage — they’ll come. They always do.

For now, maybe the bravest thing is not removing it completely, but refusing to believe it’s all I am.

And if I can do that — if I can see the mask, admit it, even laugh at it — maybe I’m already closer to being free than I thought.