THE MASK HANGS ON THE WALL NOW

Because it’s not your job to audition for belonging.

“Fake it till you make it.” I used to live by that phrase. It carried me through interviews I didn’t feel ready for, workouts I wasn’t sure I could finish, and seasons where my confidence lagged behind my calling. And here’s the truth: I don’t think it’s bad advice. Sometimes you need it. Sometimes you borrow courage you don’t fully feel yet just to get moving.

But fake it till you make it was always supposed to be a tool — not a costume. The mask should have been temporary. Instead, I wore it so long it became a lifestyle. Pretending to be okay turned into not even knowing what okay felt like anymore.

I bent myself into versions I barely recognized. Agreeable here. Impressive there. Polished everywhere. And no matter how well I performed, the goalposts kept moving. The harder I ran, the farther away the finish line drifted.

That’s when it hit me: it was never about me not being enough. It was about them not being my people.

Back in 2017, I wrote: “Our greatest coverups happen when we convince ourselves that if no one can see our struggle then it’s not real. Don’t get comfortable in the coverup.”

The mask was my coverup. And while it fooled some people, it never fooled me. The cost was higher than I want to admit. It cost me my peace. It cost me my strength. It nearly cost me myself.

Here’s what I know now: you can become the most “perfect” version of yourself and the wrong people will still find something to pick apart. A colleague who side-eyes your ambition. A friend who can’t clap when you win. A family member who only calls to remind you of your flaws.

If being “enough” requires shrinking, over-explaining, or performing until you’re empty — those aren’t your people. That’s not belonging. That’s an audition you’ll never win.

For too long, I thought their silence meant I needed to try harder. Smile longer. Be smaller. Fake it a little more convincingly. But pretending never brought peace — it only hollowed me out.

The turning point wasn’t loud. It was quiet. The day I finally stopped performing. The day I let myself exhale. And in that stillness, I realized: it’s not my job to audition for love that should be freely given.

That shift changed everything. What I thought was rejection was actually redirection. Their absence gave me space to hear my own voice again. Their criticism carved out room for me to grow roots they could never rip up.

Sometimes we go through troubled waters not because we’re weak, but because those waters strip away what was never meant to stay. Enemies can’t swim. Masks don’t float. Pretending doesn’t last.

This phase of my life is a reckoning. And I won’t apologize for it. I won’t fake a thing. I’ve outgrown versions of me that some people still cling to — and that’s not a loss. That’s evolution. We are meant to evolve.

Because the right people? They’ll never ask you to keep the mask on. They’ll clap when you win. They’ll steady you when you wobble. They’ll love you as you are — not as the version you thought you had to be.

That’s the truth I hold onto now: go where you’re celebrated, not tolerated.

So if you find yourself still performing, still auditioning for people who refuse to take off their blinders… maybe the bravest thing you can do is set down the mask. Step off the stage. Let the real you — raw, growing, unapologetic — finally take up space.

And me? The mask hangs on the wall now, not on my face. A reminder of who I’ll never be again.

You’ll never be too much for the right people. And you’ll never have to wonder if you’re enough.

Journal prompt: Where are you still performing instead of being? And what might shift if you stopped auditioning for the wrong audience and allowed yourself to evolve?