Sometimes I wear a mask. Not the superhero kind. Not the Halloween kind.
It’s invisible. But heavy. Like carrying a backpack full of bricks no one else can see.
I put it on when I walk into school.
When I think I have to be cool or smart or quiet or funny, even if I don’t feel like it.
It’s the mask that smiles when I’m sad.
The mask that nods when I want to scream “No!”
The mask that says “I’m fine” when I’m really not.
I carry it because I don’t want people to laugh at me.
Or think I’m weird. Or different.
Sometimes I think if I take it off, people won’t like the real me.
But the mask gets sweaty. And itchy. And tiring.
It makes my face hurt from fake smiling.
It makes my heart feel small.
I wish I could leave it at the door.
Hang it up like a coat.
And just be me.
The me who loves fashion and geometric designs.
The me who cries at sad movies.
The me who sometimes wants to hide when I’m nervous.
The me who laughs too loud and dances like no one else is there.
I think grown-ups wear masks too.
Maybe even thicker ones.
But what if we all took them off, just for a bit?
Would the world feel kinder? braver? nicer?
I’m learning that being real lets people see the best parts of me, not just the best ones.
And maybe, just maybe, I don’t need the mask as much as I thought.