21/11/2025
The masks we wear are rarely just on our faces.
Some are crafted from expectation — the smile, the confidence, the poise.
Others are stitched from old stories — the caretaker, the strong one, the peacemaker,
the one who holds everything together even when they’re quietly unraveling inside.
We learn to wear these masks to belong, to stay safe, to protect our tender parts.
Sometimes they become so familiar that we forget where the mask ends
and where the truth of who we are begins.
But there comes a moment — soft, subtle, unmistakable —
when the body whispers, I’m tired.
When the heart says, Let me breathe.
When the spirit longs to be seen without the performance, without the polish.
Removing the mask is not an act of weakness;
it is an act of courage.
A gentle rebellion.
A returning.
In the spaces where we feel held — through art, breath, movement, tea, community —
we learn that it is safe to soften.
Safe to be messy.
Safe to be whole.
Safe to be human.
When we loosen the armour and let our truest self speak,
we don’t become smaller —
we become real.
And that is where healing begins.
