The Mask That Slides Off at Night
Last week in Ireland, something shifted.
Shit is getting real.
I knew they were holding a lot that week, with the blockades, the prices going up. I reached out to check in. I asked: “Can I support you? What do you need?”
They were surprised by the question. And grateful.
I felt like I was cupping my hands and holding them gently — like the delicate creature that they are.
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I’m tired of being “grand.” Showing that I know how to BE in all of this.
I’m so used to wearing this mask. But it’s getting so heavy, and there isn’t a place in my life where I can just put it down.
At work, I wear it for the sake of my job, my title, my salary. At home, I wear it for the sake of my children — to make them feel safe. At night, it slides off my face, and I’m lying awake, not knowing how to be.
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Illustration by Naomi Fein, based on photo by Kelli McClintock on Unsplash
So I hold them, gently between my cupped hands.
I give them space to find out who they are without the mask. I know their real face has been there all along.
I tell them stories of other places — where people don’t wear masks at all, or places where you are allowed to carry many masks and change them as you please.
I watch them stare at me in disbelief. But then I see a glimpse of recognition. Of hope.
They are ready for the journey. And my heart leaps to meet theirs.
—
This is the work I do.
I wrote recently about what I call the inner compass — the part of us that knows, even when the mind is confused, even when the world outside is loud and frightening. If any of this resonates, you might want to read that too.
If you’re lying awake at night with the mask off and you don’t know what to do with that — I’d love to talk.
Thirty minutes. Free. No agenda. Come as you are.