I’ve been writing this book for fourteen years. Terrifying feelings acting like imagined “Do Not Enter” signs have often felt real enough to stop me cold. Sometimes I could only manage a paragraph. A page a month. Honesty is required. But real honesty—the kind that pricks one’s finger and draws blood—shook me to my core. Who was I to be too big for my britches? A few hundred thousand connect-the-dot data points from others’ observations of me had trained me not to ask that question. Not to think I might have something to say. Not to trust that my perspective was worth holding a microphone.
For ages, the concept of masking has appeared in literature, but the behavior itself—the act of presenting a performative image to society—likely spans across civilizations. I know I’ve done it, and still do, but to what extent? Even thinking about the pressure to always be appropriate, to conform, makes my stomach flip. It feels like standing at the edge of an Olympic diving platform—bare feet on the rough board, inching backward instead of stepping forward, hesitating. Do I take the risk? Do I look down?
I hate that I mask. It’s exhausting. But how do I stop? I know what it would take, but the fear of being socially inappropriate—and the penalty for doing so—is too great. Like being ostracized. Shunned. Not just ignored—but exiled. Led through a rusted wooden basement door into the quiet horror of a mud floor, locked away. I wouldn’t mind the cool and the quiet if it weren’t for being alone with my own thoughts. Some of which are beautiful fun and inspiring. But others—the fears that keep me masking—stalk me no matter where I turn.
And so I stay masked. Because as heavy as it is, it still feels safer than trying to be seen and misunderstood.
Going On 40 
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