Unmasked: Why I Refuse to Perform Just to Belong Anymore

The Era of the Unmasked Self

Something in me started to shift. Not loudly, not all at once. But in small moments: pauses before meetings, a tightness in my chest, the ache of showing up as someone I wasn’t. I realized I was tired. Not physically. Soul tired. Of performing. Of pleasing. Of being palatable.

For most of my life, I existed in rooms that weren’t built for me. And in those spaces—mostly white, often male—I wore a mask. I laughed at things I didn’t find funny. I echoed idioms that didn’t belong to me. I shape-shifted until I couldn’t feel myself anymore.

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But something shifted after becoming a mother. The urgency to return to myself, to be someone my sons could look at and see truth, grew louder. I didn’t want them to inherit my mask. I wanted them to inherit my wholeness.

The Cost of Performance

The mask was never about vanity. It was about survival. It helped me navigate rooms where I was the only one—earn the seat, get the job, avoid being seen as too much or too quiet or too different. But over time, I started to notice the toll.

One of the hardest moments was when I finally showed up fully. I had shared openly about my business journey in a room full of white male founders. I was vulnerable, honest, and whole. And at the end of it, one of them said nudging the guy next to him, “It’s nice to have a woman at the table.” That one line reminded me: even when I show up fully, I might still be othered. Still be seen as an accessory, not one of the bros.

Sometimes, the performance doesn’t just come from wanting to fit in—it comes from wanting to protect your softness.

But that protection also comes at a cost. Over the years, I suppressed so much of myself just to feel safe in those rooms.

Eventually, I got tired. And that exhaustion became a kind of compass. I didn’t want to climb another ladder or win another client if it meant losing more of myself.

What It Means to Be Unmasked

When I am unmasked, I feel childlike. Curious. Doe-eyed. At home.

It’s not about oversharing or being raw for the sake of it. It’s about being with myself. Rooted. Present. No longer scanning the room for how to adjust.

Now, before I enter spaces that might pull me back into performance, I pause. I check in with the inner part of me that feels tender. I notice the space in my chest that tightens when I abandon myself, and I choose to stay with me instead.

It’s not perfect. But it’s a practice. And each time I return, it gets easier.

Softness as Strength

I used to think strength meant having it seem put together. Holding it down. Never cracking. But that version of strength left no room for rest, or vulnerability, or truth.

Now, I see softness as part of my strength. My emotional fluency is not a liability—it’s a superpower. I can feel my anger and my joy. I can express grief and still get things done. I can lead without posturing.

This is what integration feels like: strong and soft. Clear and kind. Assertive and open.

Identity as Mosaic, Not Mask

I am Korean American. A mother. A founder. A partner. A New Yorker. A daughter. A creative. Sometimes brash. For years, I felt like I had to choose one, or mute the others depending on the setting.

Now, I let all the parts of me exist at once. I move between identities like a mosaic, not a monolith. I don’t shrink or separate to be understood. I don’t flatten myself to be digestible. Or at least, I try.

My identity is not a performance. It’s a layered truth. One I don’t owe an explanation for.

The Practice of Returning

I still catch myself reaching for the mask. But the difference now is that I notice. I pause. I choose again.

Sometimes it’s a deep breath before walking into a space. Other times, it’s reminding myself: You don’t need to be liked by everyone. You just need to stay with yourself. That inner compass. The one that meets you in the quiet hours of the night when you are with just you.

Every time I choose to stay unmasked, I believe I create more room for my real self to lead. And the more I lead from that place, the more I attract the right people, the right crowd, the right opportunities.

The Role of Motherhood in Unmasking

Becoming a mother cracked me open. It sharpened my awareness of the patterns I didn’t want to pass down.

So I’ve become bolder. I speak more clearly. I move more intuitively. I let go of the illusion that I need to be perfect. I show them what it looks like to be whole. Fumbling my words and all.

Success, Reimagined

There was a time when success meant achievement, recognition, being chosen.

Now, success feels like being with myself. It’s peace in my body. It’s validating myself without needing applause. It’s walking away from things that ask me to perform.

It’s raising my sons with presence. Running my company with clarity. Creating without needing to prove. That’s my new definition of success—and it doesn’t hurt.

Coming back home to myself.

This isn’t a manifesto. It’s a remembering.

I’m unmasked because the mask is no longer sustainable. In this short, precious life, I want to feel fully like myself—at home in my own body. That, to me, is the deepest kind of success.

And maybe you’re ready for that too.