Behind The Mom Mask

“Finding strength in the stories we hide.”

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  • Truth #2: Love Without Conditions

    The night was heavy and quiet, the kind of quiet I used to fear. The kind of quiet that made all the hard truths and sharp edges of the week echo louder in my chest. A show murmured faintly in the background, but I wasn’t really watching. I was sitting with my thoughts — and then, out of that silence, my son walked in.

    He looked at me and said, simply, thank you.

    If only I could have told him right then what that meant to me. How his two little words cracked the weight of that night wide open and let a little light in. How these late-night conversations we have — about his dreams, his fears, his future — fill my soul in a way I didn’t even know was possible.

    That night reminded me of something I’ve come to know as my second truth:

    I will never love my children with conditions attached.

    It hasn’t always felt that simple.

    When my children were first born, I carried this quiet fear that I would somehow love them like I had been loved — in pieces, with strings, with expectations they’d never quite be able to meet. I worried that their failures would reflect poorly on me, that their successes would define my worth as their mother.

    For years I let that fear hover over me — terrified that my love would feel to them the way love once felt to me: earned. Fragile. Conditional.

    But the more I’ve watched them grow, the more I’ve sat beside them through both triumph and heartbreak, the more I’ve realized: their path isn’t mine. Their story doesn’t belong to me. And their mistakes, their victories, their choices — none of those have ever, or will ever, change the way I love them.

    That quiet night, watching my son talk about his dreams, I saw so clearly that my only dream has ever really been this: that he — and his sister — find happiness.

    In that moment, he reminded me of the ocean. Determined and free, but still learning how to swim against the currents. And me? I just want to be the shore he can always return to — steady, waiting, cheering him on no matter how far he drifts or how many times he sinks before learning to float.

    Love — real love — is letting them chase the waves even when it scares me. Love is letting them take risks, be selfish for their dreams, even when it leaves me standing on the sand alone for a while.

    Growing up, I believed love was something I had to earn. Something that could be taken away if I didn’t measure up. But my second truth — the one I cling to now — is this: my love for my children comes with no strings, no scorecard, no conditions.

    It just is.

    And that quiet night, when my son whispered thank you, I finally believed it.

    — Masked Mom

  • Truth One — The Thread of the Unwanted

     

    There are truths we carry that never ask for permission to be known—they simply live in our bones. This is one of mine.

    I am the child of addiction. My first lullabies were silence and slammed doors. My childhood was a collection of almost—almost loved, almost remembered, almost enough. Whether I was planned or not has never been clear, but what I do know is this: from the start, I felt like an afterthought. Like I arrived before anyone was ready to receive me. And that feeling—the heavy ache of being unwanted—has followed me like a second skin.

    If there were a billboard advertising abandonment, my face would be on it. Not out of pity, but recognition. People don’t always know what to do with someone who’s been shaped by shadows.

    It’s strange, isn’t it? How the past never really let’s go. How the hurt echoes in different keys throughout our lives, long after the initial wound has closed.

    I was maybe six or seven when my dad left me at the babysitter’s. It wasn’t just for the evening—it turned into weeks. My after-school stop became a temporary home. I waited for him every evening like clockwork. But 6 PM came and went. And then the next day. And the next. I remember rotating through three outfits. I remember the sting of kids laughing, asking if my parents had forgotten me. I remember toughing it out because what other choice does a child have?

    But in that chaos, there was Ida—my babysitter. She bathed me, fed me, clothed me. And more importantly, she treated me like I mattered. Her care, her steady presence, her grace in a situation that was never hers to carry… it taught me compassion. It taught me not to judge a person by the mess they’re left to clean up. Ida loved me when no one else did. And that love stitched a piece of me back together.

    Still, the echoes of being alone carried on. There were countless nights I made myself dinner. I put myself to bed, my only companion the hum of silence. The empty space in the room felt like a person of its own. And it stayed with me, all the way into adulthood.

    As a child, I learned early that my voice didn’t hold much weight. My thoughts were mine alone. There wasn’t anyone listening. So, I stopped sharing. And now, as a grown woman, I see how that silence shaped me. I speak, and it feels like the words float into the air and dissolve. Not because they lack meaning—but because they don’t belong to me anymore. They belong to everything I do for everyone else.

    Today, though, I had a moment of clarity. Painful clarity. I realized that I’ve spent so long speaking for others, showing up for others, being needed by others… that I no longer remember how to speak for myself. There’s nothing left that’s just mine. No story, no passion, no opinion that doesn’t circle back to someone else’s needs.

    I am not uninteresting. But I am exhausted. I’ve lost myself in the service of others. And I don’t know how to be found.

    So how does this all connect?

    As a child, I didn’t fit in with kids my age. I had seen too much, felt too deeply, aged too quickly. While other kids shared stories about birthday parties and vacations, I stayed silent. What could I say? That my parents forgot me? That I was more familiar with vodka bottles than bedtime stories?

    There were no family movie nights. No cozy library visits. No sweet surprises from candy shops. I didn’t grow up in experiences—I grew up in survival. And even now, decades later, my life continues to revolve around everyone else’s needs, just as it did then.

    The thread of being unwanted isn’t just about who left me—it’s about how I learned not to choose myself. It’s about how silence became my shield. How I gave and gave, hoping to finally be chosen.

    But today, I see it. I see the girl who was left behind. And I see the woman she became.

    She is not unwanted. She is weary. But she is still here.

    Still hoping.

    Still trying.

    Still fighting to be found.
    Masked Mom

  • The Secrets We Carry: A Mother’s Promise to Herself

    Some moments in life are meant to make us. Others come to break us wide open.

    I’ve lived through more of those moments than I care to count. For a long time, I believed every one of them was sent to break me — like relentless waves crashing into a fragile shell, chipping pieces away until nothing of me would be left.

    You might wonder what any of this has to do with motherhood. With whom I am now.

    It has everything to do with it.

    Because the secrets we carry from our past quietly shape the women — and the mothers — we become.

    Every night I cried myself to sleep in a stranger’s house, feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere. Every time I braced myself for sharp words that cut deeper than any knife, every time I wondered if love was something you had to earn — those moments are still inside me. They are written into my bones. They are part of my story whether I like it or not.

    But here’s the thing: we always have a choice.

    We can stand tall through the moments that were meant to shatter us, or we can let them crush us into someone we barely recognize.

    Somewhere along the way — maybe quietly, maybe defiantly — I chose to stand tall. That doesn’t mean I haven’t stumbled. I have. Over and over again.

    What no one tells you is how exhausting it is to break the chains of generational pain. How heavy it feels to build the kind of home you never got to grow up in. You pour so much of yourself into being the mother you needed back then, that sometimes you forget the woman you were before anyone called you “mom.” You tuck her away — her wild dreams, her quiet hopes — promising yourself you’ll come back for her someday.

    But someday keeps slipping further away.

    Motherhood is both beautiful and brutal. It’s like standing barefoot in a garden full of roses and thorns — feeling everything at once. You love so hard it almost hurts. You give all of yourself to raising children who feel loved and seen, but you risk forgetting that you deserve to feel loved and seen too.

    For years I convinced myself it didn’t matter. That if I could be everything for everyone else, that would be enough.

    But it’s not enough.

    Because life was never meant to be lived in fear — fear of becoming our parents, fear of wanting too much, fear of failing. Life is meant to be lived fully. Boldly. As yourself.

    So I’ve made a promise.

    A promise to stop hiding the pieces of my story that are hard to think about. The memories that haunt me quietly in the spaces no one sees. I write them down now, not just for me — but for you.

    Because I believe that by sharing my journey, I can help someone — maybe you — find your voice again. We can find ourselves again, together.

    My hope is that my story inspires you to rise too. To unlearn the lies you’ve been told about who you are. To reach for the parts of yourself you thought you lost.

    Because if my life has taught me anything, it’s that you can break and still bloom. You can falter and still rise. You can love others without abandoning yourself.

    So here I am. Still standing. Still learning. Still choosing to live — fully, fiercely, unapologetically.

    And I hope you’ll stand with me.

    P.S

    In the coming weeks, I plan to open up and share with you pieces of my past — the hidden truths that once tore me apart but also shaped the woman I am today. These are the quiet battles that have left their mark, the stories that built me, broke me, and ultimately taught me how to rise.

    Masked Mom

  • Unmasking Me: The Questions That Challenge It All

    For close to 18 years, I have worn the mask of “mom.” Before the mom mask though there were many more masks that hid my existences. The good daughter, peacemaker, helper, overachiever, good friend. And somewhere in the mix of it all I forgot where the make ended and where I began.

    In those years it was never intentional for me, but it did feel honorable – there was purpose in it, even when it broke me in ways no one could see. But as my kids have grown and life has shifted, I have begun to realize that I have been hiding behind a mask terrified of what I would find underneath.

    Here are five questions I’m on a journey to answer. I know my first attempts won’t be as honest or as open as I’d like — but my hope is that, as I walk this path, I’ll grow into deeper truth and greater openness with myself and with others. I hope you feel inspired to sit with these questions too. Maybe we can both be challenged — and changed — by the unflinching honesty they demand.

    1. What do I truly want – not what others expect of me, but what I desire?
    2. What am I willing to walk away from to protect my peace, my self-respect, and my happiness?
    3. What are my non-negotiables in relationships, work, and how I allow others to treat me?
    4. What makes me feel alive, confident, and most like myself – how often do I choose it?
    5. If I stopped being afraid of failure, judgement, or rejection – what would I do next?

    What do I truly want- not what other expect of me, but what I desire?

    I want to feel free to take up space — my own space — without apology. I want to allow myself that freedom and stop saying sorry for simply being here. For so many years, I’ve kept myself small, making room for everyone else because I thought their needs mattered more, that they were somehow more worthy of the space I gave up.

    Even now, the question still lingers in me: Why do I deserve it?

    Over and over, when I tried to answer, my thoughts began with They need… — always about someone else. But for once — just once — I want to choose myself first. To stand where I am without guilt. To love myself without conditions, the way I’ve always wished someone would love me.

    What Am I willing to walk away from to protect my peace, my self-respects, and my happiness?

    I’m willing to walk away from the guilt that makes me feel small, like I’m always the villain — even when I’m not. I’m willing to walk away from the people who don’t even notice I’m disappearing, who chew me up and spit me out, who don’t protect my name in spaces I can’t reach.

    I’m willing to let go of being the glue that holds everyone else’s happiness together while my own falls apart.

    I don’t want to stand on the edge of that cliff anymore, holding everything for everyone, wondering when it’s my turn to feel whole.

    I’m ready to climb down, to step away, to choose me — even if it means walking away from everything that asks me to sacrifice my peace to keep it.

    What are my non-negotiables in relationships, work, and how I allow others to treat me?

    Right now? I don’t have any — and that’s the honest truth. I’ve spent so long letting people walk over me that I’ve forgotten how to stand my ground. Even when I try to set boundaries, I bend. I soften. I back down.

    But I’m starting to realize that kindness doesn’t mean being trampled. Respect is not a request — it’s a requirement. And love? Love should never come with silence.

    I’m still learning what my non-negotiables are, but I know this: the next version of me won’t shrink to make others comfortable.

    What makes me feel alive, confident, and most like myself – how often do I choose me?

    Writing makes me feel alive. It’s always been my refuge — my way out of reality, even if only for a few stolen moments. Putting words to paper makes me smile in a way few people ever truly understand.

    Music does it too — all kinds. You never know when that perfect beat will come on, calling for a silly car dance, or when a song will play that carries you back to a lifetime that feels like a dream.

    A good book on a rainy night — or any night. Wide open roads on long road trips. Hot tea, comedy romances, the smell of freshly cut grass, my hands in the soil of a garden.

    These little things remind me that I’m still here — still me. Young in years but old in spirit.

    But if I’m honest, choosing myself happens far too rarely. Every time I do, I feel as though I’ve let someone else down — like putting myself first, even for a moment, makes me a failure to everyone else.

    And yet, deep down, I would give anything for someone to finally see the real me — the unmasked me — and say, she was worth choosing too.

    If I stopped being afraid of failure, judgement, or rejection – what would I do next?

    Honestly, I’d let more people see me — the real me, without the mask I’ve worn for so long. I’d stop hiding the parts of myself I’ve been told are too much or not enough. I’d let them in, flaws and all, and hope that just being myself… would finally feel like it’s enough.

    I definitely don’t have life figured out — and maybe we’re not meant to. Maybe part of the beauty of living is letting some of it stay a mystery. But asking myself these questions, as honestly as I’m able right now, feels like a start. Maybe it’s the first step toward finding my way back to myself.

    If you’re reading this and the mask you’ve been wearing feels heavier than ever, start here — with me. Sit with these questions and answer them just as you are right now. It’s okay if your answers feel messy or incomplete. They’re not meant to be perfect — none of us are. We grow, we change, and so will our answers.

    But even having a small sense of direction can help you find your way back to yourself — to that version of you you’ve been hiding, the one you’ve almost forgotten.

    Let’s bring her into the light.

    I’m scared too. But I believe we can do this — together.

    -Masked Mom

  • “Unmasking the Shadows: Introducing the Stories We Hide”

    There are seasons of motherhood — and of life — when we start to feel like strangers to ourselves. We move through the motions, showing up for everyone else, checking off the endless list of needs, and somewhere along the way we stop showing up for ourselves. We smile, we give, we love — but inside, it feels like we’ve faded into the background of our own story.

    I created this space for moms who know what it feels like to hide behind a mask. For those of us who carry quiet stories we don’t speak of — stories of exhaustion, of doubt, of sadness that we tuck away because we think they make us weak. Stories we keep in the dark because we feel ashamed, because we tell ourselves no one would understand, because we’ve been taught to “just be grateful” and keep moving.

    We don’t talk enough about what it feels like to lose yourself in the middle of it all. To wake up one day and barely recognize the woman in the mirror. To feel small and invisible, even as you pour yourself into everyone around you. To give and give without realizing you’re empty.

    And here’s the truth — I know this feeling because I am living it.

    Lately, I’ve been wrestling with my own reflection, searching for the version of myself I lost somewhere in the shadows. I’ve been questioning who I really am now, now that life looks so different from what I thought it would. The weight of self-doubt presses in some days like a fog, and my sense of self-worth feels fragile, cracked around the edges.

    It’s hard to admit. Hard to even write these words. But I believe we need to start saying these things out loud — not just for ourselves, but for each other. Because when we share the stories we’ve been hiding, we create space for someone else to do the same. And sometimes, just knowing that someone else has felt what you’re feeling can be enough to keep going.

    This is what I hope this space becomes — a community for every mom who feels unseen, unheard, or unsure of who she is anymore. A place where you don’t have to pretend. Where your struggles don’t make you unworthy, and your dreams don’t make you selfish. A place where we can lift the mask and take a breath.

    While I work to rediscover the woman I buried long ago, I hope you find your way back to yourself too. Together, we can write the next chapter — one filled with strength, even if it looks different than before.

    So if you’re here, know you belong. Your story matters. Your heart matters. And you don’t have to hide anymore.

    With love,
    Masked Mom