Woman, wife, mother, daughter, friend, writer, strategist, design thinker, closet librarian, Southerner and smart-ass—these are the identities that best describe who I am now. That wasn’t always the case; I wouldn’t have used that same combination of descriptors a decade ago, or during any other decade past for that matter.

In the constant transformation of life I have worn many masks. Some were immediately comfortable — covering rough spots while establishing relationships and careers – and allowed me to leave the house with an air of confidence. Some were trendy and looked fabulous from afar, but suffocated once they were on. Some I considered long and hard before allowing myself to don, and as my gut instinct had told me, they were just “meh.” Then there were those rare times I took off all disguises and faced the world as myself.

In the constant transformation of life I have worn many masks.

Disguising our identities is a very human activity; evidence of masks exists from as early as 7000 B.C. It starts the moment we wonder who we are, how we fit into the world around us, and will others accept us? That first questioning typically — and rather cruelly — occurs during adolescence, when raging hormones and other physiological changes kick into overdrive. We wear masks not only to hide our own uncertain selves, but to try out alternate identities and fantasize about who we might be. Who among us hasn’t been The Rebel, The Good Girl/Boy, The Wild Child, The Teacher’s Pet, The Hippie or The Jock, or some combination thereof?

I’ve had my own share of tried-and-discarded personas over the years. One in particular felt as absurd as a Mardi Gras costume at a church meeting. In my early ‘20s, I believed it absolutely essential to be a member of The Junior League, a national philanthropic organization for women known as much for “ladies who lunch” as for its significant contributions to the communities in which it operates. In an effort to become Junior League material, I molded myself into an identity that I considered spoton perfect, but was perfectly stifling. I bit my tongue when I wanted to speak my mind; I practiced speaking — and laughing — more softly and ladylike; and I followed the rules to the letter even knowing they were skewed to protect the already privileged.

I’ve had my own share of tried-and-discarded personas over the years.

I successfully functioned this way for three years until my true self exploded from its psychological prison, triggered by a financial punishment imposed upon me that I felt was not just unfair but downright punitive. Once unmasked, my true self reveled in speaking its mind, unflinchingly stating its case and unabashedly standing its ground. After several verbal volleys with the board of directors I was dismissed from the League. Out. Done. Goodbye. My League-wanna-be identity was stunned and hurt. My true self breathed a huge sigh of relief as it shook off the remnants of the restraints.

Was that the revelatory moment when I embraced my true identity and settled into who am I? Of course not. The post-League years saw a succession of other masks, including Perfect Wife and Mother, Wild Child and Workaholic Professional.

With the benefit of hindsight, and some self-reflection, I began to see a larger purpose for our facades. Our masks do something for us, providing armor against a harsh reality, giving us time to adjust and space to breathe. The “super-calm-and-collected-mom” front I erected while my newborn twins were in NICU helped me be present for those tiny babies, while inside I was a mess. That mask provided a level of courage I could not summon au naturel.

We all need a little help from time to time to get through the changes in our lives. B

Yet they also do something to us, cutting us off from experiencing the moment, the bitter and the sweet together. And like those plastic Halloween costumes of decades ago, they smother if left on too long. Knowing when it’s safe to put the masks aside comes only when we have successfully faced the world as we are, with no discernible catastrophe and even a measure of success.

We all need a little help from time to time to get through the changes in our lives. Brave in the face of illness; calm in a sea of chaos; peaceful in a time of hardship; these are the masks I continue to use, though sparingly now. So pardon me as I slip back into something comfortable while I gather my thoughts and my courage. I know that the masquerade this time will be short-lived, and I’ll once again show my face to the sun.