Taking Off The Mask To Live My Dream

It all began as a young girl who just wanted to make everyone proud. Do your best, as long as “best” meant doing what everyone else had planned out for you. Me, I just wanted to write. But, that’s not a safe career. That’s not a respectable career that friends and family can brag about. To sum it up, it’s a career where others tell you “get a real job.”

So, I wrote as a hobby throughout my childhood. It was that cute little thing that I did in my spare time. I call it cute because that’s how others referred to it. “Look how cute she is with her notebook, writing in the corner.”

Yes, I’m old enough that I was writing before computers were a thing and typewriters were still cool. That’s how much I enjoyed it, even when the typewriter would eat my paper.

I also pretended to be shy. I kept my dream of being a writer hidden deep. After hearing all the reasons why it was a stupid idea when I was a child, I definitely didn’t want to share such a horrible dream with anyone during my teenage years. Frankly, I didn’t want to hear the laughter or contempt. I also couldn’t stand the thought of anyone reading my work and telling me I’d simply never be good enough.

I hid that all away. I wrote short stories, poetry, and opinion pieces during classes so it looked like I was just taking notes. I spent school lunches alone at my locker working on a novel. This is how bad I wanted to be a writer.

As blogging became a thing, I created a pseudonym and started blogging away. It took about a year before a family member discovered it. I guess it was just a matter of time before that happened since we shared a computer. To my horror, they shared it with everyone they knew. Suddenly, my innocent little blog filled with my thoughts, some well-researched posts about current events, and even a few short stories was being scrutinized by a hundred judgmental eyes.

It only took a few days before I shut the blog down. The comments were soul crushing. My boyfriend at the time even went so far as to say if I had time for nonsense like my blog, then I had plenty of time to work more hours so we had more money to do things together. No, we’re not together anymore. The next big family event was nothing short of a nightmare of jokes about a blog that felt like there might be hope of me finding my true self and living my dreams.

What did I do? I lost myself in my planned out career as a technical engineer. I was good at it. I had excelled in my classes and my everyone so proud. My role was to test equipment, find the bugs, and develop strategies to improve. It was satisfying enough work, but I felt empty. It was just a job. I didn’t have a voice, just a role to play.

Most of the time, I didn’t feel bad for myself. After all, I had a great job, a good boyfriend, family who loved me, friends who cared about me, and I was healthy. So, why did depression creep into my life?

As it turns out, locking your authentic self away in a bubble deep inside yourself creates a cancer that invades your entire being. I lost interest in things I used to love. I came up with excuses to stop going out as often. My laughter and smile faded away. I put on a mask any time I was around anyone. If it slipped, I was told that I didn’t have anything to be depressed about and I was lucky to be me and I should start acting like it.

I just wanted everyone else to be proud of me and I wanted to make them happy. So, mask firmly on, I went about my life, pretending to be happy.

Then, after years of living a fake life, I was forced into a crossroads. The company I’d worked tirelessly for, even being on call 24/7, suddenly shut down. No notice. Just an email saying I was no longer needed and when my last check would deposit.

Everyone was so supportive. I had held a steady job since I was 18. Now, I was 31. I was lost. In the first week, I go numerous texts and emails with potential jobs. My parents and boyfriend constantly pushed for me to apply. Naturally, I did exactly what was expected of me. I applied. I got multiple interviews just a few weeks after losing my job.

It wasn’t until one interview that my life changed. I interviewed for a position that paid significantly more than my last job. It was perfect. Even the hours were better. But, the woman asked a question seemed to make the world stop spinning for a moment.

“If you could go back in time and do anything you wanted without judgment or fear of failure, what would you life be like right now?”

It was an unusual interview question, but to this day, I’m thankful she asked. I only took a second to think and then started spilling out who I should be.

I told her I was a writer who was never without a notepad to jot down ideas. I had a small office at my home with a bookshelf proudly showcasing my published novels. In between writing fiction, I also blogged about the creative process, marketing, and overcoming the struggles of starting your business. My friends and family were proud of me and loved that I had taken the road less traveled.

Then, she asked why I was pursuing this job versus living the life I just told her about. I admitted it was the pressure to be perfect in the eyes of those I cared about. Her reply was life changing:

“Perfection doesn’t exist. You’ll never be perfect in anyone’s eyes. It’s a standard no one can live up to. You could live your entire life perfectly, but still never fully please everyone else. The only person’s opinion and standards that matter are your own.”

We went through the rest of the interview, but I don’t remember much. My mind was spinning with what she’d said.

When I got home, I sat down and cried. I felt like a weight had been lifted. I suddenly didn’t care anymore if others were proud. I didn’t care about the life they’d planned out for me. I got up, looked in the mirror, and truly saw myself for the first time.

It was time to finally be me. Everything about me was for someone else. My education, my career, the way I dressed, my makeup, and even my interests were to please others. Sure, it made them happy, but didn’t my happiness matter?

During the course of the next week, the me I once knew disappeared. I always loved thrift shopping, so I gave myself a budget of $100 and bought a new wardrobe. I went to a salon and finally got a hairstyle I loved. I came home and threw out all my makeup except some tinted lip gloss. I was tired of hiding behind a mask of any kind and that meant layers of makeup that covered up flaws that I didn’t have a problem with, even if others did.

I still had a copy of my old blog, so I spent a full day reading it. I dug out notebooks I had hidden with all my old short stories in them. Yes, there was some more crying involved. How could I have deprived myself of this joy for so long?

I sat down and started writing. It wasn’t my greatest work ever, but I felt free. The shackles were off and my life was my own. The next step was to make a plan that was right for me.

I showed up to the next family dinner a week later. I hadn’t seen anyone for a few weeks, including my boyfriend. I just let them think I was upset over losing my job.

The shock on everyone’s face was priceless. It was a full three minutes before anyone spoke. Here I was looking like a stranger with my new hair, cute clothes, zero makeup, and newfound confidence. In hindsight, maybe they just didn’t recognize me.

Then, came the questions and critiques. I let them go on for a while before finally speaking up. I told them I loved them, but it was time I finally loved myself. I told them how much I appreciated them for trying to do what they thought was best for me, but now it was time I did what was best for me. That included becoming a writer.

It’s taken several years for those I care about to accept who I’ve become. I’m no longer the depressed technical engineer wearing a mask. I’m the successful writer who publishes short stories, blogs about running a business, and runs her own copywriting company. Each day I get out of bed and smile. I’m excited to go to work. I love my little home office that has my first collection of published short stories on my bookcase.

Maybe it’s a not a “real job” to most people, but writing is my passion. If I had embraced my dream when I was a child, who knows what I would’ve accomplished. I’ll always be thankful for that one interview. Otherwise, I might have never had the courage to shrug off my pretend life and become my authentic self.