Conversations in the Dark Finding Authenticity at Work

2. October turns the office into a funhouse. There’s a bowl of mini-Snickers by the copier, paper bats taped crooked over the kitchen sink, and a new “spooky” emoji pack in Slack. The sun clocks out early, and by five-thirty the windows are black mirrors that throw your face back at you. That’s when I noticed my favorite costume: the professional mask, badge, lanyard, and smile. It fits so well, I forget I’m wearing it. My professional self says, “Great question,” even when it isn’t, and “Happy to help,” even when I’m not. I maintain a professional demeanor, keeping an inbox that appears calm and a voice that sounds confident. This mask isn’t fake exactly. It’s a part of me, the part that can guide a meeting out of a ditch, the part that knows how to put a mess into a slide deck and call it a plan. It pays rent. It opens doors. It’s useful. But every mask has a price. Mine subtracts volume from the parts of me that hesitate, the parts that need a beat to think, the parts that want to say, “I don’t know yet.” If I wear it too long, I start to believe the performance is the person. October is rude about that. The light gets slanty and honest. Dust floats in conference-room sunbeams like it has something to confess. The month itself says, Drop the act a notch.

3. Meetings multiply, because they always do. We talk about “deliverables” like oxygen. Someone wants a “quick win;” someone else wants it yesterday. I catch my reflection in the dark TV screen—good posture, good listening face. I look composed. Inside, I’m juggling fear, ideas, caffeine, and a half-formed question that keeps bumping around my mouth like a moth. Our performance check-ins land right in the middle of all this. Same old ritual: translate your value into bullet points. Dress your struggle in metrics. Keep the story lean. I do it; I’m good at it; I feel hollow after, like I just gave a museum tour of a life I barely live. The parts I leave out—crying in the car, the 3 a.m. paragraph that finally nailed the point, the time I said yes out of fear—those are the parts that made the numbers possible. Halloween arrives as comic relief. The sales guy shows up in a cape that trips him on the stairs. Someone put plastic fangs on the office plant. Kids will knock later, and we’ll hand them sugar and praise and say, “Whoa, you’re terrifying,” even though nothing is. That pretending feels clean—agreed-upon, time-limited, fun. Work pretending is stickier. It glues itself to your rent and your insurance and the hope that next year will be easier if you act like you’ve already got it handled.

4. So this month, I’m trying something simple: conversations in the dark. Not dramatic revelations. Just truer sentences, said when the windows are black and the office hum has dropped an octave. Micro-rebellions. In a meeting, I try: “I don’t know yet.” I let the silence breathe instead of stuffing it with jargon. The room doesn’t fall apart. Someone else admits they don’t know either. We make a plan to find out. With a teammate, I show a draft before it’s dressed. “This is half-baked,” I say, and ask for help instead of pretending it’s a soufflé. The feedback stings less when I haven’t promised perfection. When the timeline creaks, I don’t apologize for physics. “I can hit Friday if we drop the extra feature,” I say. “If we need both, we’ll need more time or another person.” No drama. Just daylight.

5. These are tiny things. They’re also risky, because certainty is the house style, and mess makes some people itchy. But something loosens when I say one honest sentence earlier than usual. Shoulders drop. Jokes get better. The mask doesn’t come off so much as it gets room to breathe. After work, I take the leftover fun-size candy to the team. We pass it around like communion. Sugar makes everyone generous for seven minutes. We talk about nothing, which is actually something, and then we go back to our screens. Outside, the moon is flexing—bright, nosy, the sky’s porch light. It makes the parking lot look like a stage after the show, confetti of oak leaves at my feet. I sit in the car for a minute and let my real face catch up to my work face. Here’s what I’m learning: the goal isn’t to discard the professional mask. It’s a tool. It protects you in rooms where honesty gets punished. It lets you move through the day without bleeding on everything. But a tool can turn into a trap if you forget to put it down. The point is fit. The fact is choice. Wear it when the scene calls for it; loosen it when your jaw starts to ache.

6. The darker evenings help. The office after five is honest in a way noon can’t manage. People tell the truth by accident—over the sink, at the elevator, while waiting for a rideshare that’s “two minutes away” for six. “This sprint is killing me.” “I’m proud of that deck.” “I’m worried I’m missing something.” Nobody asks for a sermon; nobody gives one. We trade sentences that feel like warm hands. Maybe that’s what October is for: practicing a kind of professionalism that includes humanity. Not therapy at your desk. Not oversharing to prove you’re real and just refusing to worship at the altar of “all good” when it’s not. A little less performance. A bit of presence Tomorrow there will be new fires. Someone will say “quick win” again. I’ll put the mask on to get through the door, and then I’ll look for chances to talk like a person. One true sentence sooner than I usually dare. A tiny conversation in the dark. The moon doesn’t interrogate; it illuminates. It reminds me I’m allowed to be competent and uncertain, tired and proud, masked and human. That mix is the real costume. And in this month of store-bought fangs and paper bats, I want to be brave enough to wear it.

7. This piece is part of our October special issue, Veil of the Moonlight. Each week, we unveil a new story exploring the hidden sides of womanhood — the emotions we quiet, the truths we reclaim, and the strength that rises when we step into our own light. Return here to follow the unfolding series.

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