When the Mask Slips | PeonyMagazine.pptx

2. October always sneaks up on me. The air turns sharper, the evening falls darker before I’m ready, and suddenly Halloween decorations start creeping across porches and store windows. Masks everywhere, plastic grins, hollow eyes, faces stretched into something almost human, almost monstrous. I can’t help but think about the other masks, the ones we wear long after Halloween ends. Not the kind you can buy at Target. The ones you put on in the morning before a work meeting, or when you bump into someone who asks, “How are you?” and you answer, “I’m fine,” even when you’re not. For me, my mask has always been the “capable one.” The one who holds it together, gets things done, doesn’t let the cracks show. On the outside, I look calm, steady. Inside, I’m often shaking. There was a day last year I’ll never forget. It was October, fittingly enough. I’d just come home from work, exhausted, and I dropped my bag on the floor and sat down at the edge of my bed. The mask slipped. I couldn’t keep the smile or the steady voice anymore. I cried until my face hurt, until I wasn’t sure I could breathe. And the strange thing was, when the mask slipped, I didn’t turn into something terrifying. I turned into myself.

3. The truth is, we wear masks because we’re scared. Scared of being seen too clearly, scared of being judged, scared that our real selves won’t be enough. But the longer you wear a mask, the heavier it gets. I think of Halloween kids running door to door in costumes, faces hidden but laughter spilling out anyway. Their joy is real, even under the mask. Maybe that’s the point: the mask doesn’t erase who we are, it just hides it for a while. What would happen if we let ours slip more often? If we let people see the tiredness of our eyes, the mess of our emotions, the fear underneath the polished smile? This October, as the nights stretch long and the moon hangs bright and watchful, I feel that pull toward honesty. The mask doesn’t have to stay on all the time. In fact, maybe the bravest thing we can do is take it off, even just for a moment, and say: This is me. Not perfect. Not polished. Just real.

4. The truth is, when my mask slipped last year, the world didn’t collapse. The people who loved me didn’t run. If anything, it drew the right ones closer. And maybe that’s the hidden gift of October, the reminder that we hide isn’t always what makes us unlovable. Sometimes it’s what makes us human. So here’s my thought tonight, as the leaves scatter across the sidewalk and another season tilts into shadow: Maybe the monsters we’re most afraid of aren’t the ones in masks at Halloween. Maybe they’re the parts of ourselves we’ve been taught to cover. And maybe, October is here to whisper that it’s okay to let the mask slip. Because when it does, we find out who stays, who sees us, and who can hold our truth without turning away. And more importantly, we find out we can hold ourselves. That we don’t collapse when the mask is gone, we breathe easier. We move lighter. We feel the crisp air on our real skin.

5. The masks will always have their place. We can wear them when we need to, just like we slip into costumes for a night of fun. But when the nights grow longer and the moon is high, I think the deepest kind of freedom comes from standing barefaced in the dark and knowing: this is me. No disguise. No pretense. No hiding. Just me, under the October moon. 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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