Taking Off the Masks—Who Am I Really?

I wish I had a clear answer to that question. But the truth is... I don’t know.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn different masks. The strong one. The independent one. The one who never breaks. But what happens when those masks start to slip? Who’s underneath it all?

Of course, I have plenty to say about the healthcare system (oh trust me, I do). But let’s be honest—they’re not the only ones to blame.

Breaking news: I played a part in this too.

The Many Masks We Wear

Only recently have I started to truly look inward, searching for the roots of my struggles. And with each step, I realize just how many masks I’ve worn throughout my life. It makes me wonder—where did it all begin? How did I get here? How did I respond to life’s defining moments? Diving this deep is daunting, but I know it’s necessary to move forward.

When I think about these masks, I think about my upbringing. Was it my beliefs, my caracter? Or the deeply rooted traditions of Asian culture? As many may know, Asian families tend to be reserved when it comes to emotions. My mother always said, “You don’t throw your dirty laundry in public—but not your clean laundry either.”

You smile. You nod. You’re polite and helpful.

Scared? Smile. Never show weakness. 

Sad? Smile. Never show weakness. 

Angry? Smile. Never show weakness.

It’s an unspoken rule, ingrained since childhood.

When I was sexually assaulted? Don’t cry—prove your strength.

When I was Beaten up by a group? Don’t show fear—stand your ground, even if you’re alone.

When my father passed away just before my 15th birthday, I was told to move on immediately. The next day, I was back at school like nothing had happened. “Don’t cry, or his soul won’t find peace.” So, I didn’t.

I remember overhearing people say, “She doesn’t even seem to care that her father died.” But how else could I show that I cared? Crying wasn’t an option. So, I bottled it all up and kept moving forward. I still remember the moment those words were spoken—I felt a sharp sting of anger (or was it even anger?). But since I had been taught to carry myself a certain way, I didn’t dwell on it for too long. I held my head high and moved on. Deep inside, I felt so many uneasy things, things where I couldn't quite put my finger on, but expressing them didn’t seem appropriate. What I did feel though, was guilt. A guilt so deep that I never spoke about to anyone. Because imagine… what if people actually started talking about it? That seemed far worse than the things they were already saying—without knowing a single truth that had actually come from my own mouth.

For a long time, I truly believed my father’s death was my fault. I’m not ready to unpack that yet, but that belief weighed on me, consciously and unconsciously for years. And because I had to keep moving, I did. Nothing stood still. I didn’t let it.

"Don’t overthink, just do." "Worrying gets you nowhere." "Keep living. Move on."

That’s what my mother always said.

But then, one random day, four years later, in the middle of an MBO class, I suddenly broke down crying. I had no idea why. I had a boyfriend, I was living with him, everything seemed fine. There was no reason for this outburst. My teacher pulled me aside, telling me he could see I wasn’t okay and suggested I take things a little bit slower. He offered me the chance to finish my studies in the evening instead. I had no clue why he thought I needed that, but I saw an opportunity and I grabbed it.

Did I take a break though? Of course not. I took on another study in a different city instead. Why? Because with this opportunity, I could graduate from both programs at the same time and immediately enter the workforce. And since I wanted to contribute, I went for it.

That crying episode never happened again, but something else started.

I felt short of breath more often. My heart would race randomly. Still, I refused to go to the doctor. I was even more stubborn back then (hard to imagine for those who know me now). When my symptoms got worse, my ex’s mother insisted I see a doctor. And there comes my first introduction to benzodiazepines. I barely touched them though. Back then, I was anti-medication (again, hard to believe now). But I had things to do, so I just powered through.

-To keep this from turning into a novel (which my hands seem determined to do), I’ll get to the point.-

Moving forward—always moving forward—became the theme of my life.

At 20, after a breakup with my first love, I bought a house. People told me I couldn’t do it, which only motivated me more and worked even harder for it. It was practically a ruin, but of course, I could renovate it myself. "I mean, hello? Do you even know who I am?!"

That was basically a mantra my mother always made me repeat: Head up, back straight, and say who you are—no one can bring you down(in the dutch saying no one can get you little.) Fun fact: I’m barely five feet tall, but okay, let’s roll with it.

I leveled floors, installed laminate, tiled walls, plastered ceilings, and even built glass blockwalls. Piece of cake, right?

To afford it all, I had to work overtime. And after work, I’d renovate. Oh, and of course, I needed a relationship too, so I made time for that at night. No problem.

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

A Mask for work.

A Mask for being a “strong, independent woman.”

A Mask for being a lady in the night in this fragile relationship

More and more masks.

I didn’t realize the toll it was taking.

Until my very first panic attack...