I spoke at an open source conference last week.
For the first time since I left my old job.
For the first time since the breakdown.
For the first time since the diagnosis.
I tried to follow the old, tried-and-true formula for writing a talk.
The process that always worked before. It didn’t serve me. But it didn’t serve me before either. It made me anxious. And I’ve learned something about that kind of anxiety. That panicked flooding in my chest that feels like a prelude to doom. That feeling is my soul whisper-screaming: please don’t do this.
Don’t write the whole talk out. Don’t make elaborate slides. Wait, what? No? If I don’t do those things, it’ll look like I don’t care. Like I’m unprepared. Like I forgot I was giving a talk and just wandered in at the last minute, dazed and disheveled, like a dream where you’re on stage and suddenly realize you’re naked.
Which, for the record, is not my preferred state of being in public.
(Okay, except for that one time Katie and I climbed into my old blue Tercel completely naked and hit the Taco Bell* drive-thru. I didn’t drive. I just owned the car. That was about liberation, not public speaking. Anyway.)
I’m not generally afraid of literal nudity.
But I am afraid of being misunderstood. I’m afraid of being seen as lazy or flaky or careless—when I am, in fact, deeply careful. And deeply full of care. That’s the part that scares me:To show up bare. Without a stitch of thread.
Unmasked.
You knew we were going there.
When I stepped up to give my twenty-minute talk—something with a long title like How to Hold It Together When It All Falls Apart: Surviving a Toxic Open Source Project—I realized I wanted to be naked.
Not unclothed. But unguarded.
I’d spent the whole day coaching myself not to build the wall.
Not to armor up. Not to hide behind the persona.
Just… to show up as ME me.
The me that doesn’t always come out.
The one I’ve spent a lifetime protecting.
And I did.
I think I did.
When I finished speaking and opened it up for questions, it felt like coming out of a trance. No memory of the past 20 minutes. No replay running in my head. No internal punishment reel. Just a deep exhale. Just relief. Just… other things on my mind.
The mask came back during Q&A. I could feel it sliding into place. I shifted into my most practiced role: Barbie Cami™. Polished. Breezy. Comfortable. Controlled.
Before too long, we slipped out the side door of the venue and into the weird sunshine of Portland.
The squirrels were extra unhinged. The day was soft and strange in all the best ways. The mask went back in its case. And I went home for a weekend where masks are optional.
But not encouraged…
When you leave the mask behind… what part of you shows up first?
*I want to say it was Taco Bell, but it might’ve been Burgerville or the Dutch Bros drive-thru. What matters is: We were sober. We were giggling. And we were unclothed, unrepentant, and too pleased with ourselves to feel anything resembling shame.
CamiKaos 
I still find it difficult to take off the mask when going out and about. I’ve been wearing many masks over the years, one that make me look like more professional, more put together, more likable. I found out that I have CPTSD, and many times, when taking off the mask, I miscalculate, thinking I was in a safe space, and I wasn’t. I see myself mirrored by others, and I see mess, I see I might be not good enough, that I’m worthless. I know this is all not true, and I’m working through it in therapy, but it’s so difficult to stop being all the things I wanted to be, that I don’t know who I really am. And it’s scary.
Oof. What you said. I’ve bent and reshaped myself so much over the years that sometimes I can’t tell where the masks end and I start. I hate how easy it is for me to morph into what feels safest in the moment — even when “safe” turns out not to be safe at all.
And you’re right, it’s terrifying. That moment of thinking, “I’m okay here” only to realize you misread it… it’s like getting the wind knocked out of you. Choosing spaces where I know I won’t feel that pull? Feels impossible most days.
Thank you for saying this out loud here. I know that’s not easy. I see you. <3
I don’t know that anyone has seen me without some kind of mask. My kids, my family, exes, co-workers, and even my therapist. In every interaction I’m literally just a slice of who I really am because exposing anyone to the unedited version of me feels like it will break my reality. I create my own eggshells to walk on and it sucks. Just writing this feels like I’m exposing a part of myself that is uncomfortable to allow others to see. The “what ifs” never seem to stop jumping out at me and keeps me from unmasking.
That line hit hard. I’ve spent so long performing versions of myself that I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the whole picture either. Some days, even speaking out loud feels like putting on a mask. Like I’m watching myself from the outside, trying to guess what’s real and what’s just survival.
My therapist asks me sometimes, “Are you masking right now?”
The answer is always yes.
I don’t know if that will ever change.
But I really don’t think so.
I just got back from a social outing, a church camping trip. I’ve come to the conclusion that the public social persona that worked when I was in the Navy and in college doesn’t really work with “family-oriented” events and I’m not really sure what responsible adult social behavior looks like. I guess it comes from years of spending more time with my work computer than interacting with people. I’ve also realized that the things I truly care about and want to talk about tend to be conversation killers. I need an upgraded social mask. My authentic self doesn’t belong in public.