We’ve established here before that I called out sick from school. A lot. And when I was working from a physical office, I called out sick there too. The first time I was ever fired it was explicitly because I just could not reliably show up and pretend to be someone else 8 to 12 hours a day, five days a week. Both the office and the performance were non-negotiable, and I couldn’t keep either up. I didn’t know it at the time, but that mask was taking its toll. It’s why I’ve been intentional ever since about finding the right kind of work and the right kind of people. Work is not worth the cost of a soul.

But my friends are.

Here enters the really good friend mask.

When I say masks aren’t fake, this is what I mean. If I’m showing up for a friend, it’s because I love them and I want to. Usually I can tell what they need, and what I want is to give to them. Because I love my friends. And I love to love my friends.

But I have to love myself first, and in my case that often means saying no to social invitations. And that’s where it gets ugly. Because people who genuinely love being out in the world socially can feel sincerely hurt when you don’t show up to spend that in-person time with them.

I mean socially, though. When someone I love is breaking, I will crawl across glass and burn myself down if that’s what it takes to stand beside them. Grief, heartbreak, real need—those moments tear through everything else.

The mask comes in during the smaller, everyday asks. The party you know will bleed you dry. The happy hour you would rather chew glass than attend. The “just come with me” moments where you walk in the door beside them while something inside you quietly cracks.

And that’s where the guilt digs in. Because friendship feels personal, even a small “no” can feel like betrayal. So you put on the mask again and again, not because it is fake but because you care. It is supposed to protect the friendship, but what it really does is eat away at you.

The truth is: honesty isn’t rejection. Saying “I can’t. I’m overwhelmed. Not today” can be an act of care, for yourself and for the friendship. But if I’m being real, and that is what I am trying to do here, it doesn’t always feel that way. Most of the time, cancelling is just as disappointing, just as guilt-soaked. I don’t always feel lighter when I say no. Sometimes I just feel like a fraud in a different costume.

Still, I force myself to try. To say no more often. To let honesty peel away the illusion that I can be everything for everyone. To accept that setting the mask down might look like failure to someone else, but it is the only way I keep from failing myself.

And that is the truth no one tells you: it’s not a flaw. It’s a mask. And keeping it on too long will break you. Ask me how I know.

---

What’s one small way you’ve chosen “honesty” over the mask—and how did it feel?