Sometimes, when the curtain closes and the mask comes off, everyone thinks you’re just taking a break but they don’t see the toll it takes on you. 

When we watch movies, we admire how actors pour emotion into their roles. But sometimes what we’re witnessing isn’t just acting it’s survival. When Janet Jackson filmed Why Did I Get Married, she was grieving her brother in real life. The scene where she destroys the house feels raw because she isn’t only performing for the screen; she’s performing for her husband and for herself. If she could write a book, take a vacation to Colorado, and avoid speaking about her son, then the performance was working. It was how she coped. 

I once saw a thread that said people perform for their parents, and I agreed immediately. Parents raise us with expectations, and when we make mistakes, their reactions shape us. Some scold. Some give the silent treatment. Some shame. Others help you learn and grow. But many of us don’t learn how to be our full selves we learn how to behave in ways that keep the peace. 

If you grew up with parents you couldn’t fully trust, or parents who demanded perfection straight A’s, a certain appearance, a specific future you learn early what parts of yourself are acceptable and what parts should stay hidden. You learn that once you leave the house, you can finally breathe. Some parents place their own dreams and expectations onto their children, believing it’s love, without realizing the cost. 

This idea of performance shows up in pop culture too. I remember watching the live-action Bratz movie and loving how each character had their own identity. Jade stood out to me the most. She was intelligent, creative, talented in chemistry, and passionate about fashion design—but at home, she hid who she really was. At home, she dressed differently around her parents, relying on friends to cover for her. That moment reflected how many people live split between who they are and who they’re allowed to be. 

We often tell ourselves we don’t want to disappoint our parents or the people we love. But there’s always a quiet voice saying, “I’m not happy in this major,” or “This isn’t what I want.” Still, other people’s expectations come first. Their approval feels more important than our own fulfillment. 

College taught me something I’d never been allowed to believe: it’s okay to disappoint people. What you want matters more than anyone else’s opinion you’re the one who has to live with the consequences. You can achieve impressive things and still feel empty if those achievements were never yours. Success isn’t meaningful if it traps you in a life you don’t want. 

We perform for others because performance feels like protection. In The Nutty Professor, Eddie Murphy’s character takes a potion to become someone society accepts, even though it nearly kills him. Spider-Man may be the most iconic example. Peter Parker can climb buildings and shoot webs with or without the suit, but without the mask his identity isn’t protected. Once people know who he is, the people he loves are put in danger. So he keeps his distance. 

For a long time, I thought masking was maturity, not realizing it was erasure. 

When you perform for too long, you start to lose yourself. You struggle to answer simple questions about who you are. You say “I don’t know” more often. Joy becomes harder to reach. You think you’re protecting yourself—until you realize the performance has already taken something from you. 

Trying to rediscover who you are sounds exciting to people who have always had the freedom to be themselves. But when you’ve spent most of your life performing, it’s terrifying. You have to relearn what you like, what you want, and who you are without an audience. 

I don’t want to be a performer pretending for people who were never meant to define me. 

The performance should be for self not survival.