To all my friends and acquaintances who are still out there performing—meeting expectations, playing roles, keeping up appearances—I see you. I really do. You know who you are. And before anything else, I want you to know: I understand.
I used to join you in that dance. The nods, the smiles, the “I’m fine”s. I know what it takes to blend in, to keep the peace, to avoid disappointing anyone. But here’s my truth now—I can’t play anymore.
Not because I’ve stopped caring. It’s quite the opposite. I care so deeply that continuing the performance feels like self-betrayal. Every time I dance that dance, a piece of me folds up and disappears. And I’ve reached a point where I can’t abandon myself just to be accepted. I need to be honest. I need to be whole. And that means walking away from anything that asks me to be less.
I know this might mean losing some of you. Maybe I already have. And while that aches, I’ve made peace with it. Because the version of me who survives the performance isn’t the version who thrives. My best self—my real self—only shows up when I stop pretending.
If our paths never cross again, please know I still wish you peace on yours. But if, someday, you stop dancing too—if you get tired, if you look up and want something more—I’ll be here, always ready for something real.
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