Not one lie—hundreds, stacked like Jenga blocks inside a body that learned early how to smile on cue. My name is whatever you need it to be. My laugh is calibrated to the room. My tears? On demand, Oscar-worthy, gone the second the scene ends. For twelve years I have performed “Mia”—the witty, confident, slightly chaotic friend who always knows the right thing to say. The one who sends perfect birthday texts, remembers your dog’s name, and never forgets to ask about your mom’s surgery. Everyone loves Mia. Everyone believes in Mia. No one has ever met the girl underneath.
Not even me.This is the confession I never planned to write. 2,513 words of truth scraped from the marrow. Read it, hate it, relate to it—just don’t tell me I’m brave. Bravery would have been stopping the act in year one.
1. The Origin Story
I was nine when I learned people leave if you’re “too much.” My father walked out on a Tuesday because I cried too loud at the grocery store. My mother followed six months later, suitcase wheels screaming down the hallway while I pretended to sleep. Foster homes taught the rest: be useful, be quiet, be whatever keeps the roof overhead.By twelve I had a system.
Rule 1: Mirror the person talking to you.
Rule 2: Never reveal a flaw they can weaponize.
Rule 3: If in doubt, make them laugh. Laughter buys time.
I practiced in bathroom mirrors, copying sitcom characters until my reflection felt borrowed. The first time a social worker called me “mature for my age,” I knew the mask worked. I wore it like skin.
2. High School:
The Beta Test. I entered ninth grade as a blank slate and left as the girl voted “Most Likely to Brighten Your Day.” I joined drama club because the stage gave permission to pretend. I learned accents, tears, rage—whatever the script demanded. Off-stage, I mirrored cliques like a chameleon on caffeine. With the popular girls: hair flips, gossip, strategic selfies.
With the nerds: obscure memes, self-deprecating humor.
With teachers: wide-eyed curiosity, color-coded notes.
I kept a notebook titled People I’ve Been. Page 47: “Cool Girl Who Loves Horror” (watched The Ring alone at 2 a.m. and vomited). Page 83: “Rebellious Skater” (borrowed a board, fell, lied about the scar). By graduation I had 112 entries. I burned the notebook in the parking lot and felt nothing.
3. College:
The UpgradeUniversity was a buffet of identities. I majored in communications because it sounded like professional lying. I joined sororities, improv troupes, the campus radio station. My dorm wall had a corkboard of sticky notes: “Jenna loves true crime”, “Tyler thinks I’m spiritual”, “Prof. Patel: ask about his daughter’s recital.”I dated three people at once sophomore year. Alex: thought I was a vegan yogi (I hid bacon in napkins).
Sam: believed I was a film snob (fell asleep during Citizen Kane).
Riley: swore I was adventurous (panic attack on a 10-foot climbing wall).
I broke up with all of them the same week, citing “personal growth.” The truth: I forgot which lie belonged to whom.
4. The Career Pivot
Post-grad I landed a job in PR because spinning narratives paid rent. My boss called me a “chameleon” like it was a compliment. I created personas for clients—then realized I’d become one. My LinkedIn said “storyteller.” My diary (encrypted, password: whoami) said fraud.I rose fast. By 27 I was senior account manager, keynote speaker at conferences, the girl who “could sell ice to penguins.” I had a signature red lip, a podcast voice, and a panic attack in every airport bathroom. Colleagues invited me to their weddings.
I RSVP’d yes, then googled their fiancé’s name to remember which version of Mia they knew.
5. The First Crack
Year eight. A client dinner. I laughed at a joke I didn’t hear, spilled wine on a VP, recovered with a self-deprecating story I’d used since college. Later, in the Uber, I stared at my reflection and whispered, “Who the hell are you?” The driver thought I was on Bluetooth.I started therapy the next week. Dr. Patel (no relation to the professor) had kind eyes and a plant that kept dying. Session one:
Her: “What brings you here?”
Me: “Burnout. Impostor syndrome. The usual.”
I gave her the curated version—overachiever, people-pleaser, needs boundaries. She nodded, made notes. I left lighter. The mask stayed intact.
6. The Double Life
I built safeguards. Phone contacts labeled by persona: “Jenna (horror)”, “Sam (ex—don’t answer drunk)”.
Apartment: one room for “real” clothes (sweats, stained tees), one for the costume rack.
Therapy: I lied about childhood, exaggerated achievements, cried on cue.
I dated sporadically. Sex was choreography—moans timed to their rhythm, compliments stolen from romance novels. One guy said, “You’re perfect.” I came harder than ever, then ghosted him for three days because perfection is exhausting.
7. The Breakdown
Year ten. A promotion required a TEDx talk: “Authenticity in the Age of Filters.” I wrote it in two hours, rehearsed in mirrors, nailed the delivery. 1.2 million views. Comments called me “inspirational.” I threw up backstage.That night I googled “how to find your real personality.” Results: journal prompts, meditation apps, ayahuasca retreats. I tried them all. Journal entry #1: “I like… I think I like… I don’t know.” I ripped out the page, ate it, then laughed until I cried because even my breakdown was performative.
8. The Therapist’s Discovery
Year twelve. Dr. Patel switched to EMDR for my “anxiety.” Week three she asked me to recall a childhood memory. I froze. The mask slipped. For the first time, I said, “I don’t know what’s real.”She didn’t flinch. “Let’s find out.”We spent six months dismantling Mia. Exercise 1: List five things I like without an audience. I stared at the paper for 45 minutes. Wrote quiet.
Exercise 2: Sit in silence for ten minutes daily. I lasted 47 seconds before humming a jingle from a 2009 commercial.
Exercise 3: Tell one truth to a stranger. I told a barista I hated oat milk. She shrugged. The world didn’t end.
9. The Unmasking
Last month. Dr. Patel’s office. She slid a recording across the table—our session from year one. My voice, bright and brittle: “I’m just really passionate about connection!” I listened for twenty seconds and started shaking.“That’s not me,” I whispered.
“Who is it?” she asked.
I cried for the first time without timing the tears. Snot, hiccups, the whole ugly symphony. She handed me tissues like it was normal.
10. The Aftermath
I quit my job. Told my boss I needed “authenticity.” He looked confused; I almost laughed. I deleted the costume rack, kept three sweaters. I told my best friend (the one who thinks I’m allergic to cats) that I hate musicals. She said, “Finally, they’re awful.” We ordered pizza and watched true crime. I didn’t take notes.I still don’t know who I am. But I know who I’m not. Not the girl who laughs at jokes she doesn’t get.
Not the one who remembers your dog’s name to be liked.
Not Mia.
11. The Truth, Plain
I faked it for twelve years.
I was good at it.
I’m tired of it.
Dr. Patel says the real me is in the pauses—the moments I stop performing. I’m learning to sit in them. They’re terrifying. They’re mine.If you’re reading this, old friend, I’m sorry. The version of me you loved was a costume. I hope the next one is worth keeping.If you’re reading this, future me, don’t put the mask back on. It’s heavy. You’re stronger without it.If you’re reading this, internet stranger, ask yourself:
What did you pretend today just to stay safe?I don’t have answers yet. But for the first time, I’m asking the right questions. And I’m not smiling while I do it.
