The Mask We Wear: Hiding Pain

Masking our pain

We all wear masks, sometimes to survive, sometimes to hide, and sometimes just to get through the day. After my son Kevin died, I realized something I hadn’t noticed while he was alive: he wore a mask, too. He smiled despite his pain, gave advice, and laughed with his friends, even the night before he passed away.

Now I understand because I’ve worn that mask too. During the most painful part of my grief, during COVID-19, I wore a literal mask. It helped me blend into the crowd. Add sunglasses, and I was invisible. That became my norm, both physically and emotionally. I didn’t want people to see my tears or face a world that kept moving while I remained stuck in agony and unspeakable sorrow. Wearing a mask served two purposes: hiding pain and shielding others from discomfort.

Kevin wore his emotional mask for over 12 years. Mask of shame, rejection, and he once told me he felt “different” and carried shame around his mental health struggles. He never wanted anyone to know, not even close friends.

When we had visitors, Kevin was the perfect host, engaging, knowledgeable, and funny. He was a biomedical engineer with a music minor and incredible computer skills, all while quietly battling depression. His bandmates said he was “fine” at practice the night before his death. No red flags. Just the same old Kevin, helping them perfect their music.

He didn’t want me to tell anyone about his struggles, including the suicide attempt at 20. So only a few people knew. The rest saw a mask of confidence, intelligence, and charm. But he wore a mask of embarrassment, depression, and judgment. He struggled with expectations placed upon him by others and his place in the world.

What is a mask? A mask is the face we present to the world, pretending we're okay on the outside, even if we struggle underneath. It can also be called 'masking,” where we hide a negative emotion and replace it with a positive one, even if we don’t truly feel that way.

Now I understand what the mask really is, because I’ve worn it too. I've said, “I’m okay,” when I wasn’t. I've smiled at family gatherings while crying inside.

This past weekend, I attended two family events. I was genuinely happy for those celebrating, but I also mourned what I’ll never have with Kevin. Watching young people his age start families and careers tears me apart all over again. I wore a mask of smiling and looking well put together when inside, I felt like everything was crashing down.

Grief feels like living in two worlds at once. You participate in life, but your soul remains wounded. You experience feelings you can’t fully grasp. You want to retreat into a cocoon, yet you keep showing up. That’s the mask.

There were times when I thought Kevin was genuinely okay. I’d ask, “How are you today?” and he’d share his accomplishments—what he built, what he read, what he created. And I trusted him. I wanted to believe him. It eased my mind to think he was doing better.

But I never questioned whether he was saying it to protect me, just like I now say “I’m fine” to shield others. He didn’t want to be pitied or seen as weak. I understand that now. Because I live it too, it’s easier to say you’re okay than to explain the tsunami that crashes through your chest when you see a mother and son laughing in a store aisle, park, or at the movies. My heart screams in silence, but I wear the mask of strength through grief.

Society doesn’t know how to handle grief. It makes people uncomfortable, so we agree. I wear my mask. We all pretend a little. But pretending wears us down.

Unmasking isn’t about a dramatic reveal; it’s a slow, brave return to oneself. I begin with awareness:

• Where do I feel I can’t be myself?

• With whom?

• What does the mask look and feel like?

  
  

Most masking comes from fear of rejection, judgment, or not feeling enough. Naming that fear helps to disarm it. I’m learning to listen to what I need, what energizes me, and what drains me. These are clues. I’m rebuilding trust in myself, my voice, and my faith.

Faith keeps me grounded. When I feel tempted to hide behind the mask again, I turn to God. I pray, journal, and read Scripture that reminds me I am seen and loved, even during indescribable, relentless sadness.

The mask isn’t a weakness; it was a survival tool. It helped me function when I couldn’t breathe through the pain. I gently remind myself that I no longer need to hide. I am worthy of unconditional love and support. It took years to unmask, and it’s still a daily practice.

Sometimes I slip it back on; sometimes I need a break. But I no longer want to vanish into someone I’m not. I want to be fully and honestly myself. That includes the grief.

The mask helped me survive, but it was meant to be temporary. Now, I choose to return to myself, not just as a bereaved mom, but as who I truly am: a woman of faith, a woman who hurts, heals, laughs, and remembers.

I hear the sound of my voice again. I honor my needs. I long for a life where I can be seen—truly seen—and loved exactly as I am.

You’re not alone, and there’s nothing wrong with you. We all wear masks sometimes; sometimes we need to. But you deserve a life that reflects your true self, a life that lets you breathe. You don’t have to remove the mask all at once. Start with awareness. Begin with kindness. Trust with faith. And please don’t face this alone. Find someone who sees you and stays, whether it's a counselor, a friend, a support group, or a prayer partner. Someone who listens when you say, “I’m fine,” but still asks again. You are worth that kind of love.

Ways to Support Someone Who May Be Masking

• Don’t assume they’re okay just because they look okay.

• Say things that encourage honesty, like “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

• Be a safe presence, no pressure, no fixing, just being there.

• Let them go at their own pace.

• Keep showing up, even when they seem distant.

• Pray with and for them, silently or out loud. Your faith can support them when theirs feels weak.

  
  

Grief, mental illness, and pain—none of them look the same for everyone. Some people cry openly. Others get really good at hiding their pain behind a smile, a joke, or a busy calendar. I know this all too well. I’ve done it. My son Kevin did it. And maybe the person you’re thinking of right now does it too. We all wear masks sometimes, not to be fake, but to feel safe.

God never asks us to perform or pretend. He doesn’t require a polished version of our grief, nor a sanitized version of our sorrow. Instead, He lovingly and patiently invites us to come as we are—shaky, uncertain, angry, exhausted, or full of questions. The Psalms are the most unmistakable evidence of this kind of grace.

Psalm 13:1-2, 5-6: “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?... How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?... But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.” These ancient songs are filled with raw emotion: lament, silence, rage, longing, and eventually—even hope. If God can hold space for such a broad emotional spectrum, maybe we can learn to hold space for one another, too. And perhaps even for ourselves.

But what we truly desire deep down is to be seen and loved as we are. Not for who we were before tragedy, nor for how well we’ve “held it together,” but for who we are now — still growing, hurting, and still here. That kind of being seen is sacred ground.

Living unmasked isn't about exposing yourself; it’s about feeling free. Removing the mask is a sacred process. It’s slow and messy, but also brave. It doesn’t mean you’ll never feel sad or in pain again; it means you don’t have to suffer alone. Let’s stop pretending and start “unmasking.” Just as you are, you are already enough.