School Starts in Two Days and I Can’t Find My Mask
School starts in 48 hours and my “functioning adult” mask is missing.
Not the KN95. Not the Halloween cat face.
The other one.
The one I wear for drop-off smiles, PTA potlucks, and pretending I’m totally fine with 37 unread school emails.
Last year’s masks don’t fit anymore.
That “chill mom who’s totally fine about the school’s new math curriculum” mask? Stretched out.
The “I’m on top of permission slips” mask? Lost somewhere in the bottom of a tote bag from 2022.
The “yes, I have a healthy dinner plan for tonight” mask? Retired. Cremated. Ashes scattered at Target.
And honestly? Maybe this year isn’t about finding the right mask.
Maybe it’s about seeing what happens without one.
Because if you’re ND, you know masking isn’t just smiling through a rough morning it’s a full-scale production.
You rehearse what you’ll say in the car before drop-off.
You practice your smile in the mirror like you’re about to go live on national TV.
You keep a mental list of “safe” topics so you don’t overshare, undershare, or reveal that you haven’t seen a single Oscar-nominated movie in five years.
And sure, it works.
Until you’re too tired to remember what your real face even feels like.
This year, I’m doing something radical:
Not no mask. I’m not that brave yet; but less mask.
A cracked mask. A “you can see me peeking out” mask.
It started one night when I was too tired to scroll Amazon. I grabbed a notebook. I didn’t write anything profound just one messy sentence. Then another. And then, because I’m ND, I went down a rabbit hole connecting that sentence to why fluorescent lights make me want to scream and why I avoid school events like they’re multi-level marketing parties.
The more I wrote, the lighter I felt.
The more I saw the patterns, the less I blamed myself.
The less I cared about finding the “right” mask.
If you’re reading this and thinking, yeah, my mask doesn’t fit anymore either, maybe you need a place to loosen yours too.
That’s why I made The Unmasking Journal for ND Moms.
It’s not homework. It’s not another self-improvement project.
It’s a soft place to land. A mirror. A nervous system exhale.
You don’t have to heal your whole life before school starts.
You just have to open the page and breathe.
School will still start without your mask.
Start your own damn rebellion.
I’ll bring the prompts you bring the tea.
