PeonyMagazine

  October turns the office into a funhouse. There’s a bowl of mini-Snickers by the copier, paper bats taped crooked over the kitchen sink, and a new “spooky” emoji pack in Slack. The sun clocks out early, and by five-thirty the windows are black mirrors that throw your face back at you. That’s when I noticed my favorite costume: the professional mask, badge, lanyard, and smile. It fits so well, I forget I’m wearing it. My professional self says, “Great question,” even when it isn’t, and “Happy to help,” even when I’m not. I maintain a professional demeanor, keeping an inbox that appears calm and a voice that sounds confident. This mask isn’t fake exactly. It’s a part of me, the part that can guide a meeting out of a ditch, the part that knows how to put a mess into a slide deck and call it a plan. It pays rent. It opens doors. It’s useful. But every mask has a price. Mine subtracts volume from the parts of me that hesitate, the parts that need a beat to think, the parts that want t...