Every day starts in silence.

I tiptoe into the kitchen like I’m sneaking into a sacred temple, grab my coveted cup of hot coffee, and dump in my fiber and collagen—because at my age, if it doesn’t have a health supplement in it, did I even drink it? Then I “accidentally on purpose” add too much creamer.

Zero sugar means zero consequences… right? Don’t answer that.

I sit down, close my eyes, take one long slow inhale, and let that first sip burn its way down my throat and into my chest.

This is the last moment before the world wakes up.

The final breath before the chaos kicks the door in.

The split second where I still get to be me.

Because the second that mug hits the table, the Mom Mask slides on.

No one tells you motherhood comes with a permanent mask—one you can’t take off, even when life is falling apart behind it.

Your nanny could be dying.

Your father could be fighting every illness known to modern medicine.

Your mom’s across the country.

Your calendar’s a graveyard of canceled lunches with friends you swear you still love.

And you honestly can’t remember the last time you peed alone.

Between kids, a husband, bonus kids, neighbor kids, and the revolving door of stray teenagers who’ve adopted your house as their second home… someone is always there.

Someone always needs something.

“Can you help me with my application?”

“My car is making a noise.”

“Where’s my left shoe?”

“Why don’t socks come in pairs?”

Domestic goddess nonsense, every single day.

And you can’t just sit down in the middle of the kitchen floor and cry because a smell—one tiny whiff—sent you straight back to childhood, sitting by your nanny doing a puzzle.

You can’t fall apart because adulthood is heavy, and grief comes early, and you’re already missing someone who’s still here.

So you smile instead.

You chase the kids.

You pull out a puzzle and laugh with them.

You keep moving, stacking emotion on emotion like dirty laundry you swear you’ll fold later.

The mask gets stronger.

The feelings get boxed away for “when it’s quiet.”

Except the quiet never actually comes.

You shower with an audience.

You do your skin care with tiny critics asking why your eye cream smells weird.

You promise yourself you’ll touch up your grey roots tomorrow, right after you redo the calendar, fix the chipped nails, solve world hunger, and figure out why someone’s backpack smells like a feral raccoon.

And finally—finally—you slide into bed.

The Mom Mask loosens just a little…

but it never fully comes off.

Not until every kid is asleep and the house goes still.

For a couple of brief, blissful hours, you get to be unmasked.

Soft.

Human.

Real.

And then—like clockwork—just as your soul unclenches…

…the midnight nightmare happens.

The mask snaps back on.

And the day begins all over again.