When Self-Expression Becomes a Mask

When Emilia was around nine months old, the newborn fog began to lift, and in its place, something else quietly emerged — frustration.

I would stand in front of my wardrobe and feel it rise in my chest, looking at a collection of clothes that no longer felt available to me. Pieces I couldn’t wear because I couldn’t easily breastfeed in them. Pieces that no longer fit my body, or my life, or the version of me I was inhabiting in that season. Every choice felt dictated by practicality — by access or by function, and while that made sense, it also felt like one more part of me that had been quietly put aside.

Not in a dramatic way, just in the slow accumulation of small sacrifices that come with caring for a little person in the thick of early motherhood. But this one felt personal. You see, getting dressed had always been a form of self-expression for me. A way I moved through the world feeling like myself, and suddenly, that part of me felt… restricted. Flattened. Unavailable.

Not long after that, my milk supply dried up. It happened quickly, almost overnight like it was sensing my frustration and displeasure, and with that shift came something I hadn’t expected — a reopening. Of options, choice and expression, and I made a quiet decision to start getting dressed on purpose again. Not because I had somewhere to be — most days, I didn’t. But because I wanted to feel like myself again.

There had been a version of me — before motherhood, before this season — who found genuine joy in what she wore. Who coordinated her glasses with her outfits, who chose pieces that felt like an extension of her internal world. For me style or fashion was never about external validation or keeping up with trends, it was about expression, about the kind of radiance that came from within, and I wanted to meet her again. So I did.

I got dressed, intentionally and with purpose, every day, even when the day ahead didn’t require it — even when it would have been easier not to. Because it gave something back to me; a sense of self I hadn’t realised how much I missed.

What I didn’t expect was the response. The comments, the questions, the quiet curiosity from other women around me.

“Where are you off to today?” — As though getting dressed required a reason.
“What’s the occasion?” — As though feeling good needed to be justified.

And at first, I met it lightly. I would say, every day is an occasion — which felt true. But over time, something else began to happen. Because I was dressing differently to the other women I was spending time with — women who, like me, were navigating early motherhood, exhaustion and overwhelm — it created a contrast, and within that contrast, a perception formed, one that quietly said I had it more together, that I was coping better, or that I knew something they didn’t. That was never what I intended but it was what was reflected back to me.

What began as something I was doing solely for me and my own benefit slowly, almost imperceptibly, became something else — a performance. It became a way of maintaining the perception others were mirroring, a way of reinforcing the idea that I was okay, because if I looked put together, then maybe no one would look any closer. Maybe they wouldn’t see how much I was struggling, how anxious I felt or how much I was holding, and so it became a kind of armour.

A polished, well-coordinated version of me that could move through the world without being questioned, and my goodness, I played that role well. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I was convincing, I was consistent and it was, in many ways, easier than being seen in the truth of how I was actually feeling.

But it also required something of me. Energy, attention and a constant awareness of how I was being perceived and, over time, that began to weigh heavily on me.

Recently, as I stood in front of the clothes hanging neatly in my wardrobe, waiting eagerly for me to make my choices for the day, I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and all at once, I realised how tired I was. Not just physically, but from the act itself. From maintaining an identity that no longer felt entirely true. From keeping up an appearance that was never meant to carry that much pressure or weight. Because underneath it, nothing about dressing in a polished, refined or put together way changed anything. I was still navigating the same challenges, still moving through the same realities, still, very much, a woman with her feet paddling beneath the surface, and I no longer had the capacity — or the desire — to keep performing otherwise.

Standing in my wardrobe that day, after the long exhale and before I reached for my usual uniform, something in me softened. Or perhaps it’s more honest to say something in me gave way and once I saw the performance for what it was, it became much harder to continue.

The shift from Oscar-worthy performance of an unspoken standard of refinement and having my *ish together, to casual ease and practicality wasn’t dramatic. Externally, very little changed. I still wore the same clothes, still moved through the same days but the energy behind it was entirely different.

The question changed. From how do I want to be seen? To how do I want to feel? And that altered everything.

Some days, that meant comfort. Loose fabrics, soft layers, something that allowed me to move and breathe and exist without effort. Other days, it still meant expression — colour, texture, something that felt playful or feminine or like a continuation of who I am.

But it was no longer about maintaining anything — an image, a perception. Getting dressed was no longer about proving something, it was about inhabiting myself, and there is a quiet ease in that. A kind of long, deep exhale, like loosening something that had been pulled too tight for too long.

I think for a long time, I believed that being put together meant having it together. That if I could maintain that outer layer, it would somehow hold everything else in place. But that version of me was built on effort, control and perception.

What I reach for now and how I want to feel is much simpler. A little less polish and refinement and a little more honesty, fluidity and a little closer to being a genuine expression of me in this season of mine. I want to feel comfortable in my body, at ease in my choices and unconcerned with whether or not it translates into something impressive from the outside. Because, behind the mask and the facade, the truth is, I don’t have it all together and I no longer feel like I need to pretend I do. I no longer feel like I need to hide my emotions or the varying degrees of messiness that is me on any given day behind a carefully and meticulously curated outfit.

There is something far more grounding in allowing this version of me to be seen — or perhaps more accurately, in no longer trying to hide it. From that place, something softer has taken its place. Not a performance, just more…. me.

Rhi xx

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