Unmasked, Part Two.

I think we’re all familiar with the story of The Phantom of the Opera. A roguish man lurks in an opera house in Paris, controlling everything that happens in the hall like a mystery puppet master. He’s known for the white half-mask he wears; later on in the story, it’s revealed that he wears the mask to hide a portion of his face that’s terribly disfigured.

I’ve seen Phantom several times, but the last time I watched it, I was unsettled. I just figured out why.

I am the Phantom. I mask myself in a hundred little ways, every day. When asked how I am, I often say, “I’m fine,” even when I’m not. I conceal my lack of sleep with foundation. I pretend to be an expert to avoid saying, “I don’t know.” I wear closed-toe shoes to cover my chipped toenail polish. I keep what I’m thinking to myself, to avoid conflict. I bite my lip, instead of outwardly admitting my pain.

I own a lot of masks. But I think maybe we all do. There’s a little bit of the Phantom in each of us. We’re quick to hide the broken parts of our lives behind a curtain, hoping no one will see. But the fact of the matter is, there’s beauty in brokenness. There’s beauty in seeing it healed.

The further we draw back the curtain and expose our broken places, the more distinctly they are illuminated by light and warmth. And we become tender.

“You cannot live when you are untouchable. Life is vulnerability.” - Édouard Boubat


From here on out, I choose to drop my mask. I choose to stop saving face. I choose a true, messy, vulnerable life.


Without wax,
Sarah.