I had good reason for the mask. After a childhood in poverty – surrounded by addiction, violence, and shame – I had finally gotten out. At 17, I moved to the west coast with $500, thinking that was enough to start a life. (Spoiler alert: It was not.) But I got lucky and eventually landed a very plush corporate job (a far cry from my radio roots) with a big fat paycheque, fun vacations, and my very own pair of painful golden handcuffs.

The work was soul-crushing and I had to stifle every ounce of my “too much” personality. I cried myself to sleep at night more nights than I didn’t. And my coworkers trampled over my totally non-existent boundaries. All of this left me depressed, hopeless, and exhausted.

But I had money and security, and at the time, that was enough. I believed that purpose was something you did outside of the required 9-5 business hours.

See the real picture of all the bright shoes I kept under my desk so I could have a small ounce of “me” at work.

It was exhausting trying to hide who I was all the time and putting other people’s comfort above my truth. Eventually, the other shoe dropped. I was laid off during a recession and was suddenly left with nothing. Having the rug unceremoniously ripped out from under me forced me to realize some not-so-nice truths I’d been stuffing deeper and deeper inside.