I don’t put one on when I leave the house. See the comments for more pics……..Full story👇👇👇

I Don’t Put One On When I Leave the House

It’s not that I forgot. It’s that I chose not to.

The jacket still hangs by the door, untouched. The hat rests on the shelf, gathering dust. The mask—literal and metaphorical—remains folded in the drawer, waiting for a day that never comes.

I don’t put one on when I leave the house.

Because the world outside doesn’t deserve a version of me that’s edited, diluted, or disguised. I walk out as I am—unfiltered, unarmored, unapologetic.

This morning, the light hit the pavement just right. That kind of cinematic glow that makes even cracked sidewalks look like runways. I stepped out in a shirt that didn’t match my mood, but clashed with it beautifully. My boots were scuffed from yesterday’s wanderings. My hair was defiant. My face was bare.

And I felt invincible.

Not because I looked perfect.

But because I didn’t care to.

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There’s a photo of me leaning against the rusted hood of my car—her name’s Clementine, by the way. She’s a 1972 Datsun with a dented fender and a soul that hums like old vinyl. I didn’t pose. I just existed. The camera caught me mid-thought, eyes half-closed, sunlight painting my cheekbones like brushstrokes.

Another shot: me in the garden. The wild one. Not the curated kind with trimmed hedges and polite roses. Mine’s a riot of color and attitude. Marigolds blooming like fire. Lavender leaning like it’s eavesdropping. A single black tulip in the corner, moody and magnificent. I’m crouched beside it, dirt on my knees, grinning like I’ve just unearthed a secret.

And then there’s the mirror pic. The one I didn’t mean to take. I was walking past, caught my reflection, and paused. Not to fix anything. Just to witness. To say, “Yes, that’s me. And I’m still here.”

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It started fifteen years ago, in a house that smelled like lemon polish and restraint. My mother believed in appearances. “Put something on,” she’d say. “You never know who you’ll run into.” Her closet was a shrine to control—blazers that meant business, scarves that softened the blow, shoes that clicked like punctuation.

I learned early how to dress for approval. How to layer myself in expectations. How to disappear behind fabric and formality.

But something cracked the day I turned twenty-three.

I was standing in front of a mirror, wearing a dress that fit but didn’t feel. My reflection looked like someone else’s daughter. Someone else’s dream. And I thought: What if I just… didn’t?

So I took it off.

And walked out.

That was the first time I left the house without putting one on.

No mask. No armor. No apology.

Since then, every outfit has been a declaration. Every photo, a manifesto. I wear colors that clash. Fabrics that speak. I name my clothes like characters—The Reckless Jacket, The Soft Rebellion Skirt, The Boots That Remember. I don’t dress to impress. I dress to express.

And people notice.

Some stare. Some scoff. Some smile.

But I don’t do it for them.

I do it for the girl who once stood in front of a mirror and asked, “What if?”

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