I Don’t Put One On When I Leave the House
I don’t put one on when I leave the house. Not a mask, not a filter, not a version of myself that’s easier to digest. I step out as I am—barefaced, uncurated, sometimes messy, always real. The world has enough polished veneers. I’m not here to be another one.
Scroll the comments. You’ll see the pics. Not the kind that beg for likes, but the kind that tell the truth. A chipped nail. A frizzed curl. A laugh caught mid-snort. A car door flung open with a bouquet of marigolds spilling out. That’s me. That’s the story.
👇👇👇 Full story below.
It started with a car. Not just any car—a 1972 Datsun 240Z, rust blooming like freckles across its hood, the kind of vehicle that doesn’t whisper “vintage” but shouts “lived-in.” I named her Clementine. She wasn’t fast, but she had attitude. She didn’t purr—she growled. And every time I turned the ignition, it felt like waking up a dragon.
Clementine taught me something: beauty isn’t in the polish. It’s in the patina. In the way the sun hits a dented fender and makes it gleam like armor. In the way a cracked leather seat molds to your spine like it’s been waiting for you. I started seeing the world differently after her. Started seeing myself differently too.
I used to armor up before leaving the house. Concealer, contour, curated outfits that said “I belong.” But belonging started to feel like a cage. So I stopped. One morning, I walked out in a faded tee, garden soil still under my nails, and didn’t flinch when the barista raised an eyebrow. That was the first day I felt free.
Freedom, it turns out, smells like jasmine. I planted it in the backyard, next to the wild roses that refuse to grow in straight lines. Every bloom has a name. Ophelia, Riot, Dusty June. They’re not just flowers—they’re characters in my story. I talk to them when I water. I tell them secrets. They never judge.
The photos in the comments? They’re snapshots of this life. One shows me crouched beside Riot, her petals half-torn from last night’s storm. Another captures Clementine parked under a sky so bruised it looks like it’s been crying. There’s one of me laughing with my mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, no makeup, no shame. That one’s my favorite.
I don’t put one on when I leave the house because I’ve learned that masks don’t protect—they suffocate. They blur the edges, mute the colors, flatten the story. And my story isn’t flat. It’s jagged and vibrant and full of contradictions. It’s a garden blooming in a junkyard. It’s poetry written on receipts. It’s a car named Clementine and a flower named Dusty June.
Sometimes people ask me why I share so much. Why I post the unfiltered pics, the messy captions, the vulnerable truths. I tell them this: I’m not trying to be relatable. I’m trying to be real. There’s a difference. Relatable is curated. Real is chaotic. Relatable is a brand. Real is a soul.
And if you scroll far enough, you’ll find the photo that started it all. Me, standing in front of Clementine, holding a bouquet of marigolds like a torch. I’d just come from the garden, dirt on my knees, sweat on my brow. I looked wild. I looked alive. I looked like someone who didn’t need to put one on.
That photo didn’t go viral. It didn’t rack up thousands of likes. But it changed something in me. It reminded me that the most powerful thing you can be is yourself. Not the version that fits in. The version that stands out.
So here’s the full story, in 1000 words and a thousand petals: I don’t put one on when I leave the house because I’ve spent too long hiding. Because Clementine deserves a driver who shows up raw. Because Ophelia and Riot bloom better when I speak to them honestly. Because the world needs more truth and less gloss.
And because, somewhere out there, someone is scrolling through the comments, looking for permission to be real. If that’s you—take it. Take the dirt, the dents, the laughter, the chaos. Take the story. Make it yours.
