I think one of the most exhausting things about your most formative years being in high-control religion is the way it trains you to wear masks. Not the fun masquerade-ball kind with glitter and feathers (though honestly, I’d take that over a “good Christian girl” mask any day). I mean the subtle, suffocating masks we learn to put on to survive, hiding parts of ourselves because to be seen as we truly are might mean rejection, punishment, or eternal damnation.
For many queer people, masking becomes second nature. You don’t even realise you’re doing it at first. Adjusting your voice, laughing at the right moments, toning down your gestures, avoiding clothes that might read “too much,” keeping your crushes carefully locked away. In religious spaces, it often goes beyond gender or sexuality. Masking becomes the air we breathe: don’t doubt, don’t question, don’t disrupt, don’t be too different. Smile, serve, conform.
The problem is, living like this costs us more than we realise.
What Masking Looks Like in High-Control Religion
If you grew up in a church, cult, or other high-demand faith environment, you’ll know the performance game well. There’s the Sunday morning version of you (all smiles, hallelujahs, and “I’m blessed and highly favoured”), the youth group version (cool enough to belong but not so cool you seem rebellious), and then the version of you that actually exists inside; the one carrying questions, longings, fears, and identities you can’t show anyone.
Masking shows up in so many ways:
- Pretending you’re totally fine while secretly battling anxiety or depression because “joy of the Lord” is the only acceptable mood.
- Carefully censoring your words so you don’t sound “worldly” or “unspiritual.”
- Feigning attraction to the opposite sex because being queer isn’t an option.
- Suppressing anger when someone spiritualises your pain, because calling out hypocrisy might mean being labelled rebellious.
And it works, sort of. Masking can protect us in the short term. It can keep us safe in communities that would harm us if we were authentic. But like all survival strategies, it comes at a price.
The Cost of Hiding Who You Are
When you’ve been masking for years, the line between survival strategy and self disappears. You start to wonder, “Who even am I without the mask?”
The cost looks like:
- Disconnection from self. You lose touch with your own desires, likes, and boundaries because your whole life has been spent anticipating what others expect.
- Chronic exhaustion. Performance mode is exhausting. Smiling through the shame, holding in tears, monitoring every word, it drains you.
- Shame and isolation. If people love your mask but don’t know the real you, it reinforces the fear: If they knew me, they’d leave.
- Identity fragmentation. Especially for queer folks, the split between the inner truth (“I’m gay, bi, trans, queer…”) and the outer role (“I’m straight, I’m pure, I’m obedient”) can feel like being torn in half.
For me, masking felt like carrying an invisible backpack full of bricks. Every church service, every prayer meeting, every youth event where I nodded along and played the part but was silently hauling the weight of everything unsaid, unseen, unshared.
And the cruel irony is that the very thing religion told me, “Be transformed, renew your mind, live in truth” was impossible to do while I was hiding who I really was. When this becomes your way of surviving, it slowly eats away at your spirit.
The Unmasking: Terrifying, Liberating, Messy
So how do we move from masking to authenticity? Well, first, let’s be honest because in reality it can be terrifying.
Because masks, for all their suffocating weight, feel safe. They’ve protected us from rejection, punishment, sometimes even violence. Taking them off can feel like standing naked in a storm. Vulnerability isn’t romantic when you’ve lived in systems that punished truth.
But here’s the thing: authenticity is also the only way to breathe again.
The unmasking doesn’t usually happen in one dramatic moment (though sometimes it does, like a big coming out or leaving-the-church event). More often, it’s a slow peeling back, a testing of waters:
- Saying “actually, I don’t believe that anymore” to a trusted friend.
- Allowing yourself to wear clothes that feel like you instead of what’s “appropriate.”
- Naming your identity out loud for the first time, even if it’s just in the bathroom mirror.
- Sharing your truth in therapy, where someone finally holds it with safety instead of judgement.
It’s messy. You’ll take the mask off in one area and find yourself clinging to it in another. You will test authenticity with one person and get hurt, but then try again with someone safer. But little by little, the air gets easier to breathe.
Stepping Into Authenticity
So what does it actually look like to step into authenticity after years of masking? It’s not about a neat, finished product of “living your truth.” It is about practice. It’s about small, daily acts of reclaiming yourself.
Some ideas:
- Reconnect with your body. Trauma and masking pull us out of our bodies. Try practices that ground you, things like yoga, dancing in your lounge room, swimming, or simply noticing when you’re hungry, tired, or tense.
- Name your truth somewhere safe. Therapy, journaling, or trusted friends can become spaces to try on authenticity without the high stakes of religious judgement.
- Experiment with expression. Whether it’s clothes, art, music, or words, try to find ways to express the parts of yourself that were silenced. Start small. See what feels good.
- Find your people. Community is everything. Seek out spaces (queer groups, online communities, support networks) where authenticity is celebrated, not punished.
- Rest. Unmasking is hard work. Allow yourself to rest, grieve, and pace yourself.
Choosing Life Without the Mask
Masking was never your fault. It was a survival strategy you learned in an unsafe world. And honestly? It probably saved you.
But survival isn’t the same as living.
When we choose to slowly, bravely, imperfectly set down the masks, we get to build lives that are actually ours. We get to find love that sees us, friendships that celebrate us, communities that hold us without condition. We get to laugh, cry, dance, rage, question, and rest as whole humans and not as cardboard cut-outs of “good Christians” or “acceptable queers.”
The cost of hiding who you are is steep. But the joy of stepping into authenticity, the breath, the freedom, the connection is worth it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s slow.
Because the truth is: you were never too much. You were never wrong and you were never unworthy. You were just masked.
And now, little by little, you get to take it off.
➡️ If you’re beginning to peel back the layers of masking and want some support in that process, therapy can be a really grounding place to explore. You don’t have to figure it all out alone. I work with people in this space, and if you’d like to connect, you’re welcome to reach out here. You can also find other therapists, coaches, and practitioners who understand religious trauma through the Religious Trauma Collective if you’re looking for someone who feels like the right fit for you.