Welcome,
I'm Teresa and I'm so glad you're here.
Take a moment to feel where you are.
Feel the weight of your body meeting whatever is underneath you the chair,
The bed,
The floor.
Let yourself notice that something is already holding you.
You don't have to hold all of yourself up right now.
Maybe take one easy breath and let it leave however it wants to.
And another.
There's nowhere you need to arrive.
You're already here.
Sometimes,
After spending a long time around other people,
It can feel as though part of us is still out there.
Still listening.
Still watching.
Still paying attention to the room,
Even when the room is gone.
Maybe you've been noticing faces,
Adjusting your expression.
Finding the right response.
Trying to understand what was expected of you.
Or maybe you weren't thinking about any of that at all.
Maybe your body simply knows how to do it now.
And I wonder… What if coming home after masking isn't about taking the mask off?
What if it's simply about allowing some of your attention to come back to you?
Feel the surface underneath you again.
Let your eyes soften if that feels good.
And if it feels okay,
I invite you to just notice your face.
Not to relax it,
Not to change it.
Just to notice that no one needs anything from your face right now.
It doesn't need to reassure anyone.
It doesn't need to communicate interest or comfort or understanding.
For this moment,
Your face can simply belong to you.
And perhaps your shoulders can belong to you too.
Your hands.
Your breath.
The way your body wants to sit.
You don't have to make yourself look comfortable.
You can simply notice what comfort might actually feel like.
Maybe something in you has been reaching outward all day,
Little invisible threads of attention extending toward everyone else.
Are they okay?
Am I okay here?
What happens next?
And maybe,
Very gently,
You can begin gathering some of those threads back.
Not cutting them.
Not becoming less caring.
Just bringing some of yourself home.
Back into your hands.
Back behind your eyes.
Back into the place in your chest where your own life is happening.
Take a breath there.
Sometimes we talk about masking as though there must be one completely unmasked person underneath it all.
A true self we're supposed to uncover.
But what if there's nothing you need to uncover tonight?
What if you don't need to solve yourself?
What if coming home is much simpler?
Maybe it's noticing that you'd like the light a little lower.
Maybe it's realizing you've had enough conversation.
Maybe it's allowing yourself to stop smiling when there's no reason to smile.
Small things,
Almost invisible things.
But each one says,
I'm listening.
Feel where your body is making contact against the support underneath you.
And maybe ask without needing an immediate answer.
What would feel like coming home to myself right now?
Let the question stay open.
You don't have to fill it.
Maybe your body knows before your mind does.
A gentle softening.
A deeper breath.
A desire to curl inward.
A sense of relief.
Or maybe nothing at all.
That's okay,
Too.
You are not failing to know yourself.
You may simply be tired.
And tiredness deserve somewhere to land.
If it feels okay,
Place a hand somewhere that feels comforting for you.
Feel the warmth of your own palms.
There you are,
Not hidden.
Not waiting underneath some perfect version of authenticity.
Just here.
You may still mask tomorrow.
You may still adapt.
You may still walk into rooms and find yourself noticing everyone before you notice yourself.
That isn't a failure.
Maybe the practice is simply remembering that you can come back.
Again and again.
You can ask yourself how you're doing.
You can notice when something is too much.
You can believe the quiet places where your body says yes.
And the places where it says no.
You can let yourself be a person you are still getting to know.
Take another breath.
Feel the room around you.
.
.
Feel the ground beneath you.
And maybe imagine that whatever door you walked through to get here has gently closed behind you.
And the day can stay on the other side for a little while.
Nothing else is being asked of you.
You are home.
And maybe home isn't the place where you finally become someone else.
Maybe home is the place where you no longer have to keep reaching away from yourself.
May you find more and more moments where your body can settle back into its own shape.
And in the places where you still need to adapt,
May you remember that you can always leave a little light on inside yourself.
Go way back.
Away home.
Take gentle care of yourself.
And as you return to your day,
Remember as always,
You are love.
You are whole You are enough.
