There’s a dragon fruit in this piece—sharp, vivid, striking. The kind of fruit that makes people reach for their phones, ready to snap a picture. Its pink glow promises something sweet, something memorable. But when you taste it, it’s… fine. Mild. Almost neutral. The outside screams, while the inside whispers.
That’s me. Or rather, that was me—at my most polished, most performative, most “together.”
I’ve worn a lot of masks in my life. And Deceptive Glow is about the strongest one I’ve ever worn—the one that fooled even me.
I once delivered a powerful public talk to a room full of people—poised, composed, full of encouragement—only to leave the stage and immediately escort someone I love to be involuntarily admitted for psychosis. That duality didn’t feel shocking at the time. It felt… normal. I’ve become so good at switching masks that no one ever asks what’s behind them.
Even in joy, I hide. At the photoshoot with Laetitia—the one you see on this very site—she paused and looked at me differently. She asked, gently but clearly: “What are you holding back? You can bring it forward.”
And I couldn’t. I told her I simply couldn’t—it would overtake me. And within minutes, I broke. Quietly. Tears. The kind you hope no one notices, even when the camera is rolling.
So the photos you see here—the ones where I look radiant and strong and “fine”—they were taken after I cried my eyes out with overwhelm. That, too, is part of the glow.
We never know what a person is hiding. Just like this fruit that looks like a party and tastes like silence. Just like so many of us, who shine and shimmer and sparkle on the surface while quietly fading on the inside.
Deceptive Glow is a reminder not to take the mask at face value. To ask what’s underneath. And maybe—just maybe—to begin showing up without needing to shine at all.
Because there’s more truth in the quiet than in the glow.
With Love,
