Performing Spirituality — And Why I Finally Stopped

For most of my life, getting ready was a ritual — but not the sacred kind. It was armor. Foundation, mascara, the right outfit, the right energy. I assembled it carefully before facing the world each day. Looking back, I was costuming myself. Not just for others — but against them.

Spirituality had its own costume too. Certain words felt safer than others, and some practices became part of the performance. In rooms full of people watching, I knew how to present myself. Managing how others perceived me became constant and exhausting. My spirituality became another thing I performed, much like everything else.

It took me a long time to see it. And longer still to put it down.

Layers of Costumes

The personal costume had layers, of course. It always does.

Makeup was one of them. I wore it every day for years — and yet it never felt like me. There was no joy in it, no self-expression. It was simply what you did before leaving the house. A requirement. A checkbox. I always knew it belonged to someone else’s comfort, not my own.

My hair was different. That I loved. I still do. Tending to my hair feels like caring for myself. Wearing foundation felt like suiting up for someone else. That distinction matters more than I ever realized.

Armor, however polished, is heavy.

The spiritual costume carried its own weight. I used the right words in the right rooms. Meaningful practices stayed in my life, at least from the outside. For those who were watching, I showed up a certain way.  The energy I spent managing perception was energy I wasn’t spending on actually living. The costume kept me so busy I barely noticed the woman underneath it.

With Menopause Comes Freedom

Menopause didn’t arrive with an announcement. Neither did the freedom.

It came in small, quiet decisions. One morning I looked at my foundation and thought, I don’t actually need this. So I left it on the counter. No ceremony. No declaration. I walked out the door without it and the world didn’t end.

Lipstick softened next. A Burt’s Bees pink grapefruit balm replaced it — something I actually wanted on my lips. Colors followed. Blush. Eye shadow. Mascara and eyeliner were last to go.

Each small release felt like setting down a bag I’d forgotten I was carrying.  I didn’t decide to shed the costume. I simply noticed, one quiet morning at a time, that I already had.

The spiritual shedding came faster. Once you recognize a costume, you spot one more quickly. Practices that felt performed rather than genuine began to fall away. Words I used because they sounded right in certain rooms stopped feeling necessary. I didn’t make a declaration. I simply stopped performing.

A Positive Note

Here is the part that still makes me smile.

When I went to college, I wanted to be a costume designer. I understood the transformation, the storytelling. A well-chosen costume signals everything about a character. No words needed. I knew instinctively that costumes carried meaning.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot the most important thing I knew about them.  Costumes are meant to come off.

They belong to the character, not the person wearing them. Every costume designer knows this. The actor goes home and hangs it up. The character stays at the theater. That was always the natural order of things.

Without realizing it, I had been wearing mine home every night for decades.

Menopause handed me my own closing night. Not an ending — a final curtain on a role I had played far too long. The costume designer in me finally got to say: we’re done here. You can hang that up now. And I did.

I recognize the costume on others now too. It is easy to see the performance — the carefully chosen words, the righteous posturing, the gap between what someone proclaims and how they actually move through the world. I don’t announce my observations. There is no need to perform my response. I simply step back — quietly, without drama.

Spiritual Practice

That, it turns out, is its own spiritual practice.

My morning routine is simple now. I wash my face. A little cream if my skin needs it. Then I take my time with my hair — not because anyone is watching, but because I genuinely enjoy it. That difference is everything.

I still care how I look. Let me be clear about that. This was never about letting myself go. It was about letting go of what was never really mine. There is quiet dignity in tending to yourself — for yourself. No audience required.

The same is true spiritually. What remains is simpler and far more honest. A way of moving through the world that belongs entirely to me. No performance. Not the costume. No managing how others perceive my faith or my practice.

That is what this season of life gave me, among other things. Not loss. Permission.  Permission to stop managing how others perceived me. Giving myself permission to take up space as I actually am. Permission to walk out the door with a clean face, well-tended hair, and nothing to prove.

The costume is hanging up for good. And the woman underneath it turns out to be someone worth knowing.

Reflection Prompts:

• Where in your life are you still performing rather than living?
• Is there a spiritual practice you keep up for others rather than yourself?
• What would you quietly set down if you gave yourself permission?