For the past few months, Linda hadn’t been able to sleep well. At 35, she moved through life like an actress, changing costumes throughout the day. In the morning, she was a gentle mother; by day, a decisive manager; after work, a dutiful daughter; and at home, a considerate wife and capable daughter-in-law. The roles shifted endlessly. Yet the harder she tried to perform them all well, the more hollow she felt inside. Late at night, standing in front of the mirror, she would ask quietly: “Who am I, really?”
One evening, she watched a film at a local theater called Life Is Like a Dream, about a mother searching for her lost child during wartime — an aching, tragic tale that moved the audience to tears. Watching the heroine cry, Linda felt tears streaming down her own face. She knew it was only a performance. And yet, in that moment, a strange thought arose: “What if my own life is also a performance?”
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