What Carnival Taught Me About Identity and Belonging
My Dad used to love Carnival. It’s a time of revelry, of costumes and chaos, celebrated across Europe and South America. But beneath the confetti, dance and music, Carnival is an ancient tradition that speaks to the human need to escape, even briefly, from the rules that define our daily lives.
Anthropologically speaking, Carnival is a reversal ritual. It’s the one time in the year when social roles flip, the rules relax. The masks come on, or off – that’s a matter of perspective.
The origins of this tradition trace back thousands of years. According to a 5000 year old Babylonian text, Carnival-like festivals celebrated equality between subordinates and masters, as well as between men and women.
A clay tablet from 2600 BCE describes a festival where slaves were considered equals to their masters, and all social ranks were momentarily erased in honor of the god Marduk. The Romans had Saturnalia, a festival where slaves mocked their masters, people feasted in excess, and a “King of Misrule” was granted temporary power.
Why? Beyond the explanation about wanting to speed up the arrival of Spring, I see another one. All societies used to be collectivist, bound by strict rules for survival. Carnival was, in a way, a pressure valve. A moment to be your individual self, to feel free, to step outside the structures of obligation and expectation before returning to the order of everyday life.
The irony of the mask
We often put on a proverbial mask to hide our true feelings. Paradoxically, when people are in disguise, they are often at their most uninhibited. The mask grants permission to break free from social constraints. It’s what makes masked balls – or social media for that matter- so attractive: anonymity emboldens people to act in ways they might not otherwise dare.
For me, Carnival is more than an ancient tradition. It’s personal.
When I was a child, my father was Prince Carnival for five years —a grand role, complete with a velvet cape lined with fur, extravagant entrances on elephants, helicopters, you name it. He ruled the town for a few days, the figurehead of joyous rebellion, and totally authentic in his eccentricity. I was immensely proud of him.
One year, I stood in the audience, watching thousands of costumed people cheer him on. I wore my own kind of disguise — except mine was the opposite of a mask. I had made my own cape and written across it everything I was proud of: about myself, about my family, about my father standing on that stage.
And then, two girls, unknown to me, lifted the edges of my cape and began reading my words aloud. Sniggering. Mocking. Their laughter reached its peak when they read what I had written about my father.
I don’t remember everything I had proudly inscribed on that fabric. But I remember the shame. The visceral dread of being exposed, of realizing that self-expression could invite ridicule.
Needless to say, the cape didn’t survive long after that. My love for Carnival evaporated. But the impact of that moment stretched far beyond a childhood embarrassment.
Years later, after leaving my career as a news correspondent, I hesitated to present new thoughts, to share my ideas, to step onto my own stage. This was new to me. I was used to being in the public eye.
When I developed my signature method to slash through the hidden obstacles holding us back (I’ll share more about that later), and applied it to my hesitation, the memory of that one moment at age nine or ten came up.
I had totally forgotten about it, but when it emerged, I realized this wasn’t just a childhood memory, it was a mental roadblock that had shaped my relationship with visibility and recognition. The fear of exposure, of pride being trampled, lingered long after the costumes had been packed away.
Rewriting the Narrative
Even now, a tiny part of me feels apprehensive about sharing this story. But I know I’m no longer that little girl, standing frozen in the crowd, her pride unraveling.
Uncovering and eliminating the effects of these hidden experiences is exactly what my method does. And in this case, it helped me reclaim my voice and my ability to step forward without fear.
Did you know that our We-Mind and Me-Mind, the other-oriented and self-focused thinking patterns that guide us all, each have their own fears that can hold us back?
The way we think shapes the story we tell ourselves, and the stories we dare to share. If you’re curious about which Mind is writing your story, I have something else I’m proud of: this assessment.
Breaking free from imposed roles can be challenging. But this might be the first step to help you unmask the hidden inhibitions that keep you from stepping into your full potential.
As for Carnival, it still makes me feel lost, but I wish everyone who celebrates it some days of happy freedom and connection.