I’m Still Afraid of Being Seen.

There’s a part of me that flinches when someone looks too closely. Not physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. When someone sees past the mask, past the curated version of me, I’ve learned to present. That gaze feels like exposure. Like danger.

I’ve become skilled at crafting the illusion of intimacy, making people feel like they know me, while never actually revealing anything real. It’s a kind of emotional sleight of hand. A practiced distance. And honestly, it’s not healthy.

I worry that if people see the rawest version of me, the messy, hurting, complicated parts, they’ll run away. That they’ll decide I’m too broken to love. Too much to handle. Not worth the effort.

So I preempt the rejection. I distance myself. I walk away before anyone else gets the chance to. It’s not strength, it’s survival. Because rejection is terrifying. And it hurts less if I never let anyone close enough to choose me in the first place.

I’ve spent years learning how to disappear in plain sight. I smile, I nod, I perform. But inside, I’m still hiding. Because being seen means being known. And being known means being judged. Or worse… misunderstood.

I wish I could say I’ve outgrown this fear. That I’ve stepped fully into the light. But the truth is, I still shrink. I still scan the room for safety. I still wonder if I’m too much or not enough.

And yet, I’m writing this. Which means some part of me is ready. Ready to be seen, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s scary. Even if I tremble the whole way through.