With my head in my hands, I peeked through my fingers at my computer screen. At the white glare of the Word document, my eyes immediately snapped shut. An invisible band snaked its way around my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter.
I leaned back in my chair and stretched my body. I needed air and I couldn’t find the space to put it in.
My eyes focused on the bumps and grooves in the stucco. I forced slow and steady air into my lungs as I crafted images on the wall.
I wrote my first essay. A personal one that really dug deep. It took me to moments in my childhood that were uncomfortable and made me feel small. Seeing my experiences on the page, giving them space to exist in a real place, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Writing and speaking my truth was never safe. Honestly, visibility was never safe.
I wanted to share my experiences with others. I sought connection and wanted to relate. Not only did I want to be seen, but I wanted to let others know I saw them too. It was important to me to help others not feel so alone.
Naming the Fear: Why Visibility Felt Like a Threat
Where did this fear of being seen come from? What made it feel so dangerous to me? What made me want to shrink and be small and divert attention from myself?
I didn’t have to dig for long before the answers came ripping out of me.
If I showed too much excitement as a child, I’d be shushed with a stern glare. If I expressed my concerns about activities as a teen, I’d be told to quit my bitching. If I wore makeup, my mother would tell me it’s funny, or my boyfriends would ask me who I’m trying to impress.
Writing in journals meant they would be read, and my emotional processing would be held against me, or I’d be punished for my thoughts. Pieces of fiction I wrote would have my loved ones questioning what kind of person I was.
In family, if I’m seen, I’ll be judged. If I speak, I’ll get it wrong. If I share my success, others will take credit for my efforts.
In relationships, if I let myself be seen, it means I’m looking for attention outside of the relationship. If I set boundaries, I’m mean. If I share my experiences, I’ll be punished for speaking up.
Fear served me in all of those situations. Conditioning taught me to be scared, and that fear was armor protecting me from pain. It prevented me from all kinds of hurt and embarrassment.
The Cost of Staying Hidden
I got used to staying small and avoiding the spotlight.
Despite having always wanted to be a writer and share my ideas, I wasn’t able to if it meant sharing too much of myself. I was able to write policies and procedures. I could synthesize reports. I could write legal documentation and memos for days.
Functional writing to explain or convey something unrelated to me was easy. But personal expression? Forget it.
When it came to sharing something deeper, I couldn’t find the words. My voice had been neutralized, and even my system wouldn’t let me put anything on the page. It didn’t matter if I was just keeping it for myself. I couldn’t even put some of my thoughts, feelings, or experiences in my journal. I would sit down to write, and my mind would just go blank. It was so strong that I would even use it as a tool to stop my overthinking or spiraling thoughts. I knew that as soon as I put pencil to paper, my brain would just shut off.
In moments of panic, it was effective for snuffing out the fire. But for my creativity? It snuffed that out just the same.
I finally had the time and space to create how I wanted to. I would feel frustrated every time I tried to get my thoughts out on paper. I doubted my abilities, despite the courses I had taken or any certifications I had earned.
I watched my husband write articles and books, despite the struggles he was going through. I admired his ability. Not only to craft through adversity, but to write engaging prose that really paints a picture and gives you all the feels. I saw that what I wanted was a possibility; it was achievable—I just didn’t know how to get past my fears.
It felt like one of those dreams you put on a shelf and look at from time to time. Not the kind you take down, hold in your hands, and use in your daily life.
I wasn’t just choosing to avoid what scared me; my system was choosing it for me. And I was abandoning parts of myself in the process.
The Turning Point: When Desire Became Stronger Than Fear
Every time I read about overcoming fear, I always seem to read about that special moment, or that sudden realization that people come to that really pushes them over the edge and helps them take that leap.
With the help and guidance of my therapist and the love and support of my husband, I finally acknowledged that I didn’t want fear running my life anymore. It was preventing me from doing what I really wanted to do.
The big kicker for me was the realization that a lot of my fears of visibility came from conditioning. They came from my family and relationships that wanted to keep me small. I had found the strength to leave these toxic and abusive relationships behind me, so why was I still allowing their messaging to run my life?
I declared that I wouldn’t do their dirty work for them anymore.
The Practice of Being Seen
For me, there was an accumulation of things and lots of little steps.
To make my thoughts tangible, I started texting myself. Over a matter of months, I was journaling on paper and in a Google Doc. I started with simple things like what I did during the day. It eventually expanded into how I felt about those things.
Then it became talking about memories that would pop up and how I felt about those things, or struggles throughout the day and doing self-reflection and working through my struggles.
Finally, thoughts were on the page. Now, I just needed to translate that into something shareable. I started offering my writing services online, focusing on health, wellness, and Ayurveda. I kept things factual, and I only ghostwrote in the beginning.
My words and writing were becoming visible, but not under my name. There was a type of safety there. I wasn’t ready to put myself out there, but I was on the path.
Eventually, I decided on a project to do for myself. I really wanted to use what I had learned to help others. I self-published guided journals, and it felt fantastic to complete a project and have something tangible in my hands that I had created.
Once I finished with them, I did more content writing and published it to my website, and I’m working on spec pieces to write for other publications.
As I keep publishing my writing, I feel more confident and my fear lessens. It doesn’t go away, and it hasn’t disappeared, but it’s easier now to walk with it and publish my words, anyway.
I remind myself that I’m not in any real danger. I plant my feet on the ground and do my breathing exercises. I acknowledge the “what-ifs” that pop into my mind, and I release them with the reassurance that I’ll address anything if it comes up. But I choose not to worry about it until it’s something to worry about.
What Actually Happened
All those things that I feared about putting myself out there aren’t things I’ve faced yet.
No end-of-the-world judgments. No hate for being seen. Nobody calls me names, comes after me, or attacks my character. My husband and I have a very secure relationship.
The consequences my fear predicted haven’t come knocking.
I even used my writing to help me when facing my mother in court. I wrote my truth and my experiences. I was seen, and things turned out just fine. I’m even writing a book about the entire experience, but that’s a tale for another day.
Now, the fears have lessened. I’m not as worried about those “what-ifs.” Even if they were to come to my table, I know I can handle them. I know myself, and I believe in myself.
I’m also making connections with people who resonate with my writing and what I’m sharing. I feel like I’m making a positive impact and have really embraced my dream of guiding others towards their own healing and transformative growth.
Visibility still feels scary sometimes. There are certain pieces (particularly some of my essays) that make me hesitate before hitting the “publish” button. But it doesn’t feel dangerous like it once did. I trust everything will be okay in the end, and that’s made all the difference.
