The Fear of Being Seen
I have a story in my head. One I’ve told myself for years. It’s about why I shouldn’t be here—on a platform, in public, where people can see me. It’s a story made up of familiar lines, rehearsed so often they feel like facts.
I am too fat.
I never look good.
I am too complicated.
People don’t like me.
I say things that weird people out.
The world doesn’t make sense to me. People don’t make sense to me. And if I can’t understand why they live the way they do, then surely, I’m the problem.
There’s also the fear of speaking my truth. What if I say something that makes people angry? What if I get attacked for it? And perhaps the most unsettling thought of all: what if people see me—really see me—and confirm everything I already fear about myself?
It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? This deep, paralysing shame that keeps us hidden. I’ve carried it for as long as I can remember. And I know exactly where it comes from.
The Odd One Out
I have always been different. Not in a way that feels charming or intriguing, but in a way that makes people pause for just a second too long before they respond. I am intense. I don’t know how to be anything else. I ask too many questions. I challenge things people don’t even realise they believe. I say things that make sense to me but hardly ever to others. And for a long time, I thought this was something I needed to fix.
I learned, through experience, that I am often misunderstood. That people struggle to place me, and when they can’t, they choose to step back. That rejection, that subtle withdrawal, created something inside me: a deep, gnawing shame. This shame, something I've carried for years, is something I’ve explored in depth in another article. You can read more about toxic shame here.
I think this feeling started long before I realised it. My mother, bless her, always had a way of shutting me down when I got too loud, too enthusiastic, or too honest. If I tried to express something that felt important to me, I would often be met with a dismissive comment or a look that told me to hold back. At first, I thought it was just me. That I was too much for her. But over time, I began to see it wasn’t just her. It was the world, in a way.
People were uncomfortable with me. My thoughts, my questions, my intensity—none of it seemed to fit the expectations of the world around me.
I'm Not the Only One
I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think, in some way, we all do it.
We all have these little scripts, these quiet self-reducing thoughts that tell us why we should stay hidden. Maybe we learned them from our families, from the way we were silenced or dismissed. Maybe they’ve been passed down for generations, a kind of inherited insecurity. Or maybe they come from the world around us—the way social media presents only polished, digestible versions of life, making us believe that anything messy, raw, or real has no place in the public eye.
But for me, the fear runs deeper I think. There’s something about rejection that hits me harder than it might for others. Some call it Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD)—a condition where even the slightest hint of rejection or criticism can feel overwhelming, even crushing. And while I know I’m not alone in this, it makes vulnerability feel even riskier.
Brené Brown says that vulnerability is not weakness. That it is, in fact, the most accurate measure of courage. I love that. But if I’m honest, vulnerability still feels like a risk, being as … um… eccentric as I am.
It’s terrifying to stand in front of the world and say, “Here I am. This is me.” Without the filters, without the careful curation. To be seen as we are—without the certainty of acceptance.
But what if?
What if vulnerability is also the way forward? What if, by showing up as we are, we make space for others to do the same?
… But Not on Social Media
Now, here’s the thing: in real life, I’m actually a pretty open person. I have no problem sharing my thoughts, my feelings, even my weirdest ideas with people I trust. In conversations, I’m myself. I speak openly, I listen deeply, I try to be genuine.
But online? That’s a different story.
The idea of showing myself to strangers on the internet—without the comfort of connection—is terrifying. In real life, I can read someone’s expression, adjust my words, sense how they’re receiving me. Online, I’m shouting into a void, with no idea who’s catching what I say—or how they'll twist it.
There’s also something about the performance of it all that unsettles me. The way some people seem to leap into the public eye with no hesitation, no fear, no filter. I feel a little suspicious of people who crave that kind of validation. It’s almost like I can’t trust people who can walk so easily into the public eye without a flicker of shame or fear.
Meanwhile, I delete half my comments within moments of publishing them. I second-guess every sentence, every moment of exposure. Each like I get feels like a spotlight I didn’t ask for. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve shared something in the past, only to delete it an hour later—not because anyone said anything, but because what I comment tends to be met with silence. The same one that I used to get when I was open with random strangers.
Dip A Toe In
I’m not here to say I’ve figured it out. I haven’t.
But I am here. Writing this. Sharing these thoughts. Letting myself be seen, even if just a little.
And I think that’s how it starts.
We dip our toes in. We test the waters. We show ourselves in small ways, watching what happens. Sitting with the discomfort of thinking, ‘No, I won’t delete it this time,’ and accepting that it’s OK to be visible. And maybe, just maybe, we realise that the monster we feared—the one waiting to shame us, reject us, tear us apart—was never really there at all.
Maybe, instead, we find connection. Maybe we find that our rawest, most unfiltered selves are exactly what someone else needed to see.
So, here I am. A little afraid, but here anyway.