To Be Seen: The Risk and Reward of Showing Up Real

There’s something deeply human about the ache to be seen.
Not watched. Not observed.
Seen. Understood. Known. Acknowledged.

And yet—for so many of us who’ve lived behind masks for years, for decades—it can be one of the most terrifying things in the world.

When you’ve spent a lifetime shaping yourself to fit the room, being seen in your truth doesn’t feel liberating at first. It feels like walking outside naked on a day that is below freezing with a wicked wind whipping through. Unscripted. Like walking onto a stage in your underwear, unsure if anyone will applaud—or laugh.

Even now, after starting to unmask a little bit, I find myself scanning faces for signs of discomfort. I notice the tension in my shoulders rise when I speak too honestly, too emotionally, too “much.” Because that fear never really left me yet, perhaps it never will—the fear that if someone saw the real me, they’d walk away.

But here’s the truth I’m starting to learn:
Being seen isn’t about being perfect. Perfection is a fallacy, unless we are talking mathematics.
It’s about being present.
It’s about showing up real—even when it feels risky. Even when you risk being shunned.

This post is about that risk.
And what I’m learning might be on the other side of it.

What It Meant to Be Seen While Masking

There was a time I would have told you I was “seen”—at work, in school, among friends.
People praised my calm under pressure, my wit, my adaptability.
They told me I was reliable. Easygoing. Thoughtful. Strong. Determined. An example of a “hardworking professional.” What does that even mean?

And I was and am all those things…
But I am also deeply tired. The kind of tired that feels like your body is sitting under a ton of warm gel-like substance and there is no possibility of escape.
Anxious. Disconnected. Depressed.
But performing and “functioning.”

What they were seeing wasn’t me.
It was the version of me I built so they’d stay comfortable.
So I’d stay safe. So I could remain mostly in the quiet, until I was needed anyway.

They admired the mask because they never knew it was a mask.
They didn’t see the energy it took to maintain. The amount of “salesmanship” talk it took for me internally to get the motor running.
The shutdowns I had in silence. The meltdowns that would occasionally explode out of me.
The scripts I ran through before every conversation. I swear I could never be caught off guard as I would go over hundreds of different scenarios.

They saw the part of me that blended in.
And they liked that version—because it didn’t disrupt anything.

But being seen as someone you're not is its own kind of loneliness.
Worse, maybe, than being invisible.
Because it comes with praise. It comes with belonging—but not for who you really are.

The First Glimpses of Real Visibility

There were moments—rare, quiet ones—where someone saw beneath the mask.
Not because I tore it off,
but because they took the time to look closer.

There are also those very few rare individuals that I have felt safe enough with in my life to let that mask down. Often just as it was put up involuntarily, it was put down the same way. It really always is about being comfortable and safe.

Maybe it was someone who didn’t flinch when I stimmed.
Or someone who listened without needing me to wrap my feelings in a bow, when my tone got a little loud because I am excited about the subject.
Maybe it was the way a friend let those moments pass, acknowledged them, but no chastising, no running—they just allowed me to be me. Without judgment.

They’re small moments, but they stay with you.
Because they’re proof that visibility doesn’t always lead to rejection.
Sometimes, it leads to relief. Sometimes it leads to being really seen. Sometimes it leads to being understood.

In those moments, I don’t feel like I had to explain every pause.
Personally I actually enjoy silent moments. They are times to reflect as we all should. I like being so comfortable with someone I just enjoy sitting next to them. Not doing the same thing per se, but being in their company, both doing something we enjoy without feeling the need to “interact.”

Didn’t have to brace for misunderstanding.
I could let out the breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
I could blurt out random noises, or made-up languages because my mouth didn’t catch onto the brain wave that just went by.

Being truly seen, even for a second, feels like warm light hitting your skin after years of cold.
It’s disarming.
But it’s also healing.

Those glimpses aren’t everything—
but they’re enough to remind me why I keep trying.
Why I keep showing up as I am,
even if my voice shakes a little.

Why Being Seen Still Feels Dangerous

Even now—after unmasking, after being seen and accepted in small moments—
there’s a part of me that still flinches. Maybe there always will be, maybe it’s just something I have to learn to acknowledge, accept, and allow to be there so one can move on from it.

I can know I’m safe and loved.
I can know the people around me are kind and care about others.
But my body remembers differently. My body remembers all the cruel things it has experienced or witnessed.

It remembers being shamed for speaking too loudly. For being told it talks with a very strange cadence.
For crying “too much.” For asking too many questions.
For just always being extra, a downer, too odd.
It remembers being punished for not fitting a mold,
and praised when I finally learned how to.

Being seen means risking that again.
Risking the moment someone winces.
Or shifts in their seat.
Or looks away when I say something too raw, too strange, too “real.”
There’s a reason the mask felt like safety.

Even if it hurt.
Even if it erased me.
It kept me from the deeper pain of rejection.

So even now, when someone meets me with warmth—
a part of me holds back.
Just in case.
That doesn’t mean I’m not trying.
It means I’m healing.
Cautiously. Slowly. On my own terms.

What I Want You to Know About Seeing Me

If you truly want to see me—
know that it’s not effortless.
It’s not a performance.
It’s not something I owe you.
It’s something I choose.

And that choice often comes with fear.
That choice may make me seem a little unsure, a lack of confidence, some stumbling on words.

When I let myself be seen,
I’m not just offering presence—
I’m handing over pieces of myself I used to hide to survive.

So when I show you my joy,
please know how long it took me to reclaim it.

When I show you my pain,
please don’t try to fix it.
Just stay. Witness it.
Hold space.

If I go quiet, it doesn’t mean I’ve left the room.
It means I trust you enough to not fill the silence.

If I stim or cry or ramble,
it’s not a mistake.
It’s not a failure of self-control.
It’s me.

If you want to see me,
please look without flinching.

And if you can’t—
that’s okay too.
But please don’t ask me to put the mask back on so you feel more comfortable.

I’ve worn it long enough.
Long enough to forget my face.
Long enough to forget my voice.
Long enough to think love had to be earned through performance.

But I’m learning something different now.
And I hope—if you’re still reading—you’re willing to learn it too.
Because being seen is difficult enough.
But not being seen is arduous.

And maybe—just maybe—if we both stay here long enough,
we’ll start to see each other more clearly.

Closing Invitation

Being seen is vulnerable.
So if you’ve read this far—thank you for seeing me.

If you’re exploring what it means to be seen in your own life,
you’re invited to share your story, your reflections, or even just your presence.
We grow in quiet ways—but never in isolation.