afraid of being perceived

I’ve always thought that if I stayed quiet enough, invisible enough, the world wouldn’t notice me. Maybe if I didn’t take up too much space, I could keep the terrifying business of being seen at bay. But the truth is, we are all seen, whether we want to be or not. The idea that someone, anyone, can construct a version of me in their head—a version I have no control over—sends a shiver down my spine.

It’s not just about judgment, though that’s part of it. I know people will judge me; it’s human nature. But what really scares me is the disconnect between who I am and who others think I am. I wonder if I come across as cold when I’m just shy or aloof when I’m lost in thought. I worry that my intentions get lost in translation, that my silences are mistaken for indifference or my nervous laughter for carelessness.

How can I explain the contradictions that live inside me? Some days I want to be heard, to pour out the tangled mess of my thoughts, and have someone look at me and say, “I get it.” Other days, I want to erase myself completely, to become just another nameless shadow in a crowd. And then there are moments when I want to be perceived, but only on my terms: to be seen the way I see myself, not through the fractured lens of someone else’s expectations or assumptions.

The problem is, perception is always out of my hands. I could craft the perfect sentence, wear the perfect outfit, or smile at the perfect angle, and it wouldn’t matter. Someone will still misinterpret. They’ll project their experiences, biases, and moods onto me. The me they see is not the me I feel like I am, and that gap is where my fear lives.

Sometimes I think about how many versions of myself exist in the world—one for every person I’ve ever encountered. To the stranger I passed on the street, I might be a blur of hurried footsteps. To an old friend, I might be a memory, frozen in time and stripped of the ways I’ve changed. To my family, I might be a mosaic of roles: son, brother, helper, disappointment. How am I supposed to reconcile all those fragmented selves with the one I carry inside?

The truth is, I can’t. I’m struggling to make peace with the fact that I can’t force everyone to see the same version of me, nor can I control the assumptions they’ll make. That’s the reality of being alive: we are messy, contradictory, and impossible to pin down, and yet, we’re constantly being defined by others. It’s uncomfortable, even suffocating at times, but it’s also unavoidable. Perception will happen whether I like it or not. And so, I exist in the in-between—aware of how little control I have and unsure what that really means for me.

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author’s note:

i don't know why but i’ve been writing so much about my fears, and thinking about how much i write about my fears is making me worry about how readers like you are perceiving me…! it’s a vicious cycle and there’s no end to it. anyways…