I never wanted to be the centre of attention. I still don’t. But I think somewhere along the way, I learned that being visible was dangerous. Or at the very least—risky.
In my family, being loud, opinionated, or even just emotionally honest could be seen as dramatic. Too much. Needy. So I took up less space. I was quieter. I kept my feelings to myself. I figured out how to blend in, how to manage my own emotions so no one else had to be inconvenienced by them.
I thought that was humility. I thought that made me good. Easy to love.
But now I’m starting to realise it wasn’t humility—it was disappearing. It was me learning to exist in a way that wouldn’t threaten anyone else’s comfort. It was learning that if I needed too much, I’d be punished for it. If I wanted too much, I’d be shamed. If I said too much, I’d be dismissed.
There’s a story in my family about who gets to be wise. Who gets to be calm. Who gets to be the mediator. I never fit that story. I was labelled as sensitive. Emotional. I felt everything deeply—and said so. But instead of being met with curiosity or care, I was told I was overreacting. I was shut down. Quietly. Repeatedly.
So I stopped showing that side of myself. I started keeping the real stuff in. I stayed useful instead. Present, but not disruptive. Helpful, but not demanding.
Now, when I try to speak up about what hurt, or name the role I played in holding things together, it feels… awkward. Like I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me. Like I’ll be seen as self-important. Attention-seeking.
But I think that’s just the old script talking. The one that taught me that visibility is selfish. That speaking up is showing off. That being sensitive is being weak.
I’m unlearning all that now. Slowly. Awkwardly. Quietly. I still don’t want the spotlight. But I want to stop hiding. I want to stop confusing disappearing with being good.
And maybe, that’s a start.