The Hidden Self: On Hiding Our Growth and Our Joy

I need to confess something. I’ve been hiding.

This isn’t about hiding from others in a physical sense. It’s a deeper, more subtle kind of concealment. It’s about the parts of myself I tuck away, the curtains I draw right in the middle of my own life.

I’ve noticed a pattern, and maybe you’ll see a piece of yourself in it, too.

It happens when I decide to improve. I get a spark of motivation—to finally learn that language, get into shape, or build that project. But alongside that spark is a immediate, instinctual urge to… shush it. To tell no one. To practice in a room with the door closed, to keep the book cover hidden, to make sure no one sees the struggle, the awkward early stages, the potential for failure.

It also happens in my moments of pure, unadulterated joy. When a song comes on that my soul loves, I check to see if anyone is around before I truly let myself feel it. When I’m engrossed in a "guilty pleasure" movie or a niche hobby, a part of me is prepared to minimize it, to joke about it before anyone else can, to make sure my enjoyment is never fully seen.

For the longest time, I didn't understand why. It felt like a strange, private quirk. But I’ve come to realize it’s not random. It’s a protection mechanism.

I hide my growth because I am afraid of the narrative of failure. If I try in secret and fail, the failure is mine alone. It’s a quiet, personal disappointment. But if I try publicly and fail? That failure becomes a spectator sport. It feels like it would confirm every silent insecurity I’ve ever had: that I’m not enough, that I’m a pretender, that I don’t have what it takes. My own potential judgment is harsh enough; the imagined judgment of others feels unbearable.

I hide my joy because I am afraid of the vulnerability of enthusiasm. To love something openly, without irony, is to show a raw piece of your heart. It’s to say, "This thing, right here, it makes me feel." And that is a terrifyingly exposed position to be in. What if my joy is met with a blank stare? A dismissive comment? A raised eyebrow? It would feel like a rejection of a fundamental part of me. It’s safer to

preemptively dull my own sparkle than to risk someone else trying to extinguish it.

This hiding feels safe. But it’s a cage.

It keeps our journeys lonely and our joys dimmed. It tells us that our progress only counts when it’s presentable and our passions are only valid when they are validated by others.

I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only one who does this. Maybe you’re the one doing yoga in your living room but wouldn’t dare go to a studio. Maybe you’re writing poems in a secret notebook. Maybe you’ve stopped yourself from dancing in the kitchen because someone might see.

This is my pledge to myself, and I invite you to join me if it resonates:

I am going to try to be seen. Not in a giant, dramatic way. But in tiny, brave acts.

I will tell one friend what I’m actually working on, not because I need an accountability partner, but because I need to practice existing in a state of "becoming" in front of someone else.

I will play that song I love, loudly, with the windows down.

I will try to silence the voice that preemptively calls my own interests "silly" or "weird."

I will remember that the spotlight effect is a lie—people are far too busy living their own hidden lives to scrutinize mine.

I will do what brings joy to me no matter what anyone thinks of it, make a decision and take accountability for its consequences for my own growth.

This is the work: to believe, deep in my bones, that my journey is worthy of witness, even—especially—in its messy, unfinished state. And that my joy is valid simply because it is my joy.

Our growth and our delight are not meant to be secret. They are the very things that make us human. It’s time to stop hiding them away.

With love and solidarity,

-Introspection333.