For as long as I can remember, being seen has been both a longing and a fear. When I was a little girl, I used to love attention in small doses—singing in front of my family, spinning in a new dress, waiting for the kind of clapping that made me feel alive. But as I got older, that innocent desire shifted. I started to notice the weight of eyes on me. I noticed how quickly admiration could turn into judgement, how one comment about my body or my voice could leave a mark that lasted years. Slowly, I learned how to disappear while still being present, how to shrink just enough so I wouldn’t be too much.
I carried that habit of hiding into my teenage years and well into adulthood. I became skilled at reading rooms, at molding myself into what felt acceptable, at laughing softly enough to not be “too loud,” at biting back opinions so I wouldn’t risk sounding foolish. And yet, inside, I ached to be noticed for who I really was. I wanted to be seen, but I didn’t want to risk rejection. Insecurity became a strange kind of shelter—a prison I convinced myself was protection.
Motherhood has magnified this tension in ways I never expected. My son looks at me with eyes that see everything. He doesn’t notice the extra pounds I criticize in the mirror, or the way my voice sometimes trembles when I’m tired. He sees me—messy hair, wrinkled shirt, soft belly and all—and still wants to curl into me like I’m his whole world. That kind of unconditional recognition is both grounding and terrifying. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever be able to see myself the way he does. Other days, I try to borrow his eyes, to practice believing I’m enough simply because I’m his mom, because I show up, because I love him.
And then there’s the mirror of partnership—being seen by someone who knows the ugliest parts of me. I’ve spent so much energy over the years trying to look composed, to sound put together, to be the version of myself I thought would be lovable. But the most intimate moments I’ve ever experienced didn’t happen in my polished states. They happened when my voice cracked mid-argument, when my tears stained his shirt, when I admitted fears I’d bury too long. Being seen in those raw, unscripted moments made me realize that connection isn’t built on performance—it’s built on presence.
I think back on the times I silenced myself in rooms, or let opportunities pass by because I didn’t believe I was ready. All those moments where insecurity convinced me invisibility was safer. But what I’ve learned, slowly, is that invisibility is a thief. It steals joy, it steals connection, it steals the chance to grow roots in places you belong.
Letting go of insecurity for me hasn’t been a sudden revelation—it’s been small, rebellious acts against the version of myself that believed hiding was the only way to survive. Wearing the red lipstick I once thought was “too much.” Posting a photo where my body wasn’t perfectly posed. Speaking up in class even when my hands shook. Writing words that made me nervous to share. Every time I did, I discovered the world didn’t fall apart. Sometimes, I even found people leaning closer, not away.
It’s still not easy. I still have days where I want to retreat into old patterns, where I pick apart every flaw and wonder why I’m not further along. But being seen doesn’t mean erasing insecurity—it means carrying it with gentleness and choosing to show up anyway. It means letting myself exist without constant editing.
The beauty of being seen, I’ve realized, is not about how others see me at all. It’s about how I start to see myself. When I stop hiding, I notice my own strength, my own resilience, the way I’ve survived and softened at the same time. I notice the small victories—the laughter that comes from my chest instead of my throat, the comfort of sitting with silence without needing to fill it, the ease in telling my son, I love you, without silently criticizing myself in the background.
The more I practice visibility, the more I see how it changes the people around me too. When I’m honest about my struggles, my friends open up about theirs. When I allow my imperfections to show, my partner softens into his own vulnerability. When I let my son see me cry, he learns that emotions aren’t something to fear. Being seen becomes less about me and more about the kind of space I create for others to be real too.
I used to believe that being seen required perfection. Now I know it requires courage. And courage doesn’t erase insecurity—it just chooses not to hide behind it.
I still don’t always feel ready for the spotlight, but I no longer confuse invisibility with safety. Being unseen might protect me from judgment, but it also keeps me from love, joy, and connection. So I choose, as best I can, to let myself be visible—to let the shaky voice speak, the imperfect body move, the unfinished self belong exactly as I am.
That, to me, is the beauty of being seen: not the approval that may or may not come from others, but the quiet relief of finally showing up for myself without hiding.
Lanalefay 