I Almost Deleted My Writing Life: When Anonymity Slipped Away

It finally happened — the moment I had quietly feared since the day I published my first story online under a name that wasn’t mine.

Someone from my real life found me.

It started with a notification. A new follower on my writing Instagram account. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But the name... the name was familiar. Too familiar. It was someone I went to school with. We hadn’t spoken in years, but now, somehow, they had stumbled into the safe little world I had built away from everything.

And suddenly, I felt exposed.

I went into full panic mode. Deactivated my writing social media accounts — Instagram, Threads, even the old X (Twitter) one that I barely touched. I removed my profile picture from my Vocal account and replaced it with something generic. I edited my bio, deleted personal sign-offs, and tried to scrub anything that connected the writer-me to the everyday-me.

It felt dramatic, sure. But it was my first instinct — erase the trail. Hide. Bury the version of me I had been brave enough to share with strangers but never with people I actually knew.

For a split second, I even considered deleting my entire writing account — over five years’ worth of stories, thoughts, and confessions. Dozens of pieces that readers had connected with, commented on, shared. Could I really let it all go just because one person I knew followed a few digital breadcrumbs?

I hovered over the “delete account” button for longer than I care to admit.

The Double Life of a Writer

My pen name isn’t just an aesthetic choice. It’s protection. It’s permission. It’s a line I drew to separate the version of me that follows rules and expectations from the version of me that’s honest and free.

Under that name, I’ve written about things that still feel too risky to say out loud to people in my personal life. I’ve shared stories of identity and belief, of heartbreak, of hope, of being lost and trying to find meaning. I’ve written about things that make me proud — and things that make me feel painfully vulnerable.

Some people think that writing anonymously is about hiding. But for me, it’s been the opposite. It’s where I’ve shown the most of myself.

So when someone from my offline world stepped into that sacred space uninvited, it felt like something sacred had been touched.

What Was I Afraid Of?

I asked myself that question more than once over the next few days. What was I so scared would happen?

I think the answer is... I’m afraid that people won’t understand the version of me they don’t already know. I’m afraid they’ll try to shrink me down to one label, one sentence, one vulnerable line I wrote at 2 a.m.

In my personal life, I’m not always the brave one. I still go to family gatherings where I smile politely and say nothing when conversations brush up against topics I’ve written whole essays about. I still sit in rooms where I play a role because it feels safer than telling the whole truth.

But online, as a writer, I’m honest. Unfiltered. Human. Sometimes raw. Sometimes messy. But always me.

So no — I didn’t delete my account. I didn’t kill the writer I’ve worked hard to become.

A Quiet Return

I still haven’t reactivated all my social accounts. I’m giving myself time. I want to feel safe again before I share pieces of my soul with strangers on Instagram. But I haven’t stopped writing. I never could.

If you’re reading this, you’re already part of the version of me that’s braver. You’re in the world where I don’t hide behind silence. You’re where I come alive.

I don’t know when — or if — I’ll ever feel ready to fully merge the online and offline versions of myself. But I do know this: I’m done being ashamed of either.

I’m both.

And I’m not deleting anything.