The Version of Me No One Knew

I used to wear a smile that looked real—even to me.

I was the strong one. The reliable one. The “I’m okay” person, even when I wasn’t. People saw me as calm, helpful, always in control. But they didn’t see the quiet battles I was fighting behind closed doors.

There was a version of me no one really knew.

She was softer, quieter, and unsure. She didn’t like crowds—not because she was shy, but because they made her feel invisible. She nodded politely, even when she disagreed. She smiled at jokes that weren’t funny and kept her hurt behind tired eyes. She wasn’t fake. She was just afraid of being fully seen.

I thought if I showed the real me—raw, uncertain, emotional—people would leave. So I gave them the version I thought they could love. The always-smiling, always-strong, always-fine version. But I was tired.

Tired of pretending I had it all together.

Tired of minimizing my feelings because others had it “worse.”

Tired of being praised for strength when inside, I was quietly falling apart.

One evening, I sat alone. My phone was off. The house was quiet. And I felt everything I had been avoiding come to the surface. For the first time, I didn’t run from it. I let the silence speak. I asked myself a question I had never dared to ask before: “What would it feel like to just be me?”

I didn’t have an answer. And that scared me.

I had spent so many years becoming who others needed that I had forgotten who I was without the mask.

So I started small.

I said “no” when I didn’t want to say “yes.” I allowed myself to rest without guilt. I stopped explaining my every feeling, every need, every decision. I let myself cry, not because I was weak, but because I was finally giving myself permission to feel.

I stopped measuring my worth by how much I could carry for others. I stopped proving I was enough.

Instead, I started believing it.

I began to enjoy my own company. I went on long walks with no destination. I sat in cafés with a book, not caring who was watching. I wrote thoughts down just to understand myself better. I learned to listen to my own voice—the one I had silenced for so long.

Not everyone understood this change. Some missed the version of me who was easy to please, always agreeable, always available. But I wasn’t here to keep being what I wasn’t. I was here to become who I truly am.

There’s something powerful about becoming the version of yourself that once felt unsafe to be.

And if I could give you just one line to carry with you—a line worth wearing on your skin or keeping close to your heart—it would be this:

"You are not too much; you were just never in the right room."

Let that line remind you of your worth.

Because the version of you that cries, laughs too loudly, says what they feel, or simply wants peace—that version deserves to exist fully.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I no longer search for flaws. I see a person learning, healing, and finally allowing herself to be loved—first by herself.

I’m not perfect. I’m not done growing. But for the first time, I’m not hiding.

And that feels like coming home.