Being authentic means being vulnerable. And being vulnerable? Well, it’s terrifying sometimes.
Especially when you’re neurospicy, live with mental health challenges, or don’t quite fit into the neatly labeled boxes society hands out.
Neurospicy. I’m gender non-conforming, and it’s only recently that I realized that’s a form of queerness, even though I never truly fit into society’s neatly labeled boxes. Spiritual in ways that are different and “weird” or viewed as much worse. A relationship style most people don’t understand. With mental health stuff that isn’t always convenient. Each layer is another reason someone might decide I’m too much.
I’ve spent a lot of my life being told—sometimes outright, sometimes by silence—that certain parts of me weren’t “appropriate.” Not “professional.”
And so I learned to hide.
Mask the quirks. Downplay the feels. Tuck away the messy, raw bits and package ourselves in something a little more… palatable.
I learned to split my life into little fragments: the work version, the friend version, the chosen family version, the public version, the “acceptable” version. Always worried that being fully me would be awkward, or cost me opportunities, or make people walk away.
Because the world often treats honesty like an act of defiance.
It’s like standing on a stage. The lights are hot. You can’t see the crowd. But you know they’ve got a basket of rotten tomatoes just waiting. And the more “different” you are—the more ammo they’ve got.
But here’s the thing: I’m tired of pretending.
I’m choosing to live my truth. I’m choosing candid over curated, even if it makes people squirm. And yeah, it makes me vulnerable—but I’m liking this version of me. The one that doesn’t shrink. The one that doesn’t apologize for being human and complex and full of contradictions.
I won’t pretend just to make other people more comfortable.
It takes time; it’s not all at once. But more and more, I’m finding that being authentic—not the polished version, not the filtered highlight reel—feels right. And it’s worth it, even if it means being vulnerable in front of people who don’t always get it.
I’m not here to perform. I’m here to be.
I like the unarmored me.
About The Author
