. . .
There’s a quiet kind of exhaustion that comes from always trying to be palatable. Not likable. Palatable. Easy to digest. Not too neurotic. Not too honest. Not too intense. Not too needy. Not too loud in your longing.
I didn’t realize how much of my energy went into this until I started paying attention to the moments I felt strangely drained after being around people I care about. Nothing “bad” had happened. There was no obvious conflict or rejection on either side. Just that familiar heaviness; the kind that settles in when you’ve been subtly editing yourself in real time.
What I’ve come to understand is that self-abandonment doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like smiling when you feel broken inside. Or downplaying your excitement. Or swallowing a truth because you don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.
We’re taught, often unconsciously, that belonging is something we earn by being agreeable. That love is maintained through self-monitoring. That being “too much” is a liability.
But the cost of that belief is steep.
Because every time we trade authenticity for approval, we send ourselves the message that who we are, as we are, is not enough.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about values; something Brené Brown speaks about often — not as lofty ideals, but as practical anchors. When you take the time to name what truly matters to you, decision-making becomes clearer. Boundaries feel less confusing. You stop negotiating with yourself quite so much.
For me, everything keeps circling back to a few core values: self-integrity, depth, and freedom. Integrity in staying aligned with who I am. Depth in choosing meaning over performance. Freedom in allowing myself agency — in my relationships, my work, and the way I move through the world. When I abandon myself to be palatable, I violate every one of those values at once.
The moments I’ve felt most connected, most grounded, most alive, have never come from performing. They’ve come from telling the truth. From naming the fear. From letting my voice shake. From saying the thing that might not land perfectly, but is undeniably real.
Vulnerability is often framed as exposure. As if it’s about laying everything bare. But for me, vulnerability has become much simpler and much braver than that.
It’s the willingness to stop curating yourself.
To say, this is where I am today.
This is what I actually feel.
This is what matters to me.
This is what I’m still learning.
There is so much courage in allowing yourself to be seen without knowing how you’ll be received. It asks you to loosen your grip on control and trust that the right connections won’t require you to disappear. And not everyone will meet you there.
Some people prefer the version of you that stays quiet. The one who doesn’t ask for much. The one who makes it easy for them to remain unchanged.
Letting go of that version can feel like a loss. Sometimes it is. But what you gain is far more important: self-respect. Alignment. A nervous system that no longer has to stay on high alert, scanning for approval.
I’m learning that authenticity isn’t about being fearless. It’s about being willing. Willing to show up imperfectly. Willing to risk misunderstanding and sit with uncertainty.
Because the people who are meant to meet you, and I mean really meet you, can only find you if you stop hiding.
And that, I’m realizing, is where real belonging begins.
. . .
Photo by Vadim Koza on Unsplash
Subscribe to Old Soul Searching and get more motivational insights straight to your inbox!