There's a quiet kind of fear that doesn't scream or shout. It just whispers, "Don't show them that part of you."
For a long time, I've carried that voice. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Growing up in a strict, deeply religious environment, I learned early what was considered acceptable and what wasn't. What was allowed to be loved, and what was silently erased.
Parts of me (my identity, my imagination, my beliefs) got pushed down. Not always violently, but deeply enough that I started to hide them even from myself. Loving magic felt dangerous. Wondering about the stars felt rebellious. Even who I loved felt like a threat to the world I came from.
And now, as an adult, as a creator, I find myself in this strange, tender place where those hidden parts want to come up for air.
They want to be part of the art I make. The stories I tell. The themes I build my business around. But with them comes this emotional echo: The grief of the hiding, and the fear of what will happen if I stop.
What I've realized recently is this:
Stepping into your truth often feels like grief and courage sitting next to each other.
The grief for the time lost, the hiding, the silence. And the courage to show up anyway. To say, "This is who I am. This is what I love." Even if it's quiet. Even if it's small at first.
I'm learning that both can exist at once. That I can carry sadness for the younger me who had to shrink, while still choosing expansion now. That I can feel scared and still press publish. Still draw the thing. Still follow the theme that feels like me.
So if you're in that in-between space, where your truth feels both heavy and liberating, know that you're not alone. I'm with you. Grieving. Braving. Becoming.