As a child I was loud, assertive, confident, and unapologetic. I shared my voice loudly, making sure everyone knew what I believed to be true. I shared my body boldly, making up dances and performing them as if I was a trained professional. I shared my emotions courageously, kicking and screaming on the floor every time my mom left for work. Being seen felt like breathing. No second thoughts, no overthinking, no questions about whether or not it was a good thing.

But somewhere along the line, being seen no longer felt like breathing. Instead, it felt like panic. It felt like shame, like all eyes on you, like laughing classmates, like harsh words, like distress. It felt dangerous. No longer loud, assertive, confident or unapologetic. I kept my voice quiet, speaking only when necessary. What if my thoughts and opinions were stupid? I kept my body hiding, wearing clothes that would cover me up. What if they laughed at my shape? What if they judged the way I moved? I kept my emotions buried, letting them out only behind closed doors for my teddy bear to see. What if they knew I was weak? What if they didn’t even care.

Somewhere along the line I learned that it was better not to be seen. It was safer. It would protect me. I’ve carried the weight of hiding since then. I’ve battled this internal conflict of wanting to stay safe, but also wanting to be seen and accepted. The need to stay safe and the need to be seen at wits with each other constantly.

As I reflect on my relationship with being seen, and attend to the way its lead to bodily manifestation of sheer anxiety, I realize that for me, coming out is way more about being seen than it is about being different. Being queer means not blending in. And not blending in means being seen. And being seen is dangerous. It’s vulnerability, its relinquishing power, and it’s opening a door to possible pain and rejection. I love the love I’ve experienced. I loved the sense of calmness that flooded my body and soul when I laid my head on her chest at night. I loved the smell her of perfume on her neck, I loved the way her skin felt so soft and smooth, I loved the sound of her voice. I loved the tenderness of her innate femininity. I love the love that we shared. I wish I shared my love for her, I wish I held her hand in the street, I wish I kissed her in front of beautiful sunsets. I am not ashamed to be queer. In fact, I like being different and I would never trade the love I’ve experienced with her for the luxury of being straight. I simply hate to be seen. It feels as though holding her hand, kissing her cheek, and sharing pictures of her sweet smile would make me a spectacle. It would mean that people would notice me. Straying from the norm means being seen. And being seen feels dangerous. So what do you do when you aren’t afraid to be queer, but you are afraid to be seen? Is it the same thing? And at the end of the day does it even matter? Maybe, ironically, as I sit here and worry about what might happen if I were to be seen, everyone else is too busy worrying about what might happen if they were to be seen to really even notice.