For a long time, rejection felt like something I had to survive rather than something I could name.

On the surface, I told myself I didn’t care what people thought of me. I wore indifference like armor. But underneath, I was constantly watching for signs that I didn’t belong—wasn’t liked, didn’t fit, had said the wrong thing. My self-esteem was fragile. My confidence felt borrowed. I spent an exhausting amount of time replaying conversations and wondering how I came across.

So I stayed quiet. I held my thoughts back. Disagreement felt dangerous. Speaking up felt like an invitation to be exposed as foolish or unwanted. Silence seemed safer.

Over time, that fear narrowed my world. I avoided people. Depression lingered in the background, sometimes loud, sometimes just a hum I couldn’t turn off. Loneliness settled in. I began to see myself as a failure—not because of anything I had done, but because of who I believed I was.

In 2014, after a major depressive episode, something shifted. I was exhausted from carrying the fear. The angst and creeping depression made it impossible to keep pretending I was fine. I didn’t suddenly become brave, but I became motivated—motivated to understand what rejection meant to me, and why it had so much power over my life.

What I’ve come to see, looking back, is that this fear was never just mine. Wanting to belong is deeply human. Being seen—truly seen—comes with risk. Realizing that didn’t erase the fear, but it softened the shame around it.

There were moments where I began to speak, slowly, imperfectly. Moments where I allowed parts of myself to exist outside my own head. Some of those moments were uncomfortable. Some were grounding. All of them were real.

I’m still learning how to hold both my weaknesses and my strengths in the same space. The fear hasn’t vanished completely, but it no longer runs the show the way it once did. When I look back at that version of myself—the quiet one, the lonely one—I don’t judge them. I understand them.

This is just a snapshot of where I am now, looking back at where I was. Not a formula. Not a lesson. Just one person’s journey with fear, belonging, and the slow work of letting themselves be seen.