Some fears are straightforward: snakes, public speaking, or the eerie way clowns never quite blink enough. And then there are fears so tangled in who you are, they feel less like fears and more like truths you quietly carry. For me, that fear was this: I was terrified of being truly seen. Not the curated, well-organized version of myself I presented to the world, but the messy, wandering, contradictory person I was underneath.

The fear was shaped by years of living between cultures, where every interaction felt like a balancing act. In Alexandria, I was the dreamy girl with too much French in her accent. In Paris, I was the Egyptian girl who brought grape leaves to school when everyone else had ham and cheese baguettes. I learned to adapt, to fit, to mold myself into just enough of this and a pinch of that. It worked. Or so I thought.

But life, much like an overeager romantic partner, has a way of calling your bluff. And for me, it happened in the most universal of situations: a relationship.

Living in the Shadows of Perfection

They always tell you relationships teach you about yourself. What they fail to mention is how thoroughly annoying—and uncomfortable—that learning process can be. I met Layla (not her real name) at a French-language book club in London, where we bonded over our shared love of Simone de Beauvoir. She was sharp, warm, and one of those disarmingly honest people who could say something deeply personal with the ease of someone commenting on the weather. (“One day, I’ll die alone with my cats, but at least I’ll have great syntax,” she quipped once, and I laughed too hard because I secretly felt the same.)

We fell into an easy romance, one filled with long walks by the Thames and debates over baklava versus mille-feuille (baklava wins, by the way). But as things deepened, Layla wanted more. More of me—the real me. Not the curated Zahra who knew how to charm a room using just the right stories and a perfectly timed laugh.

“What scares you?” she asked over dinner one night, carelessly nosing around my soul while the waiter poured us wine. I froze. Like a moth in a jar, I panicked, searching for an escape route.

“Hmm,” I said, swirling my glass. “Running out of books to read?”

This deflection worked for a while—that is, until it didn’t. Layla wasn’t unkind, but she wasn’t naïve either. She knew I was playing safe, and eventually, the relationship fizzled. But what stayed with me wasn’t the breakup—it was the bitter undercurrent of shame. Why couldn’t I just answer the damn question?

The Cost of Hiding

Here’s the thing no one tells you about always trying to appear “put together”: it’s exhausting. Worse, it robs you of true intimacy—whether it’s romantic, platonic, or even just with yourself. My fear of being seen wasn’t just about romantic relationships. It crept into friendships, family dynamics, and, yes, even the mirror.

For years, I couldn’t name the fear. Instead, I called it something else: adaptability, diligence, even cultural sensitivity. Growing up between Egypt and France, I became skilled at people-pleasing without realizing it. I knew exactly how to behave at my grandmother’s dinner table in Alexandria—always eat the last stuffed pigeon—it’s an honor!—and just as precisely how to dodge the sharp tongue of Parisian social critique.

But when your personality becomes a patchwork quilt stitched to suit everyone else, you forget what your original fabric even looks like.

The Turning Point: It Wasn’t Glamorous

If this were a romantic comedy, this is the part where I’d tell you I had a dramatic, tear-soaked epiphany atop the Eiffel Tower under glittering lights. Reality, as it turns out, is far less cinematic. My turning point came while brushing my teeth. Yes, really.

It was one dull Tuesday evening when I was in my London flat, staring at my own reflection. For reasons I don’t entirely understand, I looked myself straight in the eye and whispered (toothpaste foam and all): “Who are you trying to impress?”

It sounds silly, doesn’t it? But here’s the thing about transformation—it’s often sparked by small, embarrassingly human moments. That night, I admitted to myself for the first time that I was tired of pretending. I hadn’t just been afraid of rejection; I’d been afraid of accepting all the messy, imperfect, and sometimes unlikable parts of myself.

The Slow Road to Vulnerability

No fear is conquered overnight—it’s more of an awkward tango where you accidentally step on your own toes. For me, the process started small.

  • Step One: I began journaling. Not for anyone else, not with the idea that my words would someday become part of an inspiring memoir, but just to meet myself on paper. It was messy—half finished sentences, lots of scribbling, and zero coherence. But it was honest.
  • Step Two: I practiced sharing small, vulnerable truths in safe settings. (“Did you know I once failed a French history test so badly the teacher asked if I even lived in this country?”) To my surprise, people leaned in when I shared something real, rather than pulling away.
  • Step Three: I worked on speaking up when I disagreed. (Do you know how terrifying it is to tell an Egyptian aunt that, no, you don’t think marriage is the pinnacle of achievement? It’s like telling a pigeon it should try being a cat for a day.)

And sure enough, these tiny acts of courage started to snowball. Slowly, but surely, I began showing up as my whole self—flaws and all. And let me tell you: it felt glorious. Like pulling off a pair of too-tight shoes after walking in circles for years.

Here’s What I’ve Learned

If you’re afraid of being seen, I want you to know that you’re not alone. And more importantly, overcoming that fear doesn’t mean you have to stand in the town square, baring everything at once. Start small. Be honest with yourself about what you’re hiding—and why.

And if you want something practical to try today? Here’s a quick exercise: Write yourself the cringiest, most brutally honest “about me” paragraph imaginable. Include your quirks, your bad habits, even the things you’d never post on social media. Mine starts with: “I once cried because I messed up a recipe for molokhia (it’s not that hard) and, if given the opportunity, I would eat Nutella straight from the jar forever.”

Let it sit. Read it out loud to yourself. Then, try sharing it with someone you trust. You might be surprised by how freeing it is.

The Best Part of Being Seen

Layla and I never got back together, but her question—what scares you?—stayed with me. For years, I avoided it. But now, the answer isn’t a secret I hide behind humor or curated charm.

The answer is: “The fear that being myself isn’t enough.”

But here’s the wonderful thing I’ve discovered: being real not only deepens your connections but also strengthens the one relationship that matters most—the one with yourself. Flaws and all, there’s extraordinary power in saying: This is me. Take it or leave it.

And trust me, when you take that leap—even if it’s just a tiny jump at first—you’ll realize most people were waiting for the real you all along.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a jar of Nutella to fetch.