The first time someone told me, “You’re hard to read,” I didn’t think much about it. After all, I grew up in Japan, where subtlety speaks louder than directness. My high school crush once offered me half his katsu sandwich, and neither of us said a word about how splitting a sandwich was basically a marriage proposal. That’s how things worked: nuanced, quiet, and brimming with unsaid meaning. But when I moved to Canada in my late twenties and dipped into the dating pool, my subtle charm became, well, a liability.

Imagine this: You’re standing by a lake, skipping stones, only to realize the lake in question is actually a tidal wave coming straight for you. That’s what it felt like when someone told me I had about as many emotional tells as a poker-playing robot. What started as a cultural quirk—a quiet grace, a little mystery—ended up alienating potential partners who wanted clarity, not guesswork, about how I felt. Slowly, quietly, I found myself veering into dangerous territory: I was building walls so high that even I couldn’t see over the top.

And here’s where the real battle unfolded—the one I fought in secret.

The Fortress I Didn't Know I Built

Let’s zoom in for a second to my late twenties. I was living in Vancouver, drinking matcha lattes before everyone started adding oat milk to them. My life seemed idyllic to outsiders: scenic hikes, weekend trips to coastal islands, and perfectly edited Instagram posts that made me look like a free spirit. Inside, though, was another story.

I wasn’t afraid of love, per se. What scared me was vulnerability. I’d been taught to believe (or maybe picked it up through sheer osmosis) that showing too much—of your feelings, your failures, your frustrations—was a sign of weakness.

So I became a master at saying things without really saying them. A date would tell me about a childhood memory, and I’d respond with something so vague, it would fit nicely on a fortune cookie: “It’s amazing how the past shapes us all.” (Cue me cringing at myself.) Genuine connection felt elusive, not because I didn’t want it, but because it required something I was consciously avoiding: letting someone truly see me.

When You’re Your Own Worse Wingperson

One memorable date broke me out of this cycle—or at least gave me my first wake-up call. Let’s call him Jake. Jake was a museum exhibit designer with an encyclopedic knowledge of pizza styles. He was charming, attuned, and refreshingly open—a walking rom-com hero in plaid.

During dinner, he asked me a deceptively simple question: “What’s something you’re afraid of?”

My mind raced. Dare I discuss my fear of failure? My worry about never quite fitting into Western ideals of big, bold emotional openness? Nope. Instead, I blurted, “I really don’t like spiders.” A blatant cop-out. Jake smiled politely but didn’t press. It wasn’t the moment that sank the imaginary ship of ‘us,’ but it was a defining one. Weeks later, when we amicably parted, he mentioned that while I was kind and interesting, I always seemed one step removed, like a spectator in my own life.

Ouch.

The "Great Unlearning" of Emotional Self-Censorship

The realization set in slowly—like a hairline crack in a teacup that eventually splinters into a full break. My instinct to hold back, to avoid discomfort or rejection, wasn’t just “me being me.” It was me creating distance from the very thing I longed for: intimacy.

Here’s the kicker, though: I didn’t want to suddenly transform into someone else. (Can you imagine me at karaoke night belting out raw emotional monologues in-between Taylor Swift ballads? I cannot.) What I wanted was balance—a way to lower the metaphorical drawbridge of my defensive fortress without burning the entire thing down.

So I turned to the one place where I always found answers growing up: books. Except instead of Haruki Murakami’s surreal love stories, I opted for work focused on radical honesty and vulnerability. Brené Brown became my reluctant guru, and I devoured “Daring Greatly” like it was the last slice of cake at a wedding reception. Her central message hit me hard: To truly connect, you must be willing to take emotional risks—not just safe ones disguised as “playing it cool.”

Three Lessons That Changed the Way I Approach Relationships

Implementing this change took time. Think of it as peeling an onion—there were layers and lots of metaphorical crying along the way. But eventually, I found some guiding principles that helped me show up as my authentic self.

  1. Ditch the “Perfect” Persona
    Perfection is the enemy of intimacy. I used to think my dates needed to see me as poised and polished, but what they really wanted was realness. Now, I own my awkwardness. Did I once accidentally bow at an airport, mixing up Canadian customs with my Japanese roots? Yes. Do I tell the story to lighten the mood? Absolutely.

  2. Name the Feeling, No Matter How Small
    One exercise that helped me involved simply naming how I felt in the moment. “This is exciting, but I’m a little nervous,” became my go-to phrase on dates. It broke the ice, fostered conversation, and—most importantly—kept me from retreating into my emotional fortress.

  3. Stop Reading Minds
    Here’s a universal truth I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t grasp earlier: People cannot read your mind. If you want them to know you’re having a good time—or you’re interested—say it. Double texting isn’t a faux pas; it’s communication.

From Flirt to Familiar: Building True Connection

Fast forward a few years, and I’m now living a life that feels truer to myself. Vulnerability didn’t erase my quirks or my heritage, but it gave me new tools to connect in deeper ways. I no longer default to spider stories or vague dialogue on dates. Instead, I lean into the complicated, awkward, joyful mess of being human.

Here’s how I see it now: Authenticity is not about proving your worth or revealing your deepest secrets to a stranger over tapas. It's about showing up as the most honest version of yourself in any given moment—frizzy hair, questionable jokes, and all.

The battle I fought in secret—a fight with my own storytelling instincts—taught me that vulnerability is strength in disguise. And while it doesn’t guarantee a perfect love story, it does open the door for connection: genuine, messy, and real.

And honestly? I’ll take that over half a katsu sandwich any day.