The Battle I Fought in Secret

For years, I lived two lives. The polished façade of a “has-it-all-together” Montrealer on one side: the weekend croissants, the McGill degree, the Madeleine Peyroux playlist humming behind dinner parties. On the other side, a much less Instagrammable truth: I was hopelessly stuck in a battle with my own self-worth, particularly when it came to relationships.

I could casually dissect the existential themes in Michel Tremblay’s Chroniques du Plateau-Mont-Royal over a glass of red, but express how I truly felt to someone I cared about? Cue the awkward half-smile and a hasty subject change. Vulnerability was terrifying, and for a long time, I carried that fear quietly, carefully packaging it away under layers of self-deprecating humor and romantic nonchalance.

How did I win the battle? Well, not without a few missteps—one of which involved ugly crying into a bowl of poutine. Let me walk you through it.

Section 1: The Silent Tug-of-War

If you were to open my diary from my early twenties, nestled beside Paris postcards and pressed café receipts, you’d discover page after page of confusion about emotional intimacy. My relationships had a predictable rhythm: start hot, sizzle out the moment things required depth. “Let’s keep it light,” I’d mutter, like I was confusing dating for a summer Aperol Spritz.

I was everyone’s “fun girl.” Easy-going, chatty, flirty. The breezy Francophone vibe was practically my dating strategy. But peeling back that shell? I avoided it like stale macarons. Deep down, I was petrified that if people saw the real me—the one with imperfections, insecurities, and a penchant for overthinking everything—they’d decide I wasn’t worth the investment.

Here’s the kicker: I didn’t even realize I was playing this game with myself. It felt normal. This is just how dating works, right? Spoiler: It’s not. But figuring that out involved some uncomfortable truths.

Section 2: Coffee Dates with My Baggage

I can vividly trace the shift back to one specific moment. It was a polar vortex kind of February. I had just wrapped up a first date with a guy named Étienne. He was thoughtful in that understated, “let me carry your bag without making a big deal about it” kind of way. But as soon as I suspected things could go somewhere, panic set in.

Rather than text him back like any functional human being, I ignored him for days, blaming my schedule (a.k.a. rewatching Amélie for emotional reassurance). One night, a friend flat-out asked, “Why do you keep backing away every time something—or someone—feels real?”

I blinked, shrugged, and changed the subject. But the question lingered in the back of my mind, stubborn as spilled espresso on white denim.

That night, I made a decision. If the problem was me (spoiler: it was), the solution had to come from me, too. And so began the awkward adventure of unpacking why I’d been sabotaging myself in relationships.

Section 3: French Girls Cry, Too

Turns out, self-reflection isn’t sexy. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and often involves more tears than anyone likes to admit. I had to confront truths I’d been sweeping under the rug for years.

Why did I think people would walk away if I was vulnerable? Why did I assume love had to be earned, like some prize at the end of a grueling emotional marathon? Was I doomed to romantic mediocrity, or was there another way to approach this?

The process—while incredibly unglamorous—revealed something important: I’d been outsourcing my sense of worth to external validation. If a Tinder match complimented my smile? Hooray, I’m pretty! If someone ghosted me? Devastation. It was exhausting, like living on a tightrope made of baguette crumbs.

To shift this dynamic, I did what any chaos-prone woman might: I reintroduced myself to myself. Through journaling, therapy, and leaning on a few trusted friends, I explored the parts of me I’d been editing out—my anxieties, my struggles, my biggest fears. And I learned something surprising: none of it was as scary as I’d thought.

Section 4: Rewriting the Narrative

Gradually, I began showing up to dates differently. I stopped performing like some Montreal rom-com lead: the “internationally mysterious, impossibly unattainable protagonist.” It was liberating—like ditching heels for sneakers during a long walk in the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal. Awkward moments, flaws, vulnerability? I let them breathe.

The first time this clicked, I was on a low-key date at a neighborhood café with someone new. Instead of overanalyzing what my date thought, I simply shared how my day was going—stress and all—a huge leap for someone who used to translate her emotions into palatable clichés.

When I admitted my nervousness about a big upcoming project, my date didn’t recoil. Instead, they shared their own struggles with imposter syndrome. By the end of that coffee, it was clear: my honesty didn’t scare people away. It invited them in.

The more I saw vulnerability as a bridge rather than a liability, the more authentic my connections became.

Section 5: Pro Tips for Fighting Your Own Secret Battle

If this resonates with you—if you’ve been keeping the "messy, emotional” parts off-limits in dating—here’s what worked for me:

  • Give yourself permission to be vulnerable. Start small—a sentence here, a truth there. Dip your toes in rather than diving headfirst into the vulnerability pool.

  • Call yourself out (out of love, not judgment). Are you pulling back when things start to feel meaningful? Name it. Awareness is the first step to change.

  • Seek mirrors, not masks. Surround yourself with people who reflect your authentic self, not just the shiny highlights. It’s easier to practice being vulnerable when you’re met with acceptance.

  • Celebrate the mess. Nobody’s life is as curated as their social media account. Let imperfections fuel connection, not fear.

  • Trust that you are enough. You don’t need to be wittier, cooler, prettier, or more self-assured to deserve love. The right person won’t ask you to edit yourself into a more marketable package.

Section 6: The Bittersweet Beauty of Showing Up

Let’s be real: vulnerability is not a quick fix, nor a straight line. Even now, I catch myself pulling back or trying to micromanage perceptions. But the battle no longer feels impossible—it feels worthwhile.

These days, I think of love less like a perfect Parisian snow globe and more like a dynamic mural. It’s imperfect and ever-changing, but there’s vibrancy in the mess. When you stop hiding behind what you think others want to see, you make space for connections that actually feel real.

So, to anyone who’s been quietly fighting their own battle in the arena of self-worth or vulnerability: you’re not alone. I see you, I’ve been you, and I can promise you this—the fight is worth it. Because on the other side isn’t perfection, but something infinitely better: connection, messy and magical, just as you are.