Who are you when no one is watching?

Come sit with me for a moment.

Not as the title you carry or the role you play.

But as the quiet hum beneath it all.

The version of you that hums old songs to feel whole.

Who talks to God in whispers, and begs him to hear your heart when the words won’t form.

That person who showers in the dark to find solitude.

Tell me― who are you when no one is watching?

Not the person they expect you to be or who you post on the internet.

But the one who shows up when there’s simply silence and breath.

Those are the moments where we find our truest self―the one who lurks in the shadows, careful not to offend with their natural ways. Not for the performance, but for the presence.

And baby, the presence is sacred.

Humanity has a stipulation that requires every person to have an opinion, and from those opinions we tend to get smaller and further away from ourselves.

Breastfeeding moms don’t feel comfortable doing so in public because of criticism. There are those who steer clear of discussions of religious/ spiritual practices because they will crucify you for them.

In this big, bad world of free will, they told you that your truth was too much. That your essence needed softening.

You started wearing your hair a certain way, but really you adored how it was. You ate smaller portions because “that’s just too damn greedy”.

You laughed at an inappropriate conversation because you didn’t want “them” to be offended.

All while going against yourself to appease the people crave, the end of the day, same as you.. so they can remove the mask and just be.

I’ve worn masks so well I forgot what my own face felt like.

There were seasons I smiled just to survive the room.

I dimmed my laughter, softened my stance, and let people define me

because it felt safer than standing alone in truth.

And the truth was―I enjoyed going out, just not in places where glamor was my ticket in. I was a morning person, but too anxious at night―haunted by features that never came. It wasn’t that I was rude or unkind, I’d simply spent many years feeling unheard so my stance was unmoving. Drinking wasn’t something I always wanted to do, but it made me less socially awkward.

There were rooms I wanted to be invited into, so I allowed things to slide.

My visions were never too high or out of reach. It wasn’t the dream that made them uncomfortable― it was the fact that I believed in them anyway.

There was no grand awakening. No lightning bolt of clarity.

Just a quiet moment—

maybe in the shower, maybe in the mirror—

where I realized I was tired of playing versions of myself

just to keep the peace in rooms I didn’t even feel safe in.

The turning point was gentle.

It looked like silence instead of explanation.

It looked like wearing the outfit I loved, even if it turned heads.

It looked like saying “no” without the essay behind it.

Like laughing when I wanted, crying when I needed, and not apologizing for either.

It didn’t all change overnight.

But I started showing up a little more honestly.

Not louder. Not bolder.

Just… me.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

As children, we don’t criticize ourselves.

We move from instinct, not insecurity.

And we were better for it.

I remember being about seven, sitting beside my grandmother in church.

The collection plate came around, and in my tiny hand, I held one dollar and one penny.

After church, I had plans―french fries from McDonald’s.

So I gave the church the penny, and tucked the dollar away.

My grandmother couldn’t believe it.

She looked at me like I had done something wrong,

and when I told her, “It’s all I have,” she called me selfish.

Said God would be disappointed in me.

But I wasn’t holding out. I was doing what felt right―

giving to God, giving to myself.

I wasn’t thinking about her pocketbook or how things were supposed to look.

I was just being honest.

Was I a selfish child?

No.

I was a child who didn’t do what someone expected of me―

I did what felt fair, what felt true.

So now I ask:

How do we get back to that?

To that knowing. That clarity. That inner compass that says―

“I don’t have to give it all away to be worthy, and I don’t have to measure my goodness against anyone else’s moral compass just to make it through this life.”

So if no one is watching―

no applause, no approval, no eyes to impress―

who do you choose to be?

The one who feels deeply?

The one who laughs too loud?

The one who gives, but not past the point of depletion?

That version of you deserves to exist.

Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unmoved by the expectations of others.

So take the mask off.

Loosen the grip.

Return to the child who gave the penny and kept the dollar―

not out of selfishness, but out of trust in their own wisdom.

You are still that child.

And that child was never wrong.