Recently, I posted a video explaining why I won’t be attending my 20-year high school reunion. My reasons were a combination of practical considerations, personal preferences, and a few observations I found funny enough to share publicly. Afterward, something occurred to me that was far more significant than whether I would spend Black Friday catching up with people I graduated with in 2006.

The 17-year-old version of me would have been mortified to know that I’d eventually become a woman who willingly shares her unfiltered thoughts with thousands of strangers on the internet–professionally and personally. Not because I had nothing to say back then. Quite the opposite, actually. I’ve always had plenty to say. I just wasn’t particularly interested in giving everybody access to those thoughts, especially when doing so meant opening myself up to criticism, confrontation, or the possibility of being misunderstood.

I was quiet, but I was never shy. I’ve always been a true introvert, and as a neurodivergent person, I’ve also had to be intentional about managing my social energy. High school wasn’t exactly conducive to that. There were so many voices, so much stimulation, and so many people demanding some part of my attention that I often chose to conserve my energy by keeping to myself. Somewhere in my teenager mind, I figured that if I wasn’t talking, perhaps other people would talk less, too. That strategy was hilariously unsuccessful.

Fortunately, I’ve been adopted by my fair share of extroverts over the years. I could enjoy their company without feeling obligated to keep every conversation going. However, what began as a genuine preference for quiet eventually became something more complicated. I got comfortable being the person behind the scenes. I was excellent backstage, behind the camera, and in spaces where my contributions could speak for themselves without requiring me to become the center of attention. Interestingly, I never experienced much stage fright when performing. I was on the dance team. I was on the step team. I would sing in the school’s talent shows. Give me a something rehearsed and I was fine. Ask me to speak publicly as myself, with the possibility that I might say the wrong thing? Now, we had a problem.

For years, I thought I was simply exercising discretion. Truthfully, sometimes I was. Recently, I’ve had to confront an uncomfortable truth about myself. There were times when I wasn’t protecting my peace. I was very cozy protecting my fear. That fear was costing me far more than I realized.

How I Learned to Make Myself Smaller

Growing up in Harlem, I developed a tough exterior pretty early. Harlem wasn’t exactly Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Children could turn an otherwise enjoyable afternoon into an unsolicited roast session without much warning. Whether you called it joaning, playing the dozens, or something else entirely, you learned quickly that having a sharp tongue could be a form of self-defense.

From a young age, I’ve had a particular gift for identifying people’s insecurities, including those of adults, long before I understood what to call that ability. Even as a child, I could often recognize the things people were sensitive about, and I knew exactly how to use that information if someone tried to hurt my feelings. I was also a polite child. I understood that just because I could say something didn’t mean I should. Most of the time, I kept those observations to myself.

Let somebody come for me, though, and I had something for their ass.

In kindergarten, my teacher requested a conversation with my mother. Naturally, my mother assumed something was wrong academically or that I was having serious behavioral issues. As it turned out, the concern was mostly my mouth. My teacher thought I could be unintentionally mean, and she also observed that the way I organized and expressed my thoughts seemed a little advanced for my age.

As I grew older, I became increasingly conscious of how my words affected other people. Although moving from Harlem to the Baltimore suburbs meant adjusting to a different environment, I certainly didn’t retire that tough exterior overnight. Anybody familiar with Baltimore–City or County– can probably understand why. Still, I began taking more responsibility for what I said and how I said it. There was value in that lesson. I believe there still is.

The problem was that I eventually became so concerned with the possibility of saying the wrong thing that I sometimes chose to say nothing at all.

Religion complicated that relationship with my voice. I grew up in the Seventh-day Adventist Church, a denomination whose worldwide policy continues to restrict women’s ordination to gospel ministry, even as women serve in other pastoral and leadership capacities. Those limitations existed alongside a religious environment in which I was learning what was considered appropriate for a young Christian woman. There were expectations about respectability, presentation, obedience, and how a girl should conduct herself.

I wanted to be considered a good Christian girl. I was already learning to measure my words against the feelings and expectations of others, and the religious environment gave me even more reasons to be careful. Then, of all things, I went to college and studied public relations. I chose a profession that places tremendous value on knowing what to say, when to say it, how to say it, and when it’s better to say nothing at all.

In many respects, these experiences taught me valuable lessons about communication, discernment, and accountability. Somewhere along the way, I began applying those lessons to myself so rigidly that I left very little room for imperfection.

I wasn’t only considering whether something needed to be said. I was considering every possible way someone might receive it, what they might think of me afterward, and whether I was prepared to deal with the consequences. That’s an exhausting way to live.

The Opportunities We Lose When We Refuse to Be Seen

One of the most difficult parts of confronting my fear of visibility has been acknowledging how much I participated in my own invisibility. There were plenty of times when I knew I was capable of doing something, sometimes even more capable than the person who ultimately received the opportunity, but I hesitated to put myself forward. I could identify problems, recognize solutions, and see possibilities that other people hadn’t considered. Yet, when the moment came to speak, I’d second-guess myself.

What if I didn’t articulate the idea correctly? What if someone challenged me? What if I sounded too blunt? What if I was wrong?

Eventually, the moment would pass. Someone else would speak. Someone else would volunteer. Someone else would be credited with an idea or entrusted with an opportunity that I might have been perfectly capable of handling. I’d be left wondering why I hadn’t opened my mouth. I felt this most acutely in corporate environments, where the consequences of being overlooked are not always limited to hurt feelings.

As a Black woman, I was already navigating professional spaces where people from other demographics could sometimes get away with being mediocre while I felt an expectation to be exceptional just to earn the same consideration. Those are the lyrics to a song we all learn. Add a reluctance to speak up, and the imbalance becomes even more frustrating.

I watched how easily some people commanded attention, even when they had very little of substance to contribute. Meanwhile, I could be sitting in the same room, qualified to participate in the same conversations, and still find myself being interrupted, spoken over, or treated as though I had nothing valuable to offer. Silence has a way of inviting assumptions.

When people become accustomed to not hearing from you, some begin to believe there’s nothing worth hearing. Others become comfortable dominating conversations because they don’t expect you to challenge them.

Of course, none of that makes disrespect acceptable. People are responsible for how they treat others, regardless of how outspoken those others may be. I had to recognize that my fear was also preventing me from advocating for myself in spaces where I deserved to be heard. I resented it.

I resented being overlooked. I resented watching other people receive recognition. I resented the idea that I had to work so hard to be taken seriously, only to occasionally surrender the floor before I’d even attempted to claim it. More than anything, I resented knowing that sometimes I had made it easier for people to underestimate me.

The cost of that fear wasn’t merely the opportunities I missed. It was the energy I spent replaying situations afterward, imagining everything I should have said. It was the frustration of having ideas that never made it beyond my own mind. It was allowing other people to define my capabilities without giving them the benefit of seeing what I could actually do. Most painfully, it was beginning to wonder whether remaining unnoticed was simply my place in the world.

I don’t believe every missed opportunity was meant for me, nor do I think speaking up guarantees recognition. We know better than that, particularly as Black women. However, I do believe fear kept me from discovering what might have happened if I’d given myself a chance. You cannot receive every opportunity available to you while simultaneously working to ensure nobody notices you exist. At some point, I had to decide whether the temporary comfort of remaining unseen was worth the possibility of spending my life wondering what could have been.

Learning That My Voice Belongs to Me

Over the past year, I’ve become increasingly intentional about challenging my fear of being seen. It wasn’t a sudden transformation, and I certainly didn’t wake up one morning completely unconcerned with what other people thought of me. I began questioning why I was so willing to let hypothetical criticism dictate actual decisions.

One experience that has helped me understand the magnitude of this growth began in early 2025, when I was interviewed for a book about my decision to leave the Seventh-day Adventist Church. My parents are still ministers within the denomination, and I was deeply concerned about the possibility that my experiences and observations might create problems for them. I wanted to tell my story, but I wasn’t entirely comfortable having my name attached to it. So, I used a pseudonym.

The book was published recently, and someone I know who had also participated reached out to ask whether a particular account was mine. She recognized my story despite the name change. Of course, she recognized it. In the time since that interview, I’ve become increasingly comfortable discussing my religious upbringing, my departure from the church, my relationship with ancestral practices, and my interest in challenging the misinformation and demonization surrounding Hoodoo. I’ve been sharing those experiences publicly, under my own name.

She encouraged me to go back and read the chapter, which I hadn’t yet done, and consider how much I’d grown. What struck me was that there was nothing in that interview I wouldn’t be willing to publish under my own name today. My perspective hadn’t undergone some dramatic reversal. I hadn’t discovered a more socially acceptable way to explain myself.

What changed was my willingness to be associated with my own truth.

I still care about how my words affect other people, including my family. I still believe in exercising discernment and considering the consequences of what I share. Yet, I’ve come to understand that I cannot spend my entire life making myself smaller to protect other people from the discomfort of knowing who I am. Embracing this truth has created room for a different kind of abundance in my life.