The Risk of Being Seen
On offense, wisdom, and refusing to disappear
Recently, I was told that something I wrote offended someone.
The last thing I want to do here is offend.
But I did.
Unintentionally.
And when I found out about it, I felt offended too.
Not at them.
At myself.
I immediately went back and reread the piece. Twice. Looking for the sentence. The word. The tone.
I considered deleting it.
I imagined shutting the whole thing down.
Because if no one reads it, no one can misunderstand it.
I do a funny thing when I offend someone.
I give up.
Throw up my hands.
Mumble, “What’s the point?”
And really…
What is the point?
What’s the point of posting here?
I could easily keep these thoughts to myself.
I could write and tuck the pages away somewhere private.
Then they wouldn’t have the chance to offend.
To be misinterpreted.
To potentially hurt.
They wouldn’t expose my insides to the outsides.
The possibility of judgment would be off the table.
And
So
Would
The
Growth.
So would the opportunity to reach someone.
So would the hope that maybe—just maybe—someone feels less alone because I dared to say it out loud.
Do I wish that when something I write doesn’t resonate, people would just click off the page the way they clicked on? That they would take what speaks to them and leave the rest?
Of course I do.
But that’s not how authenticity works.
And here’s the harder part: I have chosen authenticity as a goal.
I have chosen to let people see the parts of me I would rather hide.
Right now, I do that through writing.
Someday I hope I live that kind of openness in every room I walk into.
But for now, my writing is where my insides meet the outside world.
And yes—sometimes that opens me up to judgment.
About why I post.
About what I post.
About my opinions.
About my experiences.
About my life.
When someone critiques me or feels offended by my words, something in me wants to quit.
It makes me want to grab the mask I have been slowly laying down and strap it back on tight.
But…
If I do that, I won't grow.
Here’s what I’m learning:
Being critiqued—being misunderstood—being told I hurt someone—can either show me something I need to address…
Or it can reinforce what I believe.
Either way, it teaches me.
God made me sensitive. I know that about myself. If I am going to show up with a full heart, I expose myself to joy and to sorrow. And it makes me sad to think I hurt someone.
But after the wind gets knocked out of me…
I will get back up.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Because the alternative is worse.
The alternative is hiding.
And sure—I might offend fewer people.
But I will also help fewer people.
And eventually, I will stop helping myself.
I could stop posting here.
I could write only for myself.
I could keep my art safe from critique.
But the truth is, if I stop sharing, eventually I will stop writing.
Not immediately.
But slowly.
Because I feel a responsibility to you.
Whether you read out of curiosity.
Or skepticism.
Or because something I write makes you feel seen.
I feel responsible to show up here.
To wrestle with my own heart on the page.
To let myself be seen more fully.
And being seen is hard.
Glennon Doyle talks about writing as art—and it is. She speaks about how promoting her books feels harder than writing them. She wants the art to speak for itself, the way a painting does. She doesn’t want to have to sit down and explain what she already poured onto the page.
I understand that.
I want you to understand me through my words.
I want the writing to be enough.
Because sometimes explaining the art feels even more vulnerable than creating it.
And I’m not sure I’m fully ready for that level of being seen yet.
But I am ready for this one.
And this one?
Requires courage.
If this resonated, you may also like:
🤍 “Authenticity” — on wanting to be fully yourself while still deeply caring what others think
🤍 “Master Avoider” — the ways hiding can quietly shape our lives
🤍 “Using Your Voice” — why speaking out loud feels more vulnerable than writing on the page
🤍 “Curiosity vs. Being Right” — learning to hold tension without needing certainty
