The Version of Me You Don't See

Every day, every screen seems to be telling us how to become a “better version” of ourselves. People are “locking in,” becoming “unrecognizable,” and sharing the “five habits that changed my life forever.” My feed is stuffed with loud promises, dramatic before-and-afters, and excited boys and girls proudly showing off the results of their healthy lifestyles, perseverance, and determination.

Sometimes I find it genuinely inspiring. Sometimes I laugh and secretly judge it. And sometimes the toxic positivity gets on my nerves so much that I mute the content altogether... only to come back to it a week later.

I think self-improvement is part of human nature, and the internet has made it incredibly easy to learn almost anything. But it’s also made it incredibly easy to create a beautiful, polished version of yourself while your real life remains a complete mess behind the scenes.

The funny thing is, I once realized I’d fallen into exactly the same trap — just from the opposite direction.

I posted a photo on Instagram months ago. I don’t even remember what it was. A few seconds later, a friend texted me:

“If I didn’t know what you were actually going through, I’d think you had the perfect life.”

That message stayed with me.

Without even trying, I had created a version of myself that looked happier than I actually was.

Substack feels different from Instagram. I don’t post carefully curated photos here. Instead, I share my thoughts, my stories, and little pieces of my soul. But maybe that’s just another kind of curation.

Based on what I’ve written, some of you have probably built an image of me.

Self-aware.

Emotionally mature.

Supportive.

Positive.

Someone who always reflects before acting.

Someone who’s got it all figured out.

I don’t.

So today I feel strangely responsible for ruining that illusion.

Here are a few things I secretly do when nobody’s watching.

Count on your fingers if you do them too. Let’s see how much we actually have in common.

First of all, contrary to what my essays might suggest, I rarely think before I act. Most of the time, I think afterwards. What you read here isn’t careful planning — it’s me trying to understand the consequences of decisions I’ve already made. If I had thought everything through beforehand, I probably wouldn’t have written half of my essays.

I ghost people.

Sometimes I genuinely forget to reply. Sometimes I stare at a message for three days because I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I don’t have enough emotional energy to keep another conversation going. And sometimes I simply disappear because everything feels like too much.

I’m sorry, dear people.

I get offended surprisingly easily and can hold a grudge for much longer than I’d like to admit. One of my recent essays is probably enough evidence. I’m much more sensitive than sensible.

I don’t have a healthy morning routine or a mindful evening routine. I don’t meditate. I don’t journal. I don’t wake up at five in the morning to watch the sunrise while drinking lemon water.

I do yoga because my body desperately needs to stretch after sleep, not because I’m trying to align my chakras or set an intention for the day. I don’t write morning pages. I don’t do digital detoxes before bed or on weekends.

There. I finally admitted that to myself — and now to all of you too.

Not every person who shares their problems with me automatically gets my sympathy.

Sometimes I honestly want to shake them and say, “Please, just look in the mirror. That’s where the problem starts.”

It’s still difficult for me to accept that some people don’t actually want advice. They don’t want change. They simply want someone to witness their pain, and that’s enough for them.

I’m still learning that those are two very different things.

I worry about what other people think of me.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Will people like what I’ve written?

Will anyone relate?

Will I be misunderstood?

Ignored?

Am I explaining myself clearly enough?

Should I rewrite this sentence one more time?

(Yes. Probably this one too.)

I procrastinate the things that could actually change my future because they’re scary, complicated, and make my impostor syndrome scream the loudest. Instead, I do the things I’m already good at because they feel safe — even when I know they won’t take me where I actually want to go.

Sometimes I behave like a coward.

And finally...

Sometimes I don’t like myself very much.

Even though I constantly tell other people it’s okay not to be okay.

Even though I encourage people to show themselves grace and compassion.

Even though I write about accepting ourselves.

I’m still human.

I still forget to follow my own advice.

None of this is particularly shocking. None of these confessions make me a terrible person. But admitting them to myself is uncomfortable enough.

Admitting them to hundreds — or maybe one day thousands — of people around the world feels even scarier.

Maybe this list changes the way you see me.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe it simply makes me look a little more human.

And honestly, I’d rather be known honestly than admired from a distance.

So now it’s your turn.

What’s one thing about yourself that people would never guess if they only knew you through the internet?

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