An Anonymous Journal Entry
I don’t think I’ve ever admitted this before not even to myself.
But here it is: I have spent the last ten years being the second-best version of myself.
Not the worst. Not broken. But… edited. Cropped. Dimmed.
I’ve learned to perform just enough light to make people comfortable, but not too much to make them question their own. You see, I was raised to be the “supporting cast,” the reliable one. The one who claps loudest for others but whispers when it’s her own turn to shine.
And it worked. Too well.
People adore me for being “low-maintenance.” They say I’m “so easy to work with.” Teachers liked me. Bosses praised me. Friends leaned on me like I was furniture. No one ever had to worry about me taking up too much space or asking for too much.
But now, I think I might be imploding under the weight of my own silence.
The irony? I’m incredibly talented. In the kind of way that makes people pause. But I learned early on that shining comes with consequences. When I was 11, I got the lead in a school play and my then-best friend stopped talking to me for a week. In my family, being too ambitious was “doing too much.” And in church, women were praised for humility, not visibility. So, I learned to pull back. Let others go first. Dim the wattage. Smile even when I knew the answer better than anyone in the room.
These days, I find myself observing women who take up space. Not with arrogance, but with ease. The ones who say, “I want this,” and don’t follow it with a nervous laugh. I used to silently roll my eyes at them. Now, I know I envied them.
I’ve started doing small experiments, micro rebellions. Saying what I really think in team meetings. Wearing red lipstick even when I’m not going anywhere. Telling people, I’m tired instead of pretending I’m fine. And you know what? The world didn’t collapse.
In fact, someone told me yesterday that I looked “different.” I smiled and said thank you but inside, I whispered, I think I’m finally arriving.
I don’t know what this next version of me looks like fully, but she’s louder. Bolder. Hungrier. And she doesn’t apologize for it.
Maybe I’ll never be the kind of woman who walks into a room and owns it without second-guessing. But I can be the one who walks in and refuses to shrink.
So, this is my confession not of guilt, but of awakening.
I’m done being the supporting character in my own life.
I’m tired of shrinking to fit.
It’s time to take up space.
Last month, I got passed up for a promotion I know I deserved. My manager said I “wasn’t assertive enough,” that the role needed someone who could own space confidently. I laughed politely; told her I understood. But in the Uber ride home, I cried behind my sunglasses. Because I did understand, I had trained everyone around me to see me as small.
And the truth is, part of me liked being invisible. There’s a strange comfort in being overlooked. No pressure. No high expectations. You don’t have to fail if you don’t really try. Right?
But there’s also this hunger, raw and restless, that wakes me up at 2 a.m. and asks, “What if you stopped pretending?”
What if I wrote the book that’s been sitting on my Google Drive for three years?
What if I said no more often and didn’t explain?
What if I started dressing like the woman I imagine, instead of the one who fits in?
What if I let myself want more?
