“Authenticity doesn’t ask to be liked.
It asks to be lived—fully, quietly, and without apology.”
There is a kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being alone.
It comes from being too much in a world that asks you to be just enough.
Not to overflow. Not to disrupt. Not to ask for too much space.
Just nod. Smile. Dim the light a little.
I’ve worn masks so long, even I forget they’re there—
layers of careful smiles, stitched with silence.
A practiced nod here, a softened truth there.
A joke to hide the wound. A shrug instead of the cry.
Not to deceive—only to endure.
Because being real?
It costs.
Not in currency, but in connection.
Authenticity draws in—but it also pushes away.
Not everyone can breathe air that raw.
Not everyone has the lungs for it.
So I shrink.
Not because I want to—
But because I’m tired.
Tired of people leaving when I grow.
Tired of explaining myself to ears that never truly ask.
Tired of translating the language of my soul
into something sweeter, smaller, safer.
It’s not that I’ve stopped loving people—
Only that I’ve stopped loving the performance.
The real loss isn’t interest in others.
It’s the weariness of pretending to be less than I am.
And still—beneath all this—there’s a voice I trust.
A knowing.
I am not broken.
I am early.
Early to a circle that sits in silence and still hears me.
Early to a presence that doesn’t flinch at the weight of truth.
Early to a love that speaks my native tongue.
So I wait.
But I do not shrink.
I let the mask slip.
I let the ones who leave, leave.
Because I would rather be real and alone
than admired and unknown.
And one day—maybe not soon, but surely—
I will meet a soul who breathes the same air I do.
And they will say:
“You’re not too much.
You’re just not theirs.”
Because maybe that’s what the nod was always meant to become—
Not a bowing of the head in surrender,
but a quiet return to the self.
A signal. A whisper.
A remembering.
Not everyone will understand.
But the ones who do—they don’t need explanations.
They just sit with you.
In the silence. In the rawness. In the light undimmed.
This is the journey back.
Not to people.
But to the parts of you that waited patiently beneath the mask.
The truth that stayed soft.
The love that never flinched.
The self that never stopped nodding back.
You’re not broken. You’re early.
And if you’re still learning to live without performing,
you may find something steady in
This Is Not a Performance.