Do you need anything?
Most people have no idea who we really are.
And maybe that’s not their fault.
It’s easy to mistake fluency for depth. A curated wardrobe for identity. A well-timed laugh for presence. In a world that rewards presentation over pause, we’ve learned how to mask to adapt our pain into palatable anecdotes, our longing into lifestyle, our survival into style.
I think about how many people turn to AI now just to speak… to this interface, this “invisible room” and say things they’ve never told anyone. Things that stay stuck in their throats in real life. A miscarriage. A panic attack they covered up with concealer. The fact that they’re scared their partner doesn’t actually know them— not really. Not the version without the smile. Not the one who grieves out loud.
And still, they show up. They write. They ask. They confess.
Because we’re all carrying more than we’re posting. There is no filter for internal contradiction. No highlight reel for the days when you feel nothing and everything at once. No algorithm that rewards nuance.
It’s not that people don’t care. It’s that most of us weren’t taught how to stay with discomfort long enough to witness someone else’s truth. We’re fluent in polite deflection. In fixing instead of feeling. In saying, “Let me know if you need anything,” with no actual plan for what to do if the answer is “I do.”
The masks come on early.
We learn to wear them for safety, for acceptance, for applause.
But the danger is when we forget where the mask ends and the self begins.
Psychologists call it “false self syndrome.” It’s what happens when your outward persona becomes so rehearsed that even you begin to believe it. When people love the version of you that’s always okay, always performing, always earning her seat at the table and you stop asking whether you actually want to be there.
But deep down, most people are aching to be seen.
Not admired. Not assessed. Just understood.
The irony is that we’re all performing alone in front of each other.
You’re posting about strength while crumbling quietly.
They’re making jokes in the group chat while wondering if anyone would notice if they left.
You’re texting back “I’m good, just tired” because the real answer is too complex for 3:47 p.m. on a Tuesday.
And yet.
Some part of us still hopes someone will ask again.
Will look twice.
Will notice that the joke was a deflection, that the silence was a shield, that the curated joy is hiding something more human underneath.
Authenticity isn’t about oversharing.
It’s about telling the truth when it matters.
It’s about pausing before you auto-reply with the version of you that performs best.
It’s about risking being misunderstood in order to be real.
It’s about the quiet bravery of saying:
“Actually, I’m not fine.”
“Actually, that hurt.”
“Actually, I don’t know who I am without the role I’ve been playing.”
And trusting that someone, somewhere, will still stay.
Not because you impressed them.
But because they recognized something they lost in themselves a long time ago.