What they don’t see is the hesitation sitting in my chest before I even open the message. The way my heart races while my fingers hover over the keyboard. The way I read the same invitation three times, weighing every possible outcome – not because I’m dramatic, but because my body remembers what it’s like to be stuck somewhere I can’t leave, smiling through discomfort I didn’t have words for.

They don’t see me practicing conversations in my head. Rehearsing smiles. Strategizing exits. I scan the emotional temperature of a room before I even enter it. I say yes, but only after I’ve calculated how much of myself I can bring, how much I’ll need to tuck away to make other people comfortable. Because I’ve learned that showing up fully is a luxury most people don’t know how to hold.

So when I show up, it isn’t small. It’s the outcome of a quiet war no one knows I’m fighting. It’s a love offering in disguise – a sign that, for now, I’ve found enough steadiness in my body to try again. But it doesn’t mean it was easy. And it doesn’t mean I’ll always be able to.

Sometimes just being present is an act of courage. Sometimes the hardest part of connection isn’t the being with people – it’s the choosing to risk it in the first place.