Don't Perceive Me

The Cost of Being Seen

I hate being perceived incorrectly, but I might hate being ignored more. Attention is a double-edged sword - I craved it, then resented it.

To be perceived is something I struggle with more and more as I get older. When I was younger, all I wanted was attention—to be noticed—because I knew I shone, but I never felt fully seen. I wanted to be recognized for my looks, my personality, my style, my intelligence—just seen. I didn’t lack confidence, but I still craved validation for the things I already knew to be true. Knew I was the shit but still wanted it to be confirmed.

For years, I existed in a strange limbo—a young girl full of confidence, full of so much, yet never feeling fully acknowledged. There were moments, here and there, where others would catch a glimpse of my light, and those small moments brought me joy.

And then, one day, I guess I blossomed. What I had always known—that I was that bitch—suddenly became something others could see, too. People started commenting. They told me I was fly. They loved my makeup. Some even noticed that I was funny, that I was weird in a good way. A few realized I was smart.

But with that attention came scrutiny—more gossip, more assumptions, more misinterpretations of who I was.

Freshman year of college, a “friend” told me that a guy we knew had said, “Now that she’s fine, she thinks she’s too good for anything. She’s full of herself now.” I begged her to tell me who, but she refused—because she knew I would check whoever, whenever, on anything I felt was wrong.

What irritated me most wasn’t that he thought I was full of myself—because I was—but that he assumed it happened all of a sudden. As if confidence could only come with his appreciation of my beauty. As if self-love was a reaction to attention rather than something I had always possessed.

I had always been full of myself, because I had always loved myself. The only thing that changed was his perception. He had only just noticed my appeal—the same appeal I had known was there since elementary school. Vain or not, it had always been there.

All those years spent in my little bubble, unnoticed, I had taken for granted the peace of not hearing lies about myself, of not constantly being misunderstood. But the moment people started to perceive me, I started to hear whispers, to feel the weight of misperception. The confidence that had once felt unshakable began to waver.

So many women who’ve always known their worth don’t get to own their essence. Some call it a glow-up—I don’t. It may seem like a glow-up to the outside looking in, but many of us always knew we were the shit, regardless of acknowledgment. Then the world suddenly catches up late, and suddenly, our confidence isn’t ours anymore. It becomes something to be judged, analyzed, or picked apart. Our womanhood, sexiness, wit, and intelligence—no longer just for us.

For better or worse, I’ve always been a hoochie. Even when my younger body was stick-thin, I flaunted it like it was already voluptuous. I loved dressing sexy. I wanted to be a sexy woman. But when others finally started noticing my body—when my chest filled out and the curves I had always acted like I had actually appeared—suddenly, I was doing it for attention. Suddenly, it had to be about validation, the male gaze.

That was frustrating. I had always embraced my body, but the world had finally caught up—and now, they wanted to redefine my reasons. And for the first time, I started second-guessing myself.

Was I wrong? Am I wrong? Even now, I’m not really sure.

That’s the cost of perception. The cost of validation. The constant second-guessing of the things you want.

Now, as a 30-something woman, I hate—vehemently hate—to be perceived. Funny how life works that way. I don’t care what people who don’t know me think—or even worse, what people who think they know me have to say. Good or bad, I’d rather they keep their opinions to themselves.

But now, as a writer, I have to fight against that fear. Writing demands to be seen, and seen means perceived. It means judged, misunderstood, analyzed. So I stand at a crossroads—wanting to be seen, but not perceived. Because I know most people can’t comprehend the multitudes I contain.

Yes, that may sound cocky, but I am cocky. Not in a way that makes me believe I’m better than anyone else, but in the way that I know, without a doubt, that I am the shit. I always have been.

But how do you combat the fear of perception in a space where your work has to be perceived? Or even where you have to be perceived?

Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just exist loudly, whether they understand you or not.