The Version of Me No One Has Ever Seen

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9MnpCley5I

There is something I am only now beginning to understand about myself, and if I am honest, it feels both liberating and deeply confronting to put into words and share this with the world.

Not because it is hard to explain, but because I have been running from it for a very, very long time.

And there is something deeply raw about finally stopping, turning around, and allowing myself to see what has been quietly shaping me all along, especially when it comes to my relationships with others, and even with myself.

Fifteen years ago, a friend once told me, “P, knowing you is like having the nuclear launching codes, not one single person has the one key.” I remember smiling when he said it. There was even a quiet sense of pride in me. I took it as depth, as mystery, as something almost sacred about who I was.

But I did not understand it then.

I understand it now.

What he was really seeing was not just my depth. He was seeing also my fragmentation. He was seeing how I had learned to give pieces of myself in a way that ensured no one would ever hold full access to me. Not because I was consciously guarded, but because somewhere deep within me, it never felt entirely safe for one person to truly see it all. The flawed, messy, authentic... me.

And the sad truth is, I do not think anyone ever has.

Not fully.

Not because people did not try, but because I became incredibly skilled at making sure they only saw what felt safe to be seen. I learned how to read people with precision. I learned how to adjust, how to soften, how to become what the moment seemed to require. I could meet people where they were emotionally, energetically, psychologically, and the saddest part is that I convinced myself that this was connection.

That I was just intuitive, empathetic, deep.

And do not get me wrong, I am indeed all of those things.

But I am also realizing something that has been much harder to face.

I have been hiding.

Not just from others, but from myself.

And to be completely honest with you, and with myself, the version of me that learned to survive this way would have never dared to share something this vulnerable so openly. It would have felt far too exposing, far too unsafe.… like something that needed to stay hidden in order for me to liked and feel ok.

There has always been this quiet, churning undercurrent within me that always said "the world was not entirely safe". That connection could shift without warning. That closeness was something that could be lost if I was not paying attention, if I did not respond correctly, if I did not adapt fast enough. And in allowing myself to really see this, I am beginning to understand how people pleasing and over-functioning were never random, they were ways I learned to survive, ways I tried to create safety where it did not feel guaranteed.

This realization is not just something I understand in my mind now, it is something I am starting to feel in my body in my nervous system, and it is taking me deeper into my healing in a way I had not accessed before.

It does not feel surprising to me that when I follow this back far enough, it gently brings me to the beginning of my relationship with my mother.

That earlier time...

In the places where love did not always feel steady. Where presence and absence chaotically coexisted. Where being seen was not always consistent, and where, as a child, I learned that connection could feel both warm, terrifying and uncertain within the same breath. A child does not question that kind of environment. A child adapts.

And I adapted, undeniably, beautifully.

I learned how to reach when someone pulled away. I learned how to read the emotional temperature of a room before I ever spoke. I learned how to become attuned to everyone else, often before I even knew what I was feeling myself. But I also learned how to protect myself in quieter ways, how to shut down parts of me when something felt too overwhelming, how to pull back when closeness started to feel uncertain, how to overthink, overanalyze, and create distance within myself even while appearing present. There was a kind of internal contradiction in all of it, a push and pull within me where one part longed for closeness while another braced for it to disappear, for the betrayal, for the abandonment.

There were moments where I would hold back my truth, soften my needs, or retreat emotionally, not because I did not care, but because some part of me did not feel safe enough to stay fully open.

That became my language of love.

In my romantic relationships, it has showed up as this almost reflexive movement toward the other person when distance appeared. If someone pulled away, I would lean in deeper. I would try to understand, to bridge, to close the gap before it became something irreversible. I thought that was love. I thought that was care.

What I did not see was how often I was self abandoning in that process.

Within my family structure, it was "normal", quieter, less obvious, but it is also where these patterns became cemented. What I had learned earlier did not just continue, it was reinforced, shaped, and normalized in the way I related to those closest to me. It worked itself into the roles I stepped into, into the way I navigated dynamics, into how I positioned myself within the family system. There was always this quiet but tense calibration happening beneath the surface 24/7. Where do I fit, how do I maintain harmony, how do I stay connected without disrupting what feels fragile. I became attuned not just to what was said, but to what was unsaid, often adjusting myself in ways that kept the peace, even if it meant moving away from my own center.

And even now, I can see how this pattern continues to live in me, not just in my closest relationships, but in my day to day life, in my work, in my interactions with people I barely know. I can feel what is needed almost instantly. I can meet people in a way that makes them feel seen, safe, understood, held. And none of this has ever been fake or performative, it has always come from something real within me. I am a Sagittarius after all, I feel deeply, I connect deeply, I meet people where they are with sincerity.

But I am beginning to see that even something so genuine can still be influenced by the ways I learned to find safety in connection.

For a long time, I saw this as a badge of honor, proof of my empathy, my depth, my ability to connect.

And while that is true, what I am understand now, is that this way of being did not come from nowhere. It was something my nervous system learned in order to navigate a world that did not always feel steady. It became a way to anticipate, to attune, to stay one step ahead of anything that might cause me pain.

Over time, I became very good at it. A powerful empath. But what I did not see then is that this ability, as beautiful as it is, can also come at a cost when it is not rooted in me first, when I extend myself outward before checking if I am still with myself. Because in those moments, I am not just connecting, I am leaving myself in order to do so.

And that is the part I am now learning to see with more honesty. That my empathy is not something I need to lose, but something I am learning to hold differently. Not as a way to earn safety, connection, or love, but as something that can exist without costing me my own presence.

About a month ago, I had a conversation with C a lovely young woman who introduced me to the concept of relationship attachment styles. I had never heard of it before. Naturally, the first thing I did that night was what I have always been very good at, I tried to understand someone else. I began looking into my partner’s patterns, analyzing, connecting dots, trying to make sense of him, of us.

It is almost ironic how easily I can do that.

How quickly I can see patterns in others, understand their behavior, even begin to formulate what might help them or what they might need.

And yet, I have not always applied that same depth of awareness to myself. Or perhaps more truthfully, I could not see what I was still inside of.

A few weeks later, as I told C what attachment style I had figure out my partner was she asked me, “Do you know what your attachment style is?” and I responded almost instinctively, “No, I think I am okay. I am very self aware.”

That answer feels tender to me right now.

Because curiosity got the best of me, and I went looking. And when I found it, when I read about the fearful avoidant pattern, and I saw myself reflected in it. It felt like someone had quietly opened a door and turned the lights on in a room I had been living in for years.

It has been jarring, to zoom out of my experience and see this pattern unfold.

To hear this pattern being described and to watch, almost instantly, as my mind replayed moment after moment, relationship after relationship, dynamic after dynamic, all threaded by the same protective response. It was very confronting to say the least, and yet at the same time, deeply liberating.

Because suddenly, something that had always felt so painfully personal began to make sense.

And I have to say, there is something very humbling in realizing that at my age of 57, a young woman in her twenties could reflect something back to me that I had not yet seen myself.

Thank you C!

Since that moment, something has been shifting.

Because I am beginning to see that this pattern has not only shaped my relationships, it has shaped my inner world in ways I am only now starting to fully grasp. My confidence has often been tied to how well I could maintain connection. My sense of worth quietly negotiated through how I was received, how I was needed, how I was perceived.

And like I mentioned before, my place in this world, has always felt conditional. Like something I had to earn by being just right, just enough, never too much, never fully unfiltered. And what is the most humbling in all of this is realizing that I have always considered myself self aware. I can articulate patterns, reflect deeply, hold complexity.

And yet, I was still living inside something that was quietly running everything. My reactions, my interpretations, my sense of safety, the way I experienced love.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I found myself jotting they lyrics for a song. The song is called I Stay With Me.

In many ways, it is a mirror to everything I am writing here. A reminder, a practice, a promise to myself. Because for so long, my instinct has been to reach outward when something feels uncertain. To move toward the other person, to restore connection, to make sense of what feels off. And this song… gently interrupts that.

It reminds me that I can pause. That I can breathe. That I can stay.

That I can love someone deeply… and still not leave myself in the process.

I am not writing this or the song from the other side of it. I am writing this from inside it. From the place where something has shifted just enough that I can no longer pretend I do not see it. And what I am beginning to feel, not just understand but feel in my body, is that this pattern is not who I am.

It is something I learned. It is something that once protected me. It is something that allowed me to navigate a world that did not always feel steady. It became a language my nervous system understood, a way to anticipate, to adjust, to stay one step ahead of anything that might feel uncertain or unsafe.

And for a long time, it worked.

But it is not something I need to continue living inside of unconsciously. Because what once helped me feel safe now keeps me in a subtle state of hyper-vigilance, always scanning, always adapting, always exhausted, always trying to hold everything together. And I am beginning to understand that healing is not about rejecting this part of me, but about teaching my nervous system, slowly and gently, that it is safe to stay, that I do not have to leave myself to feel secure anymore.

I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, to pause when I feel that pull to reach outward. To notice when I start to leave myself. To stay, even when it feels unfamiliar, even when it feels uncomfortable, even when every part of me wants to move toward the other person to restore connection or run away.

I am learning that I can feel deeply without losing myself in what I feel. That I can love without chasing. That I can remain open without dissolving.

And maybe the most important shift of all is this. I am beginning to give myself the key. Not in fragments. Not in pieces distributed across different people, different roles, different versions of me.

But as a whole. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But intentionally. Because maybe the version of me that no one has ever seen is the one I am finally ready to meet myself… and now allow to be fully seen.

The door is open. No key is required, only the willingness to step in.

☥