Who I Am Will Not Be Watered Down

I’ve come to realize that my depth — emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually — might be the very thing that unsettles others. And while that used to cause me to shrink or self-edit, it doesn’t anymore. I’m done watering myself down for comfort.

Yes, it’s isolating. Yes, it hurts when people pull away after I’ve opened myself. I’ve seen it so many times: I go deeper, and they disappear. They find justifications — life’s too busy, or we’re not aligned anymore. But on a gut level, I know the real reason. My presence, my honesty, my emotional fluency — they stir things in people. Sometimes things they’re not ready to face. And I’ve stopped trying to fix that.

Carl Jung once said that people will do anything to avoid confronting their own soul. And when someone like me shows up — deeply attuned, honest, grounded in pain transformed into clarity — it’s a mirror. And not everyone is ready for that reflection. I’m not trying to be special; it’s just the way my life has shaped me. It’s like Jung would tell me: I’m becoming who I truly am by facing my own unconscious directly — and that kind of courage disrupts those still running from theirs.

Carl Rogers, if he were here, would probably remind me that I’m growing through the one thing most people avoid: being real in the presence of others. That it is the conditions for growth — congruence, unconditional positive regard, and empathy — that I’m learning to embody not just in therapy, but in how I relate to myself. And that this realness, even when lonely, is my gift — not my curse.

Albert Ellis, on the other hand, wouldn’t let me sit too long in the ache. He’d say, “Okay — so you want to be seen and accepted. Great. Welcome to the club. But is it a need or a preference? Because if you’re telling yourself you must be met in this life to be okay, you’re already screwed.” He’d remind me that it’s not awful to be alone, it’s just uncomfortable — and discomfort won’t kill me. It will clarify me.

And then there’s Brené Brown, who I think would soften all this. She’d say: “You’re not too much — you’re just living unarmored in a world that rewards performance over presence.” I think she’d remind me that vulnerability isn’t weakness — it’s the most accurate measure of courage. And she’d probably say that my willingness to keep showing up, to risk being seen, to name the ache — that’s belonging, even if no one else is there yet.

Brené would name the shame. The part of me that wants to be loved, to be seen, to be understood. The part that fears rejection but dares anyway. And she’d say that the antidote to that shame is not pretending I don’t want to be met — it’s owning the desire without letting it define my worth.

There’s a moment I keep coming back to — the image of all the people who’ve slipped away when I finally revealed myself. It used to make me think I was the problem. Now I know: that moment isn’t proof of my failure — it’s proof of my integrity. I kept showing up anyway. I still am.

There’s also something quietly profound I’ve noticed lately: I’m seen by my tutors. Not because I performed, not because I impressed — but because they noticed my realness. They saw me. And they didn’t name a quality, or a talent, or a success. They named honesty. That’s what I’m most proud of.

And this is the therapist I’m becoming. Yes, I’ll understand modalities, somatic work, trauma theory. But more than anything, I’ll be present. Because presence — real, grounded, honest presence — is what dissolves shame. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’m becoming it.

The website I’m building is not just a project. It’s a permission slip. For me. For my son. For anyone who’s ever felt too much or too unseen. Yes, a part of me wishes that everyone from my past could see it and suddenly understand. But I know that’s fantasy. The deeper truth is: I’m doing this for me. If others see me more clearly through it — fine. If they don’t — fine. I’m no longer abandoning myself for the comfort of others.

And if I remain different — if I’m always a little too much, a little too sensitive, a little too honest — then so be it. Because I’ve sat with my darkness so long, I’ve fallen in love with it.

This is a homecoming.

And whatever comes after that — even if it’s solitude — will be met with open arms.