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The Version of Me You’ll Never See 

There’s a version of me that most people will never meet. Not because I’m hiding him out of shame, and not because he doesn’t matter, but because he lives in the quietest parts of my life. He exists in the spaces where there’s no audience. He’s not designed for performance or applause. He’s the one who takes the hits when no one’s watching. 

You see, people often think they know someone based on the version they’re presented with, the one that shows up to work, smiles politely in conversation, shares a joke at the right moment, maybe posts a filtered photo with a quote underneath it that hints at resilience or insight. But that’s only ever one layer. One shade of a much deeper colour. What you see on the surface is built on the bones of everything that came before it. And sometimes those bones ache. 

There’s a version of me that sits in the shower too long, not because it’s relaxing, but because it’s the only place I can be still without anyone asking questions. There’s a version of me that drives in silence because music feels like too much stimulation. One that stares at the ceiling in the dark and overthinks every moment of the day, wondering if I said too much or too little or if I came across the wrong way. One that feels completely exhausted by the smallest task, not because it’s hard, but because pretending to be fine takes it out of you in ways you can’t even begin to explain. 

That version doesn’t get much airtime. He doesn’t come to the pub. He doesn’t reply to messages. He doesn’t write much. He just sort of drifts. He becomes background noise to his own life. And the worst part is, most people don’t notice when he’s gone. They just assume I’m busy or tired or off doing something more interesting. The truth is usually far less exciting. 

I’ve become pretty good at compartmentalising. I know how to show the world the version it wants from me. I can play the role. I can laugh at the right moments, ask the right questions, keep the energy up so no one feels awkward. I can give advice, listen deeply, even inspire people when I’m in the right headspace. And none of that’s fake. That’s still me. But it’s not all of me. 

There’s a quiet ache that lives underneath everything. A kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. A weight that isn’t physical but presses down on my chest all the same. It comes and goes, sure. I have good days. I have days where I feel proud, grounded, even excited about life. But I also have days where I want to disappear completely, not because I don’t care, but because I care too much and it hurts. 

I’ve learned to live in the grey space between visibility and invisibility. I’ve become a master at functioning. You could pass me in the street and think, “He’s doing alright,” and I wouldn’t correct you. But if you sat with me for long enough, really looked me in the eye and asked how I was, not in that passing, polite kind of way, but in the way that says, “I’m ready to hold the answer no matter how heavy it is”, you might start to see it. The cracks. The things I don’t say out loud. The stories I’ve buried. The guilt I carry for not always being the strongest version of myself. 

It’s hard to talk about, because as soon as you open that door, it’s not just your own pain you start to feel. You begin to see it in everyone else too. You realise how many people are walking around with their own unseen version of themselves. The one they protect. The one they don’t talk about because they’re scared of what it might mean to be fully known. 

And that’s the thing. Full visibility sounds beautiful, in theory. To be seen, heard, understood. But it’s terrifying when you’ve spent years building a version of yourself that feels safe. That version becomes your armour. You polish it. You make it believable. You lean on it to get through the days when you can’t afford to fall apart. And sometimes, even when you want to let someone in, you can’t. Because to let them see what’s underneath would mean admitting just how fragile it all really is. 

I used to think vulnerability was weakness. I used to think strength meant being unaffected, always composed, always in control. But I’ve learned that real strength is something else entirely. Real strength is showing up when your heart is breaking. Real strength is being kind when your mind is loud and cruel. Real strength is allowing yourself to feel everything, and still not letting it destroy who you are at your core. 

There have been times I’ve been close to breaking. I’ve sat alone with thoughts that scared me. Not violent ones. Just the kind that make you question your worth. The kind that whisper things like, “You’re too much,” or “You’re not enough.” The kind that make you shrink back into yourself because the world feels too big and you feel too small. 

But I never stopped. I never gave up. And that’s not me trying to be dramatic or inspiring. That’s just the truth. Some days survival is the achievement. Some days making it to bedtime without unravelling is the win. We don’t talk about that enough. We glorify productivity and achievement and forward motion, but we forget that holding it together in private is a full-time job for a lot of people. 

(Ok, had to add this here. I found this song and its just wow. Press play if you’re still here reading. It truely is beautiful.)

Sometimes, when the noise in my head gets too loud, I forget just how beautiful this world really is.

The stars don’t ask us to be perfect. They shine whether we’re smiling or breaking. The moon doesn’t judge us for being tired. It just shows up, quietly, every night without fail. And the sky ….. fuck, the sky, how can something so endless not remind you that there’s more out there? More to see. More to feel. More to live for.

We weren’t made to work ourselves into the ground and call that a life. We were made to feel the wind in our chest, to stare at oceans and wonder what’s beneath them, to get lost in music and moments and late-night conversations that remind us we’re not alone. We were made to live, not just survive.

The universe didn’t mess up when it made you. You’re not here by accident. And no matter how small or broken you feel, there’s still so much more waiting for you. Beautiful things. Unwritten memories. People you haven’t met yet who will love you just as you are.

So look up. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because you’re still part of something massive and beautiful and full of light, even if right now, all you can see is the dark.

So many of us are walking through life with hidden wounds. And the problem is, we’ve been taught to keep those wounds out of sight. Don’t burden people. Don’t make it awkward. Don’t be “too emotional.” But I don’t buy that anymore. Because it’s in those moments, those deeply human, messy moments, that real connection is born. Not the surface-level stuff. Not the polite conversations. The real, soul-level knowing that says, “You’re not alone. I’ve felt it too.” 

Maybe that’s why I write. Maybe that’s why I’m even sharing this right now. Because I know someone out there needs to read it. Someone who’s been holding their breath. Someone who’s been showing up every day pretending they’re fine when they’re not. Someone who needs to hear that what they’re feeling doesn’t make them weak, it makes them real. 

If that’s you, let me say this. I see you. Even if no one else does. I see the version of you that hides in plain sight. The one who still gets out of bed even when it feels pointless. The one who listens to other people’s problems while quietly drowning in their own. The one who laughs but feels hollow inside. You’re not invisible. Not here. 

You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to take off the mask and just exist without having to perform for anyone. And if people can’t hold space for that, that’s not a reflection of you. That’s a reflection of them. 

We need to start normalising the version of ourselves that struggles. The version that isn’t always upbeat or productive or smiling. We need to stop seeing sadness as failure and silence as weakness. Because some of the strongest people I know are the ones who cry alone, wipe their own tears, and carry on without a word. 

I’m not here to give you a solution. I’m not here to wrap this up with some inspirational quote that makes it all seem easy. Because it’s not easy. And some days it’s not even bearable. But we bear it anyway. We keep going. And that, in itself, is a kind of courage most people will never fully understand. 

So no, you may never see that version of me. You might never see the moments where I unravel quietly or sit in a room full of people and feel completely disconnected. You might never know the thoughts that keep me awake or the fears that claw at me in the dark. But just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. 

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe we don’t have to be seen completely to be real. Maybe all we need is to be understood a little more. Held a little tighter. Asked the kind of questions that don’t come with pressure to be okay. Given the kind of space that allows us to show up exactly as we are. 

Because the version of me you’ll never see still matters. He still lives, breathes, tries. He still gets up and keeps going. And if you’re anything like me, I hope you know that your hidden self is just as worthy. Just as strong. Just as human. 

And maybe one day, when the world finally learns how to listen properly, we won’t have to hide that version anymore. 

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I mean that. Because I know how heavy these kinds of words can feel when your mind is already carrying too much. Sometimes, reading something like this feels like looking in a mirror you’ve been avoiding. And if it hit close to home, then maybe, just maybe, you needed to hear it.

Mental health isn’t a buzzword. It’s not something we should only talk about once a year, when hashtags start trending and companies post their little awareness banners. It’s every day. It’s every night you lie awake with a thousand thoughts racing. Every morning you put your feet on the floor and talk yourself into facing another day, even when every part of you wants to crawl back under the covers and disappear. It’s the exhaustion you feel after doing absolutely nothing, simply because keeping yourself together takes every ounce of your energy.

And here’s the honest truth. Most people won’t notice. Not because they don’t care, but because you’ve become too good at hiding it. You’ve mastered the art of pretending. You wear your smile like armour. You crack jokes to deflect. You stay busy so you don’t have to sit still with your own thoughts. And because you function, because you “seem fine,” the world doesn’t stop to ask if you’re really okay.

But I see you. Maybe not your face, not your name, but your heart. Your struggle. Your tiredness. I see it because I’ve lived it too. I’ve worn that same mask. I’ve had those same days where simply making it to bedtime felt like a victory. And I want you to know you’re not alone in this.

Mental health struggles don’t always look like the crisis moments people expect. Sometimes they look like showing up to work, replying “I’m good” when asked how you are, keeping up appearances even while something inside you quietly aches. Sometimes they look like cancelling plans, not because you don’t care, but because you’re too drained to socialise. Sometimes it’s isolating yourself, not out of selfishness, but because it feels safer than trying to explain what’s going on inside your head.

I know it can feel lonely. Like no one understands. Like everyone else is getting on with life while you’re stuck trying to stay afloat. But you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not failing. You’re surviving. And that, in itself, is powerful.

There’s no shame in struggling. There’s no shame in asking for help. There’s no shame in saying, “I’m not okay today.” In fact, that might be the bravest thing you ever do. Because when you speak up, you’re not just helping yourself, you’re showing someone else that they can speak up too. You’re reminding them they’re not alone.

And if you can’t talk yet, that’s okay. Take your time. Sit with your feelings. Write them down. Cry if you need to. Rest. Let your body and mind breathe. Healing isn’t linear. It doesn’t happen overnight. But little by little, it happens. You’re already doing more than you realise just by being here.

This space, this blog, these words ….. they’re here to remind you that there are people out there who get it. Who feel it. Who live it. You don’t have to be loud about your pain to be valid. You don’t have to explain yourself to be understood. Sometimes, it’s enough just to know that someone else sees the part of you the world overlooks.

We’re in this together. That’s not just a cliché. That’s real. I’m not some expert or therapist or influencer with all the answers. I’m just a guy who’s walked through the same fog, who’s still learning how to carry the weight, who wanted to say something in case someone out there needed to hear it. You matter. Your story matters. And even on your worst days, you are not a burden.

If all you did today was breathe, I’m proud of you. If all you did was survive, that’s enough.

And if you’re tired of holding it all alone, maybe this is your sign to let someone in. Even if it’s just a small step. A message. A call. A conversation. Or maybe just reading this, knowing someone out there understands, is the first step. That’s okay too.

You don’t have to fix everything all at once. You just have to keep going, even if all you’re doing is crawling forward. You’re not behind. You’re not lost. You’re just human. And that’s more than enough.

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