Lonely in a crowd

Some of us learned to connect through performance. We’re charismatic, put-together, expressive. People tend to like us — we know how to read a room, how to keep things light, how to share just enough. But beneath all that polish, there’s often a deep uncertainty: Would anyone still care if I stopped being impressive?

We know how to be visible without being vulnerable. For us, vulnerability might not look like dramatic openness — it might be something quieter: sharing a disappointment without deflecting, showing sadness without a smile, or admitting we’re tired without having to turn it into a joke. Our stories are curated, our feelings often translated into humour or charm. There’s connection — but not always intimacy. And after a while, we might start to feel like we’re performing even when we don’t want to. Like we’re still playing a part in a show that no longer fits.

What if all that charm was just a way of staying safe — a way to feel close without ever feeling exposed?

Therapy offers a space where we don’t have to earn affection or entertain — a place to test what real intimacy feels like when it isn’t tied to performance. A place where being seen doesn’t depend on how interesting we are — just how honest we’re willing to be.