“...and that visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which also is the source of our greatest strength.” ― Audre Lorde

There are many reasons why people write, with many possible outcomes. Some write as part of a well-thought-out career plan or business strategy, others write to express themselves creatively, and some write to share their knowledge. No matter the reason, we all write because we have something to say. We believe our words are important—that idea worth articulating, that story worth sharing. We write to be seen.

This was not obvious to me for a long time — that I was writing to be seen. I’ve always written privately, and on a macro level I do not want to be seen; I hope to live a quiet life, with no real desire for anyone to keep up with me or my activities. I didn’t realize that part of my fear of being seen had to do with the fact that I’d become so indoctrinated by social media that the idea of being seen immediately conjured an image of my face or name plastered on other people’s screens. But I’m reorienting myself around my concerns of what it means to be seen.

One definition of the word ‘see’ is “to perceive with the eyes; discern visually”. Another definition is “to experience or witness (an event or situation)”. Even with a good amount of discernment, perception is often shallow because it is essentially interpretation without context. But I do want to be seen, that is experienced or witnessed—whether by you reading this on a screen and getting a glimpse into the machinations of my mind, or by a loved one who may never read this newsletter.

Substack is teaching me that allowing myself to be seen, in part or in full, requires that I embrace imperfection. I mean, I knew this, but in reality, it’s uncomfortable. I guess what I’m really learning is how to live with the discomfort of just showing up — sometimes unprepared, frazzled, angry, sad. It’s uncomfortable to allow others to see me processing and seeking; my search for something intangible on full display. I might overshare, or someone might disagree with me, or think I’m a terrible writer. I’ll miss a typo (or two, or three!), I’ll agonize over the right cover image and then later find out it’s not the right size, I’ll always know I could have done a better job. But I hit ‘publish’ anyway. I can’t tell you how many typos I’ve spotted in very serious essays or the works of notable writers on this platform. “You can always edit or unpublish, it’s not that serious so get out of your head and post the damn thing” is what I tell myself.

Sometimes I wish life could afford me this ability to edit or unpublish certain mistakes and experiences. I have to remind myself that the things I want to fix, edit, or erase are also the things that have built my character and depth. Two qualities you can only build upon by witnessing your own shortcomings. In life, we can’t erase our mistakes but we can move forward without letting them dictate our future. In the same way that I can fix a typo, I can apologize when I’m wrong. In the same way that I can edit a post for clarity, I can be more intentional in my daily interactions and relationships. In the same way that I publish a post knowing it’s not perfect, I can give myself permission to be authentic — and even allow myself to be perceived. Just like you have found this post, so will my people gravitate towards me in real life.

If I can share with strangers on the internet, maybe I can also allow those close to me to really see me. There’s something about recognition or validation from a stranger that spurs us on. Look around on the internet (and here on Substack) and you’ll see many people talk about how their real-life friends and acquaintances rarely have intimate knowledge of their work. We can go into many reasons as to why this happens, but the point is that being seen and supported by a stranger can serve as a reminder that you deserve the same treatment in real life.

For a long time, I wanted to have a niche for this newsletter, but the niche is life. I write about what I’m experiencing, healing from, figuring out, and contemplating. As a recovering people-pleaser, it’s new for me to allow myself to be seen, knowing that the person on the other end might not like what they receive. On here and in person, I’m no longer trying to hide or quiet my voice. To continue this practice of being seen as is, I’ve turned off notifications that could distract from my intention — I don’t check my dashboard and for the most part, I don’t know who is reading this. Every post is a portal into who I am at that particular moment. It may not always tell the full story, but it’s always true. By writing this newsletter, I’m learning to allow a path to reveal itself instead of trying to mold something (myself, life, this newsletter) to fit a specific shape, vision, or narrative.

A few things…

• I hadn’t heard about the documentary Daughters on Netflix and now it’s on my list thanks to this post on the bonds that hold us down by

  Alex Lewis
  . Can’t wait to watch it and ugly cry.

• I am the exact target audience for everything that comes out of

  The On Being Project
  . This post on questioning our constant need for meaning-making introduced me to Hélène Cixous and left me with a haunting quote about dreams and writing.

• I’m not proud to say that as a Nigerian, I know more about what’s happening in the US than in the continent where I live. I recently started reading An Africanist Perspective for a better understanding of the goings-on in Africa’s political and economic landscape.

• I’ve been enjoying

  Ochuko Akpovbovbo
  ’s adept yet seemingly light-touch summaries on
  as seen on
  . Fashion! Business! Sports! Celebrities! It’s perfect to me.

• Finally, I’m reading All About Love by bell hooks. I’m upset it’s taken me so long to get to it, but also I don’t understand why this isn’t required reading for everyone???