When Being Seen Changes You

Not every version of me that exists in someone else’s mind is mine to carry

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Maybe this is something to remember:

Not every version of you that exists in someone else’s mind is yours to carry.

Sartre said “hell is other people,” and I think I’m starting to understand it differently.

It’s not about them, it’s about what happens to me when I start seeing myself through their eyes.

In No Exit, three strangers are locked in a room together. No torture devices. No fire. Just each other.

That’s the point.

At first, nothing seems wrong. But slowly, something shifts. Each person becomes aware of how they are being perceived. And once that awareness settles in, it doesn’t leave.

You’ve felt this.

You’re alone, and you exist without effort. Then someone walks in, and suddenly you’re watching yourself. Adjusting. Editing.

Do I sound stupid?

Do I look okay?

Am I too much? Not enough?

Nothing external has changed, but internally, everything has.

You are no longer just living. You are being seen.

And that’s where the tension begins.

It’s that I noticed I was being perceived.

Connection can expand you. It can also shrink you.

There’s a version of relationships where you grow, where you’re allowed to be unfinished, unclear, even inconsistent.

And there’s another version where you perform.

Where you become careful. Measured. Where you shape yourself into something more acceptable, more digestible.

That’s where things start to feel off.

Not that people are inherently cruel, but because being perceived comes with interpretation. And interpretation, often, turns into judgment.

Not always spoken. But felt.

And sometimes, that quiet pressure is enough to make you abandon parts of yourself without realizing it

You soften certain parts. Emphasize others.

You become easier to understand. Easier to accept.

And it works.

That’s the unsettling part.

Sartre imagined three people in a closed room.

We live in an open one.

Except now, the “gaze” isn’t just a person across from you. It’s numbers. Metrics. Reactions.

Approval has been quantified.

A post goes up, and without saying it directly, the question is always there: Was this enough?

Enough to be liked.

Enough to be acknowledged.

Enough to matter.

And somewhere along the way, living quietly became insufficient.

Now, it has to be visible.

Curated.

Shared.

You don’t just experience a moment you consider how it will look from the outside. You choose what to show, what to soften, what to leave out entirely.

Not because you’re fake. But because you’re aware.

Constantly

The strange part is how easily you can disappear inside that.

Not completely. But enough.

Enough to feel slightly removed from yourself.

Enough to wonder, sometimes, which parts are actually yours.

I don’t think the answer is to withdraw.

Or to become indifferent.

That feels just as performative in its own way.

Maybe it’s something smaller than that.

Letting yourself exist without immediately translating it.

Saying something without rehearsing how it will land.

Keeping certain moments unshared not to be private, but to be untouched.

You will still be seen.

Misunderstood, sometimes.

Reduced, occasionally.

That doesn’t stop.

But maybe the shift is this:

You stop adjusting in advance.

Maybe “hell” isn’t other people.

Maybe it’s the quiet decision to become what you think they can understand.

And maybe freedom is less visible than we expect.

Just a return.

To something that was already yours, before you started watching yourself.

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