From Shrinking to Showing Up: A Journey Back to Yourself

There’s a particular kind of shame that creeps in when you show up boldly — and get it wrong.

When you try, with strength and intention, to express yourself fully... and someone points out your mistake. Loudly. Publicly. Or even silently — just with a glance that says, “too much" or "not good enough".

That’s what happened to me recently. I danced with power and joy at a end of year show rehearsal— even though I’m still a beginner — and I was told I should probably tone it down. Because my mistakes were too visible. Because others who danced smaller were less interfering with how polished the show was.

The message wasn’t cruel. But it landed hard.

And here's what it echoed inside me:

“Don’t be visible unless you're flawless.”

“Don’t take up space unless you're perfect.”

“Better be small and quiet than bold and imperfect.”

This is the kind of shame that quietly shapes our behavior for years.

It keeps people stuck in patterns of hiding — of showing only the parts of themselves they think will be accepted. We internalize the belief that our presence is only welcome if it's flawless. That trying hard is only acceptable if it's quiet, polished, and easy to digest, not too messy.

We shrink, not because we want to disappear, but because we believe it will make us more tolerable.

But here’s what I’m learning to stand in:

I’d rather be imperfect and alive than invisible and safe.

I’d rather be too much for others than not enough for myself.

As Brené Brown says, "The opposite of belonging is fitting in."

If you bend who you are to be accepted, you're not really accepted — you're just being tolerated under conditions. And we feel that dissonance in our bodies. Sometimes we numb ourselves from the inside just to avoid noticing it — and that numbing makes us lose track of who we really are. Over time, this disconnection makes us even more dependent on external validation to tell us how to be and what to think, because the fear of rejection severs us from our authenticity. When we try to fit in — to be palatable, polished, acceptable — we’re not truly connected to our authenticity. We’re just trying to earn our place by silencing parts of ourselves.

That tendency to seek approval is not just personal — it's a biological, deeply ingrained survival instinct. For much of human history, being outcast from the tribe meant death. We've adapted to be highly sensitive to signs of rejection, constantly scanning for what might make us more acceptable.

When we tie our worth or our identity to being perfect or accepted, rejection doesn’t just feel uncomfortable — it feels like proof that we are not enough. And in that state of fear, we lose our integrity. We lose our clarity. We start adapting to please instead of acting in alignment with our truth. We start asking: “What do they want me to be?” instead of “Who am I in this moment?”

And the tragic irony is — trying to be good enough often makes us less good. Not because we’re flawed, but because we lose the honesty, clarity, and courage that come with true integrity.

Fitting in may keep us socially or materially "safe", but it comes at a high cost. We lose our self-worth, because we’re no longer rooted in our integrity. We lose our capacity for self-realization, because we’ve cut off the inner voice that tells us where to go. And we lose authentic connection — because if we’re not showing up as we are, how can anyone truly see, understand and love us? When we perform, contort, calculate, we lose the very thing that makes our presence unique and meaningful.

Therefore, fitting in cuts our ability to meet most of our emotional needs and even if it secures our social status, it disconnects us from self, from direction, from others and leaves us with a sense of void and emptiness. It basically kills what makes us feel real and alive.

So this is my quiet vow:

I will not shrink to be acceptable.

I will not trade my presence for perfection.

I will show up bold, messy, and fully alive.

Not to dominate. Not to be right. Not to be praised.

But to feel alive.

To belong — not because I fit in, but because I stay connected to who I am, and I'm looking for the people who value my unique set of qualities and flaws.

And yes — this has limits. It stops where someone else’s freedom begins.

Being fully yourself is not a justification for ignoring your impact on others — or on your future self.

Sometimes, it is necessary to make compromise — out of respect for others, or to protect your own long-term well-being.

We live in relationships. We need to cooperate.

But self-expression is not something to apologize for, as long as it comes with awareness and responsibility.

That’s exactly where discernment comes in: the ability to tell the difference between moments where adapting serves our values, goals, and growth — and moments where we’re distorting ourself out of fear.

It takes time and effort to build that capacity.

You will misjudge the situation sometimes. You’ll adapt when you didn’t need to, or hold your ground when softness would have served you better. And you’ll learn through the consequences.

Integrity doesn’t mean always getting it right.

It means showing up in alignment with our truth — even when it’s messy, uncertain, or different.

It means staying connected to our values, rather than abandoning yourself for approval.

So how to know when to stand your ground and when to adapt, and how much? Here’s what I’m learning:

Start by checking in with your body.

Do you feel expansive or contracted? Grounded or disconnected?

Shame often shrinks us. Integrity, even when uncomfortable, usually feels solid and grounded.

Then ask yourself:

• Am I choosing this out of alignment — or out of fear?

• Am I dimming myself to be accepted — or adjusting in a way that still feels like me on the other side?

But discernment has another side, too.

Sometimes, we insist on showing up a certain way — not from alignment, but from protection. We use what we call “authenticity” as a defense. A version of truth that’s sharp-edged, rigid — not because it’s aligned, but because it’s armored.

In those moments, we’re not expressing ourselves to be seen — we’re declaring ourselves to stay safe.

From the belief that “this is just how I am”... when in truth, we’re bracing against connection.

It often feels righteous, but cold.

Clear, but disconnected.

We speak not to reveal, but to protect. And the other person subtly becomes the enemy — the one who doesn’t understand, the one who’s wrong.

Truth spoken from protection lacks warmth. It closes the door instead of opening a bridge.

Real integrity isn’t about being untouchable. It’s about being anchored enough to stay open — to say what’s true without needing to make the other person bad.

In those moments, ask instead:

• Am I expressing my truth in a way that invites connection — or shuts it down?

• Is there warmth in my expression, or just defense?

• Does this version of authenticity open space for others, or just keep me safe?

So discernment isn’t about always getting it right.

It’s about staying honest. Staying curious.

And learning — again and again — to tell the difference between fear and truth.

Between hiding and showing up.

Between protecting and connecting.

Sometimes that means realizing afterwards that you were too accommodating — or too rigid. And having the courage to recalibrate.

To say:

I pushed too hard.

I disappeared too much.

I closed the door too quickly on a possible compromise — or I stayed too long where I didn’t feel whole.

Now I know better — and I’m finding my way back towards myself or towards the other.

Because integrity isn’t about being flawless.

It’s about staying in relationship — with yourself, with others, with the moment.

It’s about keeping the thread of connection alive while staying anchored in your truth.

That’s why curiosity matters.

Curiosity about the body — the tightness, the lightness, the warmth, the expansion, the pull.

Curiosity about your energy — what drains you, what fuels you.

Curiosity about your needs, your values, your longings — not just in theory, but in how they show up in real time.

This is how we develop inner guidance.

Not a rigid code to follow — but a living compass. A felt sense of what alignment actually feels like for us.

So that integrity becomes less about performing what's right —and more about returning to our place of aliveness, again and again.

To those who’ve been told they’re too much:

You are not too much.

You are just too alive to be easy to box.

And the world needs more of that.