Growing up, I always felt like I was living two lives. At home, my family saw one version of me—a quiet, obedient child who followed rules, never caused trouble, and seemed content with the path laid before me. They praised me for my grades, my polite manners, my apparent loyalty to the family’s expectations. From the outside, I was perfect, the kind of child every parent brags about without thinking twice.

But they didn’t see the other me. The me that woke in the middle of the night with ideas I couldn’t express aloud, that sketched wild, messy images across notebook pages they assumed were for school, that whispered stories into the dark and imagined worlds far bigger than the walls of our house. That version of me craved freedom, not conformity. I was never quiet inside—I just knew that speaking aloud would only invite judgment or disappointment.

They never understood that I was not like my siblings, who followed the family’s expectations without question. My brothers and sisters were athletic, social, and practical. They had clear paths: college, jobs, marriage, the kind of life that was easy to describe and easy to approve. I, on the other hand, preferred books to ballgames, drawing to socializing, solitude to crowds.

Over the years, I became adept at hiding my true self. I nodded, I smiled, I performed the role they expected. I earned the accolades, the approval, the occasional proud nod from my father or mother. They believed they knew me, and I let them. It was easier than explaining that the person they applauded was only a carefully constructed mask.

When I moved away for college, the truth of my inner life began to flourish. Away from their eyes, I explored art, writing, and friendships that nourished my creativity. I traveled to new cities, stayed up all night reading about ideas that excited me, and discovered communities that celebrated the very things my family ignored. I realized then that the life I had been hiding was not a flaw or a secret—it was who I really was.

The disconnect became painfully clear during visits home. Family members would comment on my “achievements,” assuming my choices matched their vision of success. They marveled at my grades, my practical job, my “responsible” life. But no one asked about my passions, the projects I poured my soul into, or the people who had become family outside of bloodlines. They saw only the polished surface, the reflection I allowed them to see.

One evening, my mother asked me if I was happy. I hesitated. She expected the answer to fit neatly into her worldview: yes, I had everything she thought mattered. But the truth was more complicated. I was happy in ways she would never understand, pursuing a life built from my own dreams, not hers. I wanted to explain, to show her the worlds I inhabited when no one was looking, but I couldn’t. I knew she would dismiss it as frivolous or impractical.

That realization was both liberating and painful. Liberating because I finally understood that I could live for myself, unapologetically. Painful because it confirmed that those closest to me—those who should know me best—only knew a fraction of who I was. They saw my surface, my performance, and assumed it was the full picture. They had no idea about the dreams, fears, and creativity that fueled my life.

Now, years later, I embrace the duality. I honor the family who shaped me, even if they never fully understood me. And I cherish the life I built beyond their perception—a life filled with adventure, curiosity, and expression that is entirely my own. What my family thinks about me isn’t even close to the truth, and I’ve stopped worrying about it. I’ve stopped performing for their approval because I finally see the value in living authentically, even if it surprises or confuses them.