Burning Beneath

There is a question that has stayed with me since one of those nights when I woke up in the middle of my sleep. It wasn’t about the world this time. It was about me.

How do I really come across to other people?

That question isn’t new. In fact, it follows me all the way back to elementary school.

I remember classmates describing me as “cocky” or “full of myself.” Even then, the label never made sense to me. I came from a very simple home, one that was far from stable. There was nothing in my upbringing that would have made me believe I was better than anyone else.

What I did become, however, was an observer.

I wasn’t the loud child. I wasn’t the one constantly laughing or trying to be the center of attention. I mostly watched. I listened. I stayed quiet unless I felt comfortable enough to let my real personality emerge.

The funny thing is that people who truly know me would probably describe me very differently. Around the people I trust, I’m spontaneous, full of laughter, playful, and full of life. Somehow, despite everything that happened in my early years, I never lost my ability to smile.

Looking back, I wonder if my quietness was mistaken for arrogance.

School became my refuge.

It was where I discovered that hard work was noticed. Every encouraging word from a teacher mattered to me. Every piece of genuine praise gave me confidence. I wasn’t chasing popularity; I was chasing excellence because excellence was one of the few places where I consistently felt seen.

I excelled academically while also competing in sports. At the time, there was an assumption that athletes weren’t strong students. I unknowingly challenged that stereotype.

I still remember crying over a small English quiz because I thought one mistake would cost me first place in the entire school. My classmates couldn’t understand why it mattered so much. They hadn’t realized I was competing for the top academic position. My teacher reassured me that the quiz wouldn’t change the outcome, and in that moment everyone discovered that I wasn’t only “the sports girl.”

I was both.

One memory has stayed with me for decades.

One day, my physical education teacher who was expecting at that time, asked me to sit in front of her during class. She told me she hoped her unborn child would grow up with some of the qualities she saw in me.

Those words meant more than she probably ever knew.

As I grew older, my confidence grew with my achievements, and my childhood shyness slowly faded. I was always driven. I rarely doubted myself because I had a destination in mind. My education wasn’t simply about grades. It was my path toward building a different life than the one I had grown up in.

Years later, I continued hearing the same sentence from people.

“I thought you were cocky when I first met you… but you’re actually not.”

The interesting part wasn’t that one person said it.

Many people did.

That tells me my first impression and my actual personality don’t always match.

Today, I find myself asking a different question.

How do I come across during conversations?

When I’m engaged in a discussion, I speak with conviction. Sometimes I probably sound more forceful than I intend. It’s not because I believe I’m always right. It’s because I genuinely believe in exploring ideas thoroughly.

In fact, there have been many times when I’ve intentionally argued the opposite side of an issue—not because I agreed with it, but because I believed every perspective deserved to be examined. To me, that’s what makes conversations interesting. I enjoy testing ideas, looking for weaknesses, and understanding different viewpoints.

Some people enjoy that.

Others find it exhausting.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more selective about where I spend that energy. I no longer feel the need to debate everything. If someone isn’t interested in an honest exchange of ideas, I simply let the conversation go.

I’ve also inherited some traits from people who I grew up with.

One of my aunts was incredibly direct. If criticism needed to be given, she gave it without hesitation. Yet behind that directness was a genuinely kind heart. She wasn’t trying to hurt people. She simply believed honesty mattered.

Perhaps some of that stayed with me.

When I offer advice, it usually comes from a place of caring. I want the people I care about to have the best outcome possible. That doesn’t mean my advice has to be followed, nor do I expect everyone to agree with me.

I’ve learned that everyone has the right to live according to their own beliefs, just as I have the right to live according to mine.

One lesson life has taught me, however, is this:

I no longer want to spend my time where I feel merely tolerated.

I don’t want relationships where I constantly wonder whether I’ve annoyed someone, offended someone, or made myself too much.

Peace has become too valuable.

If I’m not truly welcome somewhere, I would rather enjoy my own company.

Solitude has never frightened me.

Pretending to belong does.

Perhaps people will continue to misunderstand me at first.

Perhaps they won’t.

Either way, I’ve reached a point in my life where I care less about changing other people’s first impressions and more about staying true to the person I’ve spent a lifetime becoming.