I realized I’ve been living my entire life as though someone were always watching.
The other day, I caught myself sitting in my car after work, hands resting on the steering wheel. No music, no radio, no podcasts—just silence. And in that stillness, it struck me how much of my existence has been shaped by performance.
I prepare meals that look elegant on the plate, though often they matter more for appearance than flavor. I take photographs I call “candid,” though they are carefully staged. Even in solitude, I find myself narrating my actions in my mind, as if I were preparing a script for someone else to hear.
It’s not just the big things—it’s the smallest moments. I was idly waiting for a video to load while playing on Stɑke, and the thought crossed my mind: Would this seem dull if someone were watching me right now?
That question revealed something unsettling. I have constructed a version of myself for an invisible audience, rehearsed and polished, yet strangely hollow.
This imagined observer has become so constant that I sometimes forget there is no one there. I have lived as though every gesture required explanation, every pause deserved justification.
And in the process, I have lost sight of the unadorned self—the person who simply is, without commentary, without performance.
It leaves me wondering: who am I when no one is watching? Who remains when the stage lights dim and the audience disappears?
The truth is, I don’t fully know anymore.
