The Risk of Being Real

I started thinking about revealing my identity—about publishing these posts under my own name. And then a friend warned me:

It would be risky for your career.

I think she’s right. Most of my clients are conservative; that’s how they can afford to pay me. And that realization makes me sad.

To feed myself, to support myself, to exist in this world, I’ve had to hide what I think, what I feel—who I am.

I do this in my family. I do this with many of my so-called friends. If I share who I really am, I risk losing even more people, and there aren’t many left close to me as it is.

But why would the world be offended by me?

Why is it that a woman with a sharp mind and strong intellect must stay hidden?

What exactly am I protecting myself from?

Losing people I don’t even want? And yet, there’s still a need there—a need to make money, to fit in, to hold ties to my past.

As our political climate continues to slide backward, I sometimes fear that if people truly knew what I think, they’d want to burn me at the stake. Is this irrational? Or an intuitive knowing that, in some ways, I am a modern-day witch?

I understand logically why my thoughts are threatening to some. But emotionally, I don’t understand—just like I don’t understand why people fear gay people. Why does anyone care? Why is it dangerous for a person simply to be, to love who they love, to live how they want?

I felt this acutely when I decided not to freeze my eggs.

The reactions I received stunned me—as if choosing not to put my body through that process meant giving up on motherhood entirely. As if trusting divine timing was recklessly throwing in the towel.

I simply refuse to follow the prescribed path. Yet some of my friends call that “asking to be disappointed.”

But I don’t buy it. I am happier following my inner guidance, not trends imposed on me.

I’ve lived off-script for a long time now—39, unmarried, no kids, only briefly part of the corporate world. Carving my own path can feel overwhelming, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The other day, a “friend” told me, “You don’t have to marry someone you love. Just marry whomever so you're not alone.”

I was stunned.

“I didn’t leave my marriage for that,” I responded. I’d already experienced a safe but not totally right marriage. This friend had attended that wedding.

She kept going, claiming a single woman our age becomes too quirky, too weird. “You’re better off with any man.”

What? The patriarchy is terrified of a woman who can take care of herself, who can be alone—and I truly don’t understand why.

Is it because we can’t be controlled?

Yet the irony is, I do want a man. Deeply. I want love, community—just the right kind. Not a consolation prize for nearing 40.

Often, I feel like an outsider, standing at the edges of life—watching others while I’m dragged again and again into the underworld.

But I won’t settle.

I want something that makes the wait worth it.

I want to be seen, known, to feel the warmth of the sun on my face.

I want to walk side by side with someone, rejoicing, playing—making earth feel like heaven.

Anyway, until I have a true safety net, I can’t share my voice publicly—yet.

I have to choose love.

And, for now, love means protecting myself and my identity.

Because sometimes, the stronger your sense of self, the more you advocate for your truth, the less people will understand you.

I suppose it’s because so few people truly know themselves. They look outside for guidance, grasping identities that aren’t aligned with their souls.

I do believe, however, that the more you tap into your soul, the more the right people will find you. And I would rather have the right people than more people—especially if I have to hide who I am to keep them.

That feels exhausting.

I’d rather be a little lonely, as I am now.

Ultimately, I'd rather have peace within myself. I'm more me than I've ever been, and I value that deeply. Keeping my anonymity allows me to share my truth without risking the security I still need. Even though hiding keeps me from being fully known, it lets me remain authentic, at least in this small space.

Re-reading this, I feel the irony sharply—advocating for authenticity while staying hidden, protecting connections that can't deepen if I never fully emerge.

This is complicated.

Maybe that’s why some people want to believe the earth is flat—it simplifies things.

But life isn’t simple. It’s vast, round, complex, and beautiful—just like a woman.

And I love being a woman.

Here I am: an anonymous yet very alive woman, sharing her truth.

To what end? I don't yet know—but I do know I'm caught in the tension between needing to protect myself and yearning to fully reveal who I am.

And what about you?

What parts of yourself have you hidden to maintain a sense of safety, belonging, or acceptance—and what has that silence cost your spirit?