The face I didn’t recognise was mine
There’s no way to heal a version of you that never existed
Hello friends,
Today’s post will be slightly different. Play this song (Portishead – Roads) while you read. I promise you, it’ll make sense in a bit.
The inner work I thought was done
I’ve been doing the inner work for years. Journals stacked like bricks in my cupboard. Tens of thousands spent on therapy. I’ve sobbed through workshops, whispered to my inner child in the dark, screamed into pillows, faced my demons, read every book I could find about healing the nervous system and the wounded self.
I thought I’d peeled back at least 70% of the onion. But that night, as I sat in front of my unused mic and untouched Zoom window, something shifted.
It was just a check-in call hosted by
. All I had to do was hop on, say what I hoped to accomplish that week, and log off. It wasn’t even going to be recorded.Sounds simple, right? Not for me. I was sweating bricks over it for days.
I rehearsed what I might say in my head like it was a TED Talk. I worried my mic wouldn’t work. I worried I’d blank out. I worried I’d show too much of myself and regret it. I adjusted my lighting twice, checked my audio settings three times, and rushed home just to be ready. I wanted to show up prepared. Calm. Collected. Like I wasn’t fighting twelve versions of myself just to speak on a video call with kind strangers.
And then… I missed it.
Not because I chickened out. Because I converted Eastern time to Singapore time and got the fucking date wrong. I thought it was Monday. It was Sunday.
And when I realised what happened, I just sat there—mic in place, lights on, adrenaline still buzzing—and felt the familiar rush of shame crawl up my spine. The same shame that’s followed me since childhood.
Back then, I’d forget school events. Zone out during instructions. I got called “blur,” “spacey,” “lazy”, even when I was trying my hardest. I didn’t know how to explain the fog in my brain, or the way time moved differently for me. So I just internalised it all.
If I messed up, it must mean I was the mess.
So yeah, missing that Zoom call wasn’t just a mix-up. It pressed on every raw nerve I’ve spent years trying to soothe. But then something surprising happened.
After the wave of self-blame passed, I didn’t spiral. I didn’t punish myself. I didn’t collapse into shame or call myself a failure. I just sat there. Breathing. Feeling it. And for the first time… something softened.
Because I had tried. I had shown up for myself, even if no one else saw it. And that mattered more than I expected. I guess all those painful years of self-development did pay off.
Just… not quite enough.
The photo that helped me see
Earlier this week, I posted a photo of myself online. No filter. No ring light. Just me, my daughter and my book. And the world didn’t end. People didn’t scroll away in disgust. They didn’t ask me to be prettier, more polished, more professional.
They saw me.
Not the brand. Not the performance.
Just me.
And I realised maybe being seen isn’t about being perfect. Maybe it’s about being recognisable. Not to others, but to yourself.
The mask I didn’t know I was wearing
Someone named
left a comment. She said:“Maybe the reason you cringe when you see yourself in videos… is because you’re still clinging to a version of you that doesn’t actually exist.”
And just like that, the lights came on.
Why I avoid TikTok like it’s radioactive.
Why I hate how I sound on recordings.
Why I avoid mirrors when I’m not “presentable”.
Why I panic before every photo, every video, every unscripted Zoom.
It’s because the version of me I thought I was—the cool, polished, eloquent version—was never actually me. She was a mask I built to survive. To be liked. To be respected. To belong. And the real me? The one who talks too little, feels too much, forgets everything, and blurts out weird metaphors in serious conversations? I haven’t let her lead.
No wonder I cringe.
It’s not shame, and I don’t hate her.
I just don’t fully know her yet.
Why Roads still hurts (in a new way)
That’s why I asked you to play Portishead – Roads before reading this.
When I was younger, depressed, and quietly disappearing into myself, this song held me. It matched the ache. It was the sound of floating in pain without language.
Now, after years of healing work, it hits differently. It’s not about despair anymore. It’s about the quiet grief that comes when you realise you’ve spent years editing yourself into someone more acceptable, only to wake up and feel like a stranger in your own skin.
But I don’t have to restart from scratch this time.
I get to start from truth.
To get to know this version of me.
This face I couldn’t recognise.
This voice I couldn’t love.
The lesson I didn’t expect from an 8-year-old
This week, I watched my daughter at her Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu advanced competition class. She had a new professor that day. Stern. No-nonsense. The kind of strict that makes you wonder if he’s ever spent five minutes alone with a child. He introduced tough new drills that made her friend cry and refuse to try.
But Lissie? She comforted her friend, then quietly stepped up. She didn’t cry. She didn’t hesitate. She just tried. Not to prove anything. Not to impress anyone. Just a little girl giving her best to something hard.
Watching her made my throat tighten.
Because while I’m here wrestling with shame, viewing my own image like it’s a threat and bracing for every digital “stage”—she’s out there trying, failing, and trying again, without waiting to feel “ready”.
That’s the kind of courage I want to carry.
Imperfect. Steady. Honest.
Just brave enough to begin again.
And it’s my 8-year-old who’s teaching me how.
Who am I really writing for?
Funny thing is, I think I wrote The Magic Crystal for myself instead of Lissie.
Amelia the Owl is terrified to fly.
She stands at the edge of the Floating Mountains, heart pounding, unsure she’s ready. But she tries anyway. That’s me, fumbling through Zoom calls, awkwardly posting my face, still scared… but doing it anyway.
And then there’s Anna the Swan.
She doesn’t rush. She glides. She observes. She reflects. She helps you see how far you’ve come without saying a word. Anna reminded me that you don’t always need another breakthrough. Sometimes, you just need to sit with it. Let it settle. Honour the journey that brought you here.
Sometimes, the stories we write for children end up holding the parts of us we’ve spent years trying to understand.
Farewell and hello
So here I am now, learning to let go of the version I built to survive.
Learning to trust the one who’s still fumbling. Still figuring it out. Still afraid sometimes, but showing up anyway. The version of me who misses meetings. Who rambles. Who forgets what she was about to say halfway through a sentence. Who shows up late, and still matters.
And if you’re cringing at yourself lately…
If you mute your voice or dodge your own image…
It’s not because you’re broken.
Maybe it’s just because you’re finally seeing the real you.
And yeah, it might feel awkward at first. But it’s not a failure.
It’s a reintroduction.
So play the song again.
Let it sting. Let it soften. Let it settle.
And whatever you do, don’t look away.
If you felt a soul-slap from this story, I’d love for you to restack, share, or just send it to someone who’s still learning to recognise themselves too.
And if you’re curious about the book that came out of all this madness, check out Magic Pony Books.
Or if you’d like to help keep the lights on while I raise my daughter, two cats, and pour my heart into stories like this, consider becoming a paid subscriber, get my book, or simply send a virtual hug filled with kindness. It makes a real difference.
That damn onion, I just keep peeling .
I really loved the realization that the cringing kind of comes from an expectation of me that really doesn't exist.
Personally, I will add that being on steroids has caused me to have a big ole moonface that I barely recognize when I look in the mirror.
But when I lens out, I realize that I don't judge other people's physical appearances the way I judge my own. When I see people who carry what the media considers to be extra weight ... I think of them as friendly, huggable, appealing ... and safe ( ! ) .
And as I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I realize that * I * have that face. Maybe it's not such a bad thing that people think I'm friendly and safe. Maybe I just need to let go of the reflection I never really had. 😊
Your words have depth and wisdom. I was particularly struck with your realization about who you thought you were compared to who you really are. I think that's a persistent challenge we all face. The journey we take to ourselves is filled with powerful moments like the one you describe. I resonated with this very strongly.