fear of being seen

Hola, everyone!

I am incredibly happy to be writing again after a long time. I’ve been turning my story and writings here into a book for the past year, while also taking care of my baby (which is really my main job).

So I haven’t had the chance to write my reflections for a while. This feels like a blessing.

Writing is how I process my emotions and my inner world. It is also a kind of meditation, a place where I meet myself wherever I am. It is a practice through which I can connect to something greater than me. So I decided to start writing and sharing whatever is alive for me in this season of life.

And what has been alive for me this past week, as I finished editing my book and prepared to send my submission proposal to a big publisher I love, is this fear.

Fear of visibility.

Fear of being deeply seen.

I did not start writing a book just to write a book. I started writing my blog when I sold my house and began a journey—an inner journey through travel, healing, and transformation. My only intention was to share it with family and friends so they would know what I was up to, and so we could stay connected on a deeper level.

But as that journey unfolded into something much bigger than I expected, and as healing reflections kept coming through me, I decided to turn it into a book.

When I used to imagine finishing my book, I always pictured some big hallelujah moment. I thought I would feel ecstatic, thrilled, deeply proud. I imagined finally completing something so dear to me and getting to share it with the world. How exciting, right?

And yet that is not how I felt at all.

What I felt was something crunchy in my stomach.

I wanted to keep editing and editing. Forever. But I had reread the same material so many times over the past few months, even years, that I was completely blinded by my own writing. I personally could not go any further. And still, I kept thinking: this is not good enough to share with the world. I kept imagining people criticizing certain parts, hating it, dismissing it.

But truly, in my heart, I loved my book.

I love my book.

Honestly, just the way it is.

It is my baby.

And giving birth to an actual human has given me so much perspective, because now I see that every creative process is a kind of birth.

And how do you feel right before birth?

Let me tell you: you do not feel good.

There is a baby stuck between your legs. You are in incredible pain and pressure. You feel like you are going to die, or the baby is going to die. You want the baby out, but you also weirdly don’t, because you think that if you push and the baby moves through, it will break your body apart. It will break you apart. And at the same time, you know that life will never be the same again.

It is this absolute tension, discomfort, pressure and aaghhh feeling of being stuck in between.

That is exactly how I had been feeling with my book.

I want it out, but I also don’t. Because I am afraid it will break me if it comes out. And life will never be the same again—the life I love so much in this moment.

Because in the end, this is not only a book I wrote. It is my personal story. The way I will be seen—not only as a writer, but as a human, as a woman with this wild story—feels terrifying.

To be seen this deeply.This openly.To be this vulnerable to everyone out there.

And then the criticism would not only be about my work. It would feel like it was about me. About who I am in my core. Because this book holds who I am, who I was, and who I came to be.

And I wasn’t sure if I could take that. I wasn’t sure if I could hold people’s feedback, criticism, or opinions about me and my dear story.

But then I remembered my experience of giving birth.

How once the baby comes out, it is the most relieving feeling in the world. And you literally do not have any f.cks left to give about anything except being grateful to be alive with this tiny little baby in your arms. You are alive, the baby is alive, and that is all you care about. Nothing else matters. Literally zero. Honestly, one could argue even your husband becomes slightly irrelevant.

And you are in love with the baby.

You do not think about how to fix the baby. You do not think about changing his eyes so people would love him more. You do not worry about whether anyone will love him. And you do not think of him as your baby in that possessive way, as if every detail is your doing and therefore any criticism is personal.

Because yes, the baby was formed within me, and my body supported him—kind of made him too, sure—but it was not me deciding he would be blue-eyed, for example. The baby simply came to be within me.

And once he was born, all I felt in that moment was pure love.

Love.

And nothing, nothing, else mattered.

As I remembered this, I realized it is no different with my book.

She is my baby. She came to be within my soul, within my heart, within my being. She came through me, and now she is here. She is here to have her own journey. It is not about me anymore. People might love her or hate her—that is not up to me to control.

My role now, as the mother, is simply to love her unconditionally. To cheer for her. To support her. To stand by her through whatever journey is hers to have.

You would think a big relief came at that moment.

Well, it did. For a moment.

And in that moment, I decided it was time to let her go. I was going to try my chances and submit to this publisher I love, as big as it is. I was going to give my baby this chance.

So I sent the proposal email.

And the big relief?

Gone again.

Only now, a different set of fears started rising.

What if the book is accepted? What if the publisher calls me and sees that I am only… me?

I am not some grand author. This is my first book. I do not know the literary world or its language. I am just a woman who wrote and shared her story in the hope that someone else moving through a similarly wild healing journey might feel a little less alone. That’s it.

I do not know the answers to fancy questions. English is not even my first language. I am from Turkey (merhaba!). And even though I can write quite well—I went to a really good college and grad school in the States—that does not always translate into speaking well. (Anyone whose English is their second language knows this. I know you see me.)

So then this imposter syndrome started creeping in.

I am not an author. People are going to love the book, but then they will meet me and think I am a con woman.

And then another fear:

What if I get famous?

What am I going to do?

My husband and I are already barely managing to take care of our two-year-old. How am I going to handle the workload if the book does well and now I have to do all the promotion and interviews and all the things? I became convinced I was going to fail.

And not only fail as a writer.

If I do become successful, then I was almost sure that I will also start failing as a mother to my baby, as a wife, as a daughter, as a friend and even as a mother to myself, because with everything else going on, I won’t be able to care for myself either.

It was very interesting to watch all of these thoughts and emotions rising within me.

And then I realized something.

I was more terrified of being successful than of not being successful.

I was terrified of being deeply and widely seen.

There were all these fears of people having expectations of me, and then me failing those expectations. And beneath that was the fear that if I fail people’s expectations, I will not be loved. That I will lose the people who already love me. That they will stop loving me because I fell short.

And underneath there was the deepest layer, the core wound:

More than being afraid that other people won’t love me, I am afraid that I won’t love me anymore.

Underneath everything was this mistrust in myself. A fear that I would not be able to hold and love myself through whatever lies ahead.

It was not only: people won’t love me if they truly see me. It was also: Can I still love me when people don’t? Can I still love me when people think I am not good enough? Can I still love and forgive myself if I fall short on all fronts?

And the moment I saw that deepest fear, I felt a real relief.

Because even if the answer is “not fully” in this moment—even if I am not yet able to love myself boldly, shamelessly, and unconditionally through all of it—it is still something I can remember. Something I can return to. Something I can build again.

Because I have known that love before.

I have touched that kind of love for myself before. I loved me. So deeply.

And maybe somewhere along the way, in the intensity of marriage and motherhood, I lost touch with it. But I know it is still within me.

I just need to remember.

I just need to remember who I am in my core.

And who am I in my core?

I am not only Urala. I am not only the writer, or the mother, or the wife or the friend. These are simply different masks I wear throughout this lifetime.

Who I really am is Life.

I am Creation itself.

And I love life.

I love the flowers, the stars, the sky. I love the ocean and the clouds. I love the strange and fascinating birds in all their glory. Life on this earth is magical and so beautiful.

So surely, I can love myself the same way.

Because however I am, I carry a sacred, magical life within me.

And that sacred life is beautiful.

And very, very lovable.

However she is.