In this reflection we notice the parts we have learned to hide.
There are things you do not say at work. Stories you edit. References you leave out. Entire parts of yourself that you set aside when you walk through certain doors.
This is not secrecy. It is strategy. Learned through experience. Through the one time you mentioned something and felt the room shift. Through the jokes that were not jokes. Through realizing that some parts of you make certain people uncomfortable, and discomfort has consequences.
So you learned not to say. Not because you are ashamed. Because you are smart. Because survival in spaces not designed for you requires constant calibration. What to reveal. What to hold back. Which version of yourself is safe to show here.
The editing becomes automatic. You do not consciously decide to leave things out. Your brain does it for you. A social algorithm optimized for safety. You only notice it when you are somewhere you do not have to edit. When you can finally exhale the parts you have been holding in.
This is exhausting. Not because any single edit is hard. Because the editing never stops. Because you cannot simply exist. You are always calculating. Always monitoring the gap between who you are and what you are showing.
People who have never had to edit do not understand the weight of it. They just exist in rooms. They say what they think. They bring their whole selves without consequence. They do not know what it costs to not have that luxury.
The parts you do not say are not less true for being hidden. They are just waiting for safer spaces. For people who do not require you to be smaller. For environments where the whole of you fits.
Those spaces exist. They might be rare. But they exist. And when you find them, you might be surprised by how much you have been carrying. How much relief there is in finally saying what you learned not to say.