2024 MEMOIR

Being seen as soft was the only concern I ever had growing up. You had to slap-box your way out of it. You had to talk big to mask the cracks. You had to lie and hustle your way through it, always staying one step ahead of being exposed. Performing only works when no one looks too closely. 

It was like standing in front of a mirror that refused to lie. No matter how many layers I built, no matter how carefully I polished the facade, the reflection showed everything I tried to hide. There was no room for charades—only a raw, unvarnished truth staring back at me.

My first instinct was always to bend, to shape myself into whatever felt expected—whether it was the world’s idea of a man or some imagined ideal I thought would be enough. I gave away pieces of my comfort, convinced it was the price of being accepted. But no matter how much I tried to fit the mold, the cracks always showed. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t mine; it was an image I had built for everyone else. And still, it wasn’t enough.

It took time to realize the weight of carrying all those layers of shame. The truth was simple but brutal: I had to stop running from myself. I had to stand still, look in the mirror, and see what was real. Not for anyone else, but for me. I had to learn to peel it all back, to take my comfort back, to say no without flinching.

Now, I’m learning to stop performing for the applause. I don’t need the fleeting highs of validation, or the hollow currency of attention. My work, my progress—it’s mine. I keep it close. I’ve found joy in creating for myself, in building spaces that feel like home. Whether a thousand eyes find me or none at all, I’ll keep showing up for me.

Santana.