Maybe I Just Wanted To Be Seen

It’s strange how I became both distant and desperate at the same time. I grew allergic to compliments, brushing them off before they could settle, yet I found myself constantly seeking attention, always talking about myself and always finding a way to make myself the topic of the conversation. Maybe I wasn’t looking to be admired. Maybe I was just looking to be seen.

Growing up in a household where compliments and words of appreciation were rare, I became someone who was always thirsty for attention. I wanted people to notice me, not because I wanted them to tell me I was talented or smart, but because I wanted them to recognize the effort I put into everything I did. I didn’t want praise for the outcome as much as I wanted someone to say, “I saw how hard you worked.”

Maybe that longing came from all the moments that made me feel small. There were times when I accomplished something I was genuinely proud of, only to hear that it wasn’t a big deal or that anyone could have done it. My achievements were often dismissed as something easy, and over time, I began to believe that nothing I did was ever enough.

I also think part of it came from growing up with a lot of achievements. I was used to receiving awards and being at the top of something, so whenever my family complimented me, it rarely felt genuine. It often felt expected, as if they were acknowledging the result rather than recognizing me. After a while, compliments started to feel routine instead of heartfelt, and I found myself craving something different. I didn’t want people to praise the medal or the grade anymore. I wanted someone to notice the effort, the sleepless nights, the frustration, and the perseverance that came before the achievement.

That feeling became the starting point of my journey as an overachiever. I convinced myself that if I kept winning, if I worked harder than everyone else, if I could surpass other people’s abilities, then maybe someone would finally see me.

For a while, it worked, or at least I thought it did.

Eventually, it backfired.

I became exhausted. I started hating everything about myself, my work, my skills, my talents, even my own abilities. The frustration I had toward never feeling enough slowly turned into resentment toward myself.

The first time I truly felt seen wasn’t after receiving an award or getting a high score.

It happened during one of the most stressful nights of my life.

I was studying for an exam, cramming because it was the night before. I still had five to ten lessons left for each subject, and nothing seemed to stay in my head. I was frustrated, overwhelmed, and it probably showed all over my face.

Then my mom stood by my bedroom door and quietly said,

“You don’t need to be so hard on yourself. You don’t have to answer everything perfectly. You can relax.”

I don’t know why those words affected me the way they did.

I kept studying, but when I finally stopped around midnight, I cried.

Maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, someone acknowledged not what I could achieve, but what I was going through. She saw my struggle. She saw how much I cared. She wasn’t praising my grades or expecting perfection. She simply recognized that I was trying.

I think that was what I had been searching for all along.

Going back to the contradiction of being allergic to compliments while constantly seeking attention.

It doesn’t make much sense on the surface, but it makes perfect sense to me.

I’m not used to receiving compliments. Whenever someone says something nice about me, I immediately become uncomfortable. I smile, usually the kind of polite, professional smile you’d give a stranger, because I never know what to say. Sometimes I force out a “thank you.” Other times I downplay the compliment or immediately redirect the attention back to the other person because I’m afraid that accepting it will make me seem arrogant.

I still remember a kid complimenting me while I was walking. They called me pretty, and I pretended not to hear them because I didn’t know how to react. It was awkward. When the same kid complimented me again another day, I finally smiled. Looking back, I laugh at how uncomfortable something so kind made me feel.

Maybe that’s also why I subconsciously seek attention.

Not because I want everyone’s eyes on me, but because I still hope that the people who matter to me will notice me without me having to ask.

Ironically, I’ve built relationships where affection and compliments are uncommon because I’ve spent years brushing them off. People learned that I wasn’t expressive because I taught them I didn’t need those things.

But I did.

I still do.

Sometimes I catch myself steering conversations back to myself or comparing my experiences to someone else’s just so I can feel included. Sometimes I make myself part of the story because I’m afraid of disappearing from it altogether.

The funny thing is, I dislike people who constantly make everything about themselves.

And yet, I’ve caught myself becoming one of them.

That realization hurt.

I don’t think I developed this habit overnight. It was built over years of wanting to be noticed without ever admitting that I wanted to be noticed.

The strange part is that it only happens around people I’m not completely comfortable with. Around my closest friends, I’m perfectly happy just listening. I don’t feel like I have to perform or prove anything. Their presence alone makes me feel safe.

But with newer people, silence feels unbearable. I feel responsible for filling every gap in the conversation, almost as if disappearing into the background would mean becoming invisible again.

Maybe that’s the difference.

Maybe I’ve never actually wanted attention.

Maybe I’ve only ever wanted reassurance that I exist in people’s lives, that I’m seen, appreciated, and remembered, even when I’m not trying so hard to earn it.

I’m still learning that being seen isn’t something you have to achieve.

Sometimes, it’s something you simply allow yourself to receive.