I’ve been thinking about the friction that comes with self-expression. Whenever I put a thought out into the world, it feels like I’m inviting a silent challenge: “Who do I think I am?” It’s a question I often ask myself, too. There’s a strange vulnerability in being seen; it’s the discomfort of letting your internal world become public property.
But maybe that’s the point. Self-expression is the act of letting a part of myself exist in the world, even if it’s messy or misunderstood. Still, there’s an undeniable skepticism in how we judge one another—the way we look at someone with face tattoos versus someone in a suit. We often mistake aesthetic conformity for moral character.
This reminds me of Nietzsche’s idea that our “morality” is often just a set of aesthetic standards in disguise. When we accept societal norms of what is “appropriate” without questioning them, we aren’t necessarily being virtuous; we’re just conforming. It’s a self-imposed limitation, as if being human isn’t enough without the right packaging.
I find myself wondering if we’ve always been this way. Why is it so easy to strip someone of respect—like a drunk man on the street—just because they don’t meet our standard of “composed”? Are we actually pursuing authenticity, or are we just managing perceptions?
It’s tempting to stay silent. It’s easier to keep my thoughts hidden where they can’t be challenged. But that silence eventually starts to feel like a lie. I’m starting to realize that self-expression isn’t about proving a point or being “right.” It’s just an act of exploration. It’s saying, “This is where I am right now,” without needing a final answer.
When people react negatively, it’s usually more of a reflection of their own boundaries than it is a judgment of mine. I don’t have it all figured out, and I don’t think I need to. I’ll keep sharing—not because I’m certain of myself, but because being honest about the process feels like the only way to move forward.