Where Have I Been Shrinking Myself?

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a question that I can’t seem to shake. Where in my life have I been shrinking myself? And if I’m honest—almost everywhere.

For much of my life, I thought staying small meant staying safe. That being agreeable, quiet, and understanding make me easier to love. Now, I’m beginning to feel the cost of that choice. The endless exhaustion, the invisibility, the aching loneliness of disappearing in my own life.

Shrinking to Be “Good”

As a child, I picked up on things quickly. I noticed that the quieter I was, the fewer problems I caused. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be easy.

So I became:

• The kid who didn’t cry too much
• The student who stayed quiet even when she knew the answer
• The teen who laughed when she was uncomfortable
• The girl who apologized for existing “too loudly”

Using my voice has always felt like a risk. I can’t count how many times I’ve been interrupted mid-sentence. How that small act of being talked over makes me want to disappear. In those moments, I feel embarrassed, ashamed, and genuinely hurt.

So I learned to stay small. Eyes down. Words tucked inside. Quiet enough to go unnoticed.

Shrinking Myself in Relationships

In relationships, I’ve become a shapeshifter. I morph into whatever the other person needs me to be—helpful, accommodating, agreeable. Always saying yes, and always available.

I remember once helping a friend hand out flyers at an event. The idea of talking to strangers, raising my voice to get attention—it terrified me. But I didn’t want to seem difficult or incapable, so I did it. I never felt any pressure, but I just didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

I didn’t want to be a burden, so I became everything but myself. I downplayed my needs. I brushed off hurt. I stayed quiet to keep the peace. But in doing so, I kept people at arm’s length.

I’ve been told before that I come off as distant or aloof. The truth is, I’m stuck in my own head rehearsing the “right” thing to say. I overthink instead of allowing myself to just be.

That version of me—the filtered, edited version—became a mask I didn’t know how to take off.

Shrinking My Voice

Even when I’m writing—the one place I feel most like myself—I sometimes shrink. I’ll write something honest and vulnerable, then hesitate before hitting the publish button. I imagine judgment. I worry I’m being too much or too emotional.

But then, someone reaches out and says, “Thank you. I needed this today.” And I’m reminded why I keep going. Why I share the messy parts of my life. It’s why I speak up even if my voice shakes.

Writing is how I unshrink. It’s how I reclaim my voice. It’s how I whisper to others that they’re not alone. They’re not too much. They don’t have to disappear to be loved.

Tiny Acts of Unshrinking

Taking up space still feels foreign. But little by little, I’m learning how to return to myself. I’m starting to show up more fully in these gentle, deliberate ways:

• Saying “no” without overexplaining
• Letting silence sit instead of filling it with apologies
• Resting without guilt—even when I haven’t “earned it”
• Asking for help, even when it feels risky
• Posting the vulnerable thing, even when I’m scared
• Holding eye contact instead of looking away
• Choosing what I want—even if it’s different from everyone else

Each small act is a rebellion against the silence I was taught to keep.

You’re Allowed to Take Up Space

Unshrinking isn’t about becoming loud or fearless overnight. It’s about reclaiming your right to exist, just as you are.

And if it feels hard to start, begin with one small act of unshrinking. Because even the softest voices deserve to be heard.

“You were never meant to quiet your voice just to make others comfortable.”

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