My Desire to Serve Has to Be Bigger Than My Fear of Being Seen

I'll drop everything for a stranger's problem. But why is it so hard to do it for myself?

For some reason, I love helping people. Actually, it’s not strange, I'm empathetic; I care about people, and I tend to see what they need before they even know how to explain it.

Once I see the problem, it becomes very difficult for me not to help, even when helping means using the last bit of energy I have. I’m curious, I have a great memory, and I’m very good at finding the missing piece; it’s easier for me to stay home and work through a problem than to go out, have fun the; before but, and pretend I’ve forgotten about it, because I won’t sleep anyway. My brain will keep looking for the answer.

When I see this happening to somebody else, I can’t stay quiet or simply move on with my life; I have to serve. Because what type of human would I be if I let someone suffer while I hold the solution to their situation?

Sadly, none of this seems to apply to my own business. In fact, doing anything in service of myself takes so much out of me. I can repeat simple tasks every day, answer emails, organize things, make plans, and work behind the scenes, but anything that requires me to expose myself as someone with knowledge, someone who should be proud of what she does, makes me want to throw up.

LinkedIn, painting, talking about my work, showing people something I made and allowing them to decide whether it’s good * blegh *

For the past few days, though, after a series of unfortunate events, I’ve been trying to come up with the craziest plan to shoot my brand all the way up. This whole process has forced me to get to the bottom of this: What if I could use my desire to serve to serve myself? What if, for once in my life, my desire to serve became bigger than my fear of being seen?

Maybe the problem is that I’ve become very good at building a life where I don’t have to be witnessed. (Do not be fooled by my daily selfies, which prove to my mom that I shower and am trying at life.)

I can stay home, work, cook, read a book, doomscroll for work inspo and convince myself that I’m protecting my peace and doing what's best for my adult self. Sometimes I am; other times, I’m hiding inside a life that feels safe because nobody can judge what they never get to see.

Painting with watercolor makes this sooooo obvious. I can enjoy making something when it belongs only to me, especially when I’m using pencils and can control every stroke, but the moment I imagine picking up a brush? Finishing it? Allowing somebody to have an opinion about it? The joy becomes exposure, and exposure leads to real panic. The same thing happens with writing, videos, meeting new people, and almost anything that asks me to step outside the private world I’ve built.

The ridiculous part is that I moved countries at 40. I started my life over somewhere new, alone, without knowing exactly how anything would turn out; clearly, I am capable of taking risks. Yet somehow posting a video, sharing a painting or saying something I believe out loud can feel more dangerous than packing my entire life into suitcases. Perhaps comfort is not always peace. Sometimes it is fear with good lighting, a clean apartment and a very convincing candle.

I don’t want to destroy the quiet life I worked so hard to create; but I just don’t want to use that quiet as a place to disappear.