Encounters with people over the last few months have been bringing up something for me both new, and yet so very old. This has to do with being seen vs. not being seen (as in people remembering/recognizing me vs. not remembering/recognizing me…with the emphasis on not). Mostly this happens with people that I’ve had long conversations with, taken classes from, danced for, helped deliver their baby, etc.

Performance pictures of me on social networking sites prompt people I knew in high school and college to exclaim, “Wow! You look great! That organic thing is really working for you!” and I want to say, “Yeah, that’s not what I look like most of the time”– apparently, considering people I haven’t seen in six months will say the same thing. Trust me, I do not look that different from six months ago. Yoga teachers that I’ve taken classes from for a year don’t recognize me out and about in town, or question me by email if I was the person that they danced with at an event the weekend before. I performed at a function a year ago where the man who puts on the event, whom I have met and chatted with on several occasions since, asked a friend, “Who was that?” after I walked out the door. And all of this has happened just in the last week. It is enough to drive a girl insane.

And yes, I do sometimes feel that way.

Why, exactly, does no one (ok, very few people besides my friends, colleagues, etc.) recognize me? As if the universe really wants to make its point, one of my closest friends is recognized by everyone whenever we are together, whether or not he has actually met them (or if he can remember meeting them…ah, the life of a DJ). I’ve been pondering this dilemma quite a bit lately, sometimes feeling the humor of the situation (really? You don’t remember telling me about the son you gave up for adoption and then reunited with 20 years later only to find out he was diagnosed with a brain tumor and only had a week to live? REALLY?), and other times feeling the pain (why am I not memorable? Or, why am I only memorable when dancing/dressed in costume/with makeup on, but not in my “everyday me” look?).

I’ve had many a conversation with close friends about this issue, with most reassuring me that I do look like the same person either decked out for a performance or dressed in sweats (“It’s their memory issue, not you”), while a few note, albeit gently, that I in fact do look different, but that one way is not better than the other (what the hell??). Over the duration of these conversations, which I have stopped having both for the sake of my friends, and my own need to accept what is, I realized this feeling, this sense of not being seen, has been around for quite some time.

As a young child, I danced in front of the shared mirrors at department stores while my mom tried on clothes, spellbinding groups of women who were planning to look at their potential clothing from three sides, who instead found me in their way. I played Tinkerbell in my first grade play, throwing pixie dust on my fellow cast and the audience like it was my job. Where did that little girl go? Did she get lost in the five or so times I moved during my youth, or when the audience snickered as I made my way to the podium in sixth grade to give a speech, or maybe when my black girlfriends made fun of my moves at an eighth grade dance? I became afraid of being seen somewhere along the way, and yet a part of me desperately needed it.

For years, I have written and danced, and yet I could never call myself a writer or dancer. How could this be? I felt like a fraud saying either—I would tell people I was in a dance troupe, and they assumed it was a side project, or if I told them I had minored in creative writing as an undergrad, they would ask if I had a blog. At least saying that I was getting my Masters in something (although most people had no friggin’ idea what Holistic Health Education implied for any sort of a job prospect) seemed to satisfy people. But there came a time when I had to graduate. And I had to say I was doing something. So finally, finally, very tentatively, I said I was a writer. And dancer. Well, most of the time at least.

The point to this brief history of myself and current trauma-inducing issue is to show the extent to which each of us denies parts of ourselves to others, and well, also to that little brain of ours. How does this impact the way we are seen by others? How can we be truly healthy when we think that even a small part of us is not valid, does not live up to our expectation of what a “professional” or “expert” looks like in the field to which we are drawn (whether artist or doctor), or what we think isn’t accepted by society in general needs to be shoved way down?

There is so much emphasis placed on food, exercise, sleep and stress in terms of health. While this is all true, and we need to be aware of each of these areas in our own lives in order to be healthy (which, I want to remind you, is a relative term), what about that part of us that is meant to express our passions in this life? To be seen for those qualities that we possess that are unique to us? How many people die with a book, or a song, or a dance, or even a math equation in them?

Be who you are this time around. And if you believe there is only this one time around, isn’t it all the more important to express yourself fully?

An important point I wish to note is to refrain from hurting others in the process. No matter what your inclination is, there exists both a healthy and an unhealthy way to express it. This area is definitely something to ponder as you follow your path. Other than that, enjoy the hell out of whatever you do.

And go be seen, loud and clear.

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