I Don’t Want to Be Perceived: The Battle Between Attention and Privacy

By Trinity Barnette

There’s a part of me that craves the spotlight—the version of me that wants my voice heard, my name known, my work recognized. I built a platform from the ground up. I’ve shared my stories, my thoughts, my truths. But there’s another part of me—the quieter one—that panics at the idea of being watched too closely.

I don’t want to be perceived. Not entirely. Not deeply. Not in that invasive, all-consuming way the internet loves to dissect people—especially women.

Because success doesn’t just bring support; it brings surveillance. The minute you’re visible, you’re vulnerable. Every post becomes a point of discussion. Every choice becomes a headline. And suddenly, you’re not just sharing—you’re being studied. Judged. Picked apart.

I wanted success, not surveillance. I wanted to tell my story without becoming the story. But visibility doesn’t work like that.

The Paradox of Wanting to Be Seen… But Not Watched

It’s a strange feeling to want to be known without being studied. To want your work to resonate, your message to reach people, your platform to grow—without sacrificing your peace, your privacy, or your personhood in the process.

That’s the paradox. I want the world to see what I’ve built, not stare at who I am.

People assume that if you post online, you’re asking for attention. But it’s not that simple. There’s a difference between creating content and craving commentary. Between telling your story and being turned into someone else’s version of it.

When I publish a blog or post a video, it’s intentional. It’s my words, my voice, my control. But when people start making assumptions, filling in blanks, turning my presence into projection—that’s when it shifts. That’s when visibility starts to feel like exposure.

I didn’t sign up to be a spectacle. I signed up to be a storyteller.

And yet, the more you grow, the more people assume they’re entitled to you—not just your content, but your opinions, your dating life, your past, your body, your silence.

Wanting success without the constant invasion isn’t selfish. It’s human.

The Gendered Pressure to Perform

For women—especially those of us online—being seen is never neutral. You’re expected to be hot, but not try too hard. Confident, but not cocky. Real, but still perfectly curated. It’s a tightrope walk between being desirable and being digestible.

And once you step into the public eye, even a little, people start to treat you like you’re public property.

We’re rewarded for performing, for smiling, for staying pretty and palatable. But the moment you speak up, go against the grain, or step outside the box they put you in? Now you’re difficult. Arrogant. Too much. Too loud.

Men can build empires in silence. Women have to explain, apologize, and constantly prove their worth.

When I first started gaining attention, I felt like I had to be everything. Smart and sexy. Vulnerable and invincible. Unfiltered but never messy. I started to feel like I wasn’t even building a brand—I was building a costume. A performance of who people wanted me to be.

And underneath all of that pressure, I lost pieces of myself.

This isn’t just about fame or followers. It’s about how society treats visibility in women as a performance to consume instead of a life to respect. The cost of being perceived is rarely distributed equally—and women pay the highest price.

Attention Is a Drug—And I’ve Been High Before

I won’t lie—attention feels good. It’s validating, affirming, electrifying. It’s the dopamine hit that tells you you matter, that you’re seen, that you’re doing something right.

And when you grow up invisible in the ways that count—emotionally neglected, misunderstood, forced to be the strong one—being seen can feel like a high. Like a reward for surviving.

The likes, the shares, the “you’re so inspiring” comments—it fills a hole you didn’t even realize was carved by silence.

But here’s the catch: that high wears off. And when it does, you’re left chasing more of it. Creating for applause instead of expression. Performing instead of existing.

I’ve caught myself refreshing notifications like it’s life support. Measuring my worth in views. Sacrificing privacy for praise. I’ve felt that addiction to visibility creeping in, and it scared me—because it never ends.

It’s easy to fall into the cycle: You share more. You go viral. You get praised. You feel powerful. Then you disappear for a second and suddenly, you feel irrelevant. Forgotten. Replaceable.

And so, you keep going. Keep posting. Keep performing. Until eventually, you realize you’ve built a platform on your own burnout.

That’s when I knew I had to take a step back—not from creating, but from attaching my entire sense of self to being watched.

The Fantasy of Being Known Without Being Touched

What I’ve always wanted, deep down, is to be known—but from a distance. To be admired without being picked apart. To be respected without being accessible. To be understood without having to explain myself.

But that’s not how the internet works.

Once you let people see you, they start to believe they own a piece of you. They feel entitled to your time, your thoughts, your silence. They analyze your tone. They speculate about your love life. They comment on your body like it’s public domain.

And no matter how carefully you curate, someone always misreads you. Someone always twists it. Suddenly, you’re a character in someone else’s projection. A mirror they’ve cracked and blamed you for shattering.

I’ve learned that perception isn’t always admiration—it’s obsession, judgment, jealousy, entitlement. You don’t get to choose which parts of you they latch onto. You don’t get to control the narrative, even if you write it yourself.

That’s the fantasy, though. The belief that I can be a public figure with a private life. That I can have influence without intrusion. That I can be loved without being devoured.

But I’m starting to understand that visibility is never clean. It always comes at a cost—and I have to decide what I’m actually willing to pay.

Learning to Be Seen on My Own Terms

I used to think the goal was to disappear—to ghost the world before it could consume me. But now I know it’s not about vanishing. It’s about choosing how I show up.

Being perceived isn’t something I can fully escape. But I can reclaim my narrative. I can decide which parts of me are mine, and which I’m willing to share.

I’m learning that boundaries don’t make me cold—they make me sane. That I don’t owe everyone a response, a confession, a version of myself that fits their expectations.

I can post without explaining. I can be known without being available. I can share my art, my words, my image—without sacrificing my peace.

This isn’t about building walls; it’s about creating doors. Ones I open intentionally. Ones that lead somewhere real. Somewhere I don’t feel like I have to shrink or distort just to be palatable.

Because the truth is: I still want to be seen. But only by people who understand that visibility is not permission. That attention is not ownership. That I am not a product, I’m a person.

And that’s the version of fame I’m choosing: the kind where I don’t have to lose myself to be found.