Bhavyarsi S.
Image provided by Bhavyarsi S.
If you’re reading this, it’s okay — you don’t have to perform to be seen.
I didn’t mind being the funny, weird one in the group— the loud, quirky friend with offbeat energy that either concerned people or made everyone laugh. When I started college, that part of me almost became a defense mechanism. It helped me stand out in a sea of new faces and carve out a space for myself among so many bright-minded individuals. For a while, it worked. The randomness, the humor, the energy— they all gave me purpose.
But as I look back, I can’t help but feel I’ve been typecast as the funny friend, branded with a label I can’t seem to wash off. People still expect the punchlines, the loud entrances, the offbeat charm. And it leaves me wondering: would they still notice me if I weren’t performing? If I stopped putting on an extravagant act, would anyone still care to look at me? Rather than confront that ache, I’ve kept dancing to the same tune— pretending it’s not exhausting to feel like I’m always auditioning for recognition.
Somewhere along the way, I realized I was complicit, too. I kept the jokes going, leaned into the bizarre stories of my “side quests,” and made choices I knew would entertain. I kept feeding into the algorithm of absurdity I’d become known for. It was a gravitational pull into a persona I wanted to outgrow. In doing so, I enabled my own invisibility beneath the surface of performance.
But the truth is, I should be who I am— devoid of expectation and detached from the projections of others. I’m allowed to be funny, and that humor is a part of me— but it’s not all of me.
I’m also someone who finds joy in the simple things: the ocean breeze on a quiet beach, the smell of old books, the comfort of iced coffee on a warm day. I love speaking my mind— clearly, boldly, and without shame. I can juggle responsibilities while maintaining boundaries. All of these things can coexist. I don’t have to collapse myself into one neat, palatable version to be valid. Just because people cling to the first version of you that made them feel something doesn’t mean you owe them consistency at the cost of your growth.
And maybe—just maybe—if you learn to like yourself, if you show up for yourself the way you wish someone else would, you’ll give others countless reasons to love you, too. Not because you’re performing, but because you exist. Because you’ve learned to embrace your imperfections and your brilliance on your own terms— not because someone else told you to.
Learning to do that takes time, and it’s not a straight path. Some days you’ll fall back into old habits, trying to prove your worth through noise or laughter, but that doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it means you’re still learning. What matters most is remembering that you are allowed to take up space quietly, imperfectly, and honestly. When you stop trying to be what people expect, you start creating room for genuine connection— the kind that sees you even when you’re not performing.
That kind of self-recognition is powerful enough to deconstruct the old version of you.
This is for the ones who are trying to be seen again— for who they are now, not who they used to be.
Bhavyarsi S., University of Virginia
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