Those who have only recently met me are often surprised by this self-characterization.

“You’re not shy,” they insist. “You seem so confident.”

“I’ve learned how to project confidence,” I explain, “from many years and thousands of performances in storytelling street theater” (see Issue 006), “but to this day, the butterflies still appear on cue whenever I step on a stage.”

The fact that I spent a decade as an actor between my careers in ventriloquism and theme park design makes it even harder for people to understand my reticence to be seen. But here’s what most people don’t grasp about actors: we’re not all extroverts and attention seekers. Acting offers the same safety net as ventriloquism and ghostwriting—we get to hide behind a character.

I remember standing backstage at a tiny theater in my High School, waiting for my entrance as Jack, the Artful Dodger, in “Oliver.” My hands were shaking and my mouth was dry, but the terror evaporated when I stepped into that spotlight and spoke my first line. It wasn’t Max up there, sweating under the lights. It was Jack. And if the audience hated the performance, they were booing Dodger, not me.

The Greeks understood this perfectly. Their term for actor was hypokrites, meaning “one behind a mask.” It’s where our word hypocrite comes from. (By the way, ‘hypocrite’ was Jesus’s favorite epithet, and with good reason—he knew something about the gap between our public faces and private truths.)

Years ago, I was up way too late, probably eating cereal from the box in my underwear, when I caught Johnny Carson interviewing Paul Lynde. They discussed how liberating it is to play a character because if the show flops, the character takes the fall, not the performer. I nearly choked on my Cheerios. Here were two masters of entertainment, admitting they needed the same protective armor I’d been wearing since I was nine.

And there’s the crux of the matter: we desperately want to have an impact—make people laugh, think, or take action—but (and this is a big but, and I cannot lie) we’re terrified of judgment, criticism, and rejection.

Through meditation and mindfulness practice, I’m learning that somewhere inside me lives a seven-year-old boy who’s absolutely convinced that being truly seen equals certain death. He’s got wild hair that sticks up in the back, grass stains on his knees, and eyes wide with the primal fear that comes from believing that one harsh word from a bully might make him disappear forever. This little guy has appointed himself my personal bodyguard, and he takes his job very seriously.

I’m learning to process my fear reaction quicker now: turn toward that frightened child and whisper, “Hey buddy, it’s safe to play. We won’t die if someone doesn’t like what we create.”

That inner work isn’t just self-help fluff. It’s survival. What’s really at stake here is my self-expression, my authentic voice, and the song I came here to sing. I’m not willing to leave the stage of life having spent the whole performance hiding behind the curtain.

“Retirement” and “old age” are beautiful excuses to hide out, too. But what a shame to withhold our gifts and love from the world when it needs us the most.

The beautiful irony is that in learning to be seen, I’m discovering that my pronouns might not be invisible after all. They might just be… human.

How visible are you willing to be?