The Hiding Apparatus

Last month, I reread everything I’ve published this year, looking for patterns. What I found was a sophisticated hiding apparatus—three tactics I’ve deployed, week after week, to avoid saying anything that might actually cost me something.

Pattern #1: The Teaching Mask

At least a dozen times, I’ve slipped into teacher mode when the essay called for confession. Just two weeks ago, I wrote about spiritual deconstruction and spent three paragraphs explaining the psychological benefits of questioning inherited beliefs. Explaining. Professorial. Safe.

What I didn’t write: “I’m terrified my spiritual family will read this and feel I’ve rejected everything they gave me.”

The teaching mask lets me discuss emotional territory without having to stand in it. I get to be the guide, not the subject. The dentist, not the patient.

Pattern #2: The Middle Child

I have a compulsive need to give all sides equal time. In an essay about aging and invisibility, I wrote: “Of course, some people experience their later years as liberation, while others struggle with loss of relevance, and still others find a middle path…”

Three perspectives, carefully weighted. Nobody could accuse me of bias. Nobody could locate ME in that sentence.

My job as a ghostwriter trained me to honor nuance and see multiple angles. But I’ve weaponized that skill. I hide in the gaps between perspectives, calling it fairness when it’s really cowardice.

Pattern #3: Explaining Instead of Sharing

This is my most damning habit, and the most antithetical to everything I teach about storytelling.

I wrote an essay about my father’s death. I explained the five stages of grief. I explored theories of meaning-making through loss. I cited Kübler-Ross and quoted Mary Oliver.

What I didn’t write: “I held his hand while he drowned in his own lungs, and I couldn’t fix it, and I’m still angry at God for taking him so young.”

I keep trying to persuade you that my experience matters, rather than simply offering it as a bridge between us. I’m so busy proving the lesson that I forget to share the life.

The Through Line

Robert Frost wrote: “The best way out is always through.” I’ve been quoting that line all year, but I’ve been trying to write my way AROUND instead of THROUGH.

Around vulnerability. Around specificity. Around the raw confession that might make my friends uncomfortable or my clients question my credibility or expose me as someone who doesn’t have it all figured out.

I launched this letter to model the journey of wisdom-keeping for you—my fellow seekers in life’s third act. But I’ve been giving you the edited version. The performance of reflection rather than the mess of it.

The Commitment

So here’s what I’m committing to, starting now: I’m going to stop managing your impression of me. I’m going to write like nobody’s watching, even though you are.

Next week, I’ll share the ghostwriting techniques I use to help clients discover their authentic voice. But here’s what I’ve learned this year that I can tell you right now:

You don’t “find” your voice. You remove what isn’t yours—the protective layers, the borrowed wisdom, the careful hedging. What remains, however raw and imperfect, is the only voice you’ve got.

I’m still excavating. Care to join me?

Shine,