Last night, over some drinks with friends, it was agreed that mine would be an interesting head to spend a day in.

"There seems like there's a lot going on up there, but I don't know what," someone noted.

Mission accomplished.

Somewhere between fifteen and twenty years ago, I made a conscious decision that it was better to be reserved and "mysterious," (words chosen by a ten-year-old) than to put it all on the table and risk embarrassing myself.

Here's the story:

I was a sensitive kid—and I was a tiny kid. I took it hard when I got bullied, and I felt like I got bullied a lot. It was rarely—if ever—the type of stuff you'd put in a PSA; I was never stuffed in a locker; I never went home with bruises or a busted lip.

But I still took it hard. At the time it seemed constant and personal. I felt powerless, and I was scared.

And I have clear memories of every time I brought it on myself; times where I said something that "warranted" a response. I associated embarrassing myself with getting attacked.

So eventually—after changing my name to Josephine because the girls were less mean than the guys; after switching schools to get away from bullies, then switching back when they seemed worse at the second school—I decided to stop embarrassing myself.

I think I used my dad as a bit of a role model for that. I’m not putting any blame on him. He just seemed “cool” to me, so I went with it.

He doesn't often embarrass himself. He doesn’t say much unless he's pretty damn sure it's the smart thing to say. He cultivated an identity of being quiet, but insightful.

So, I stopped saying things unless I was damn sure they were the right thing to say. I took very few chances. I took a step back from life, creating space to double-check my thoughts and actions before putting anything out there.

And when I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, having spent the last four years with the same 24 classmates and standing at 4'11" tall, I doubled down. I turtled hard. I built some big-ass walls and took a few more steps back.

I wouldn't say anything unless invited to do so. I kept to myself unless asked directly to participate.

I played it really fucking safe.

Headphones in. Head down. No problems.

I skated by. No on picked on me. Most probably didn't notice me.

I kept to the same friends I had made years before. I let them make other friends on my behalf. I'd join in later once it seemed safe.

And here we are, almost two decades later, and the plan seems to have worked perfectly. Almost 30 years old with no new scars.

I got lucky along the way. The friends my friends made became my friends, and I somehow ended up with an amazing circle that I probably don't deserve.

And I have firmly established a "silent and thoughtful" persona. I'm the quiet guy. It might be one of the first things you'd say to describe me.

Nailed it.

It’s not the worst character to play. But playing a character sucks.

I have a tattoo on my forearm that says: "Here. Now." and yet I live more in my head that anyone I know.

I find myself boring.

There are plenty of situations where I add no value.

I don’t often enjoy parties because I'm barely there.

I've never opened up to a partner.

I'm not sure how well anyone really knows me.

I've never really said, "I love you."

And while cultivating this personality, I created a monster in my head. The voice of my “critic”—the one that says, “no one is going to enjoy reading this,”— gained more and more influence. It’s now the voice of reason to me. When it tells me I’m not good enough, I trust it, because it was the voice that kept me from embarrassment and failure for eighteen years—and it did its job well.

So now it's like I've painted myself into a corner. Who would I be if not the straight-man of the group? Can I find courage to be anything else? Do I have the strength and patience to fight back the critic?

What happens if I share this, or anything else? Imagining reactions is making me feel physically sick.

Change is scary as hell, and it seems hopeless most of the time.

But “the change you feel the greatest resistance to is probably the change you need most.” That’s a saying, right?

So here's the thing: what started as a conscious decision years ago—actively trying to create space and overthink things—quickly became more natural, and eventually became who I am.

It stands to reason then, that actively trying to shrink that space, think less, take more risks, be more open, and embarrass myself will become more natural, and eventually be who I am.

So we're trying. This is trying.

I kind-of hope it's embarrassing.