The Criminal in Me (Part 4): The Silent Audience

I believe everyone misses out on this one thing—and they don’t even realise it yet. The world teaches us to perform better, faster, and more effectively long before it ever teaches us how to simply breathe. From the moment we pick up on body language and tone, we’re considered “old enough” to form better perspectives, craft polite conversations with our elders, and—eventually—do the right things to become the "right kind of person."

But in the process, we unintentionally become great actors in our own lives. Every day feels like a stage where we’re forced to perform, reciting invisible scripts to meet the expectations of society, our parents, peers, and loved ones. And in this lifelong theatre, there’s only a play button—never a pause. No chance to ask if we need rest, or if we even enjoy the role we’re playing.

The first time I swallowed my tears, the mask began to harden. The first time I pretended I wasn’t terrified of the wound bleeding before me, the walls grew taller. When I took the blame just to avoid conflict, I started chiseling away at my true self. One by one, I traded authenticity for acceptance. I reshaped myself into what I thought others wanted to see—and somewhere along the way, I forgot who I once was. Each time I tried to look in the mirror, it shattered.

"Have you ever truly paused and asked yourself: Who is watching every step of my life?"

Not the audience that claps when you succeed. Not the friends who laugh at your jokes. I’m talking about the silent one, standing behind the door—unseen but always present. The one who stays up at 3 a.m. thinking of you. The one who sees the tears you hide, the screams beneath your mask, the façade of "Everything is fine" when you’re barely holding on.

At first, I didn’t want the answer. I feared it would drown me—proof that I wasn’t truly living.

Like many others, I thought I was fighting alone: against failure, insecurity, and pain. But over time, I realised there was always an audience—one I never invited. They whispered criticisms: "You’re never good enough." "Move faster—others are ahead." "Cover your weakness before they see it."

Sometimes they felt distant, like strangers lurking in the back row. Other times, their cruelty was deafening. Rarely, a gentler voice broke through: "You’re doing your best." "It’s okay to rest." "Pause and breathe."

But none of them were real. They were my subconscious—shaped by childhood lessons, old wounds, vanished friendships, and unspoken rules that punished vulnerability and glorified perfection.

And I bet you’ve heard them too.

So pause. Ask yourself: Who is my mental audience? Whose words echo in my head when no one else is around? Whose approval am I still chasing?

And then ask: What if I stopped performing altogether? Would the world collapse—or would I finally be free?

Between breakdowns and breakthroughs, I finally heard a different voice. It was quiet, but it reassured me. It reminded me that sometimes doing nothing is doing something. That perfection doesn’t exist—because every achievement demands a sacrifice of some part of ourselves.

This voice sat with me, softly leading me forward. It whispered what I had longed to hear. For years, I thought erasing myself was easier than confronting the masks I wore. Critics always shouted louder than encouragement.

But eventually, the critics softened. The expectations loosened. The shadows thinned. And I realised: the shift didn’t come from anyone else. It came from me—because I was finally ready to put down the mask.

Tears flowed without guilt, and I dared to say:

"This is the true me."

So to those waiting for reassurance—for permission to rest—let this be your reminder:

You can stop performing now.

You can fall apart and rebuild, slowly but surely, into someone greater.

You can invite a new audience into your life—the ones who clap for your effort, not your perfection.

Because we were never meant to perform endlessly.

We were built to live.

And so, I step off the stage. Not to walk away from life—but to walk into it. To solve problems without a script. To let resilience look like rest, strength look like softness, and imperfection look like freedom.

Let your silent self sit in the front row. Let them remind you: “You were never alone. You were enough all along.”

If you’ve read this far, take a breath. Put down the weight for just a while. Let relief wash over you. The world doesn’t need your perfect version. It needs the messy, soft, real you—the one who chooses to live.

So today, for you and for me, let’s put down the mask.

Throw away the script.

And finally… just be us.

For the first time ever.

To be continued…