No. 1 - What Writing Taught Me About Being Seen

I used to think that fame came from attention. That if I did enough, act good enough, dressed up enough, someone would eventually notice me. That, like a disney star being discover in the mall, they'd know my name, affirm my existence, and say, "You belong here." But the reality is: I invested more time figuring out how to be acceptable and play the part than how to be me. I devoted most of my young life acting—putting on the correct smile, making the safe inquiries, hiding the too-noisy components of myself just to make it through particular environments.

But invisibility is not necessarily silent. At times it is loud. I have felt it in classrooms when I knew the answer but didn't speak it. In brainstorming sessions when I had a thought but couldn't seem to find my voice. I have felt it in friendships when I was present for people who could not recall my birthday. And I have felt it most of all in the mirror, looking at someone I did not fully know but kept editing to fit the environment.

Then I became a storyteller. I became Jarvis.

The Page as a Mirror

Writing, at first, was not a secret, my identity was. Something that I did in notebooks and on napkins, concealing it in the rear of class or in a small corner when no one was watching. It was where I might tell the truth without consequences. I didn't need permission. I didn't need applause. I simply needed the courage to show up on the page.

And when I eventually did, something—something shifted. I saw me. For real. Not the me that I showed the world. Not the characters I'd created to maintain the peace. But the messy, vulnerable, angry, Black, brilliant, insecure, and worthy version of me simultaneously.

Writing, for me, was a process of self-definition. It said: You do exist. You do matter. You're worth narrating the story.

Fiction Showed Me My Reflection

In my works such as The Secret Society of First Ladies, The Emotional Mindfuck, and a new novel im writing as this goes out, I saw pieces of myself splintered onto characters. Bits of me erupted in their fears, others in their decisions, and sometimes in their silence. Characters were the prism through which I could dissect my past, confront my present, and reinvent my future.

For instance, my desire for security is not that different from my desire for security as a child. My emotional guardedness is not different from all the times I was told, "Man up." I was a man attempting to love another human being without completely loving himself. That ain't fiction. That's autobiography wearing fiction's clothing.

I knew that in creating these characters, I was finally creating me—loud and unapologetically.

The World Doesn't Make Room—You Do

The world will not always pause to make room for you. And when you're from a place, or an identity, or a context where your life is not dominant—it's tempting to think your story does not exist. Which is why writing was my resistance. My revolution. My own revolution didn't look like protests or pulpits. It looked like late nights (like now) with a blinking cursor and a heart full of all I had yet to say.

It was like placing all of myself in a book and then releasing it, fearful, hoping that someone would find me in the words.

Spoiler alert: They did. Because when you write from a place that's real, people see themselves in you. Even if they've never experienced your story, they've experienced your pain.

For Those Who Still Conceal

If you're among those individuals who feel as though your story doesn't count—or that you're too distinctive, too disordered, too you—hear this: You don't require permission to be visible. You require witness. And sometimes that begins with being witnessed initially.

Here's what I know now:

Visibility isn’t about followers.

It isn’t about virality. It's about truth-telling.

It's a matter of choosing to be present when no one is watching.

I did not appear when individuals recognized my name.

I became visible when I put it in writing.

Excerpt from my next book – 2025

"I don't think anyone ever really sees me. They see what I do. They clap for what I create. But me? I'm still behind the curtains of it all. i fell like people only see me with my spraypaint in hand and even that is anonymous. Painting is the one art where I exist. isn’t that enough?"

Final Thoughts

Writing did more than provide me with a career. It provided me with a map back to myself. It showed me that each time I release a story into the world, I am giving others permission to do the same. And each time someone tells me, "That character reminded me of me," it is a reminder that I was never alone. That's the power of being seen. That is the power of the pen.