The Truth We Try to Hide
It happened in a grocery store in Paris.
I was staring at a package, desperately trying to remember enough Grade 10 French to figure out whether I was buying yogurt, sour cream, or foot cream.
I glanced up.
And there it was.
Staring at me.
Smirking.
We both knew it wasn’t supposed to be there.
But it was.
Defiant.
Brazen.
It was daring me to react.
To say something.
It seemed proud.
And I was intrigued.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” I asked.
“Nope,” it replied. “Look around.”
And I did.
I’m not the only one who saw it.
Others looked, then quickly looked away.
Not wanting to make eye contact.
Not wanting to be seen staring.
Different reactions.
Same result.
An older woman looked appalled, then looked away.
A man looked shocked, then looked away.
A teenage girl looked amused, then looked away.
I could feel my husband glance at me. He followed my gaze. His eyes widened. He looked at me, then he looked away too.
I was getting closer.
I looked back.
It mocked me.
Daring me to say something.
Maybe this was acceptable here. Maybe she knew and didn’t care. If you cared, surely you would have taken precautions.
If I’m honest, it was perfectly formed.
I understood why it stood there so proudly.
Closer.
I glanced upwards.
She looked confident but completely unaware. A white bustier with multi-coloured balloon pants. You could tell she took pride in her appearance. The outfit wasn’t my cup of tea, but she wore it in a way that made you appreciate the effort.
Maybe I should look away too.
Mind my business.
But I’m a girl’s girl.
Girl code wouldn’t let me.
I’d rather embarrass her for five seconds than let her walk around like that for another hour.
As she got closer, I leaned in and whispered,
“Excuse me... your nipple is showing.”
She smiled, thanked me, adjusted her top, and kept walking.
I’ve thought about that moment more times than was probably necessary.
Not because of the nipple because of what it taught me.
I still wonder if she genuinely didn’t know. Did she really not feel a slight breeze on her areola?
Or did she know, but fixing it would have meant admitting she’d just had a nip slip in the middle of a Parisian grocery store?
Maybe she was trying to save face. Maybe she was hoping she’d find an empty aisle or duck behind a display of sparkling water before anyone else noticed. Maybe pretending everything was fine felt easier than admitting everything wasn’t.
The truth is, I don’t know. But I do know this.
Most of us spend our lives carefully curating an image of ourselves while the things we’re trying hardest to hide quietly reveal themselves anyway.
We push them down, but they refuse to stay hidden.
Probably because they were never meant to be squeezed into the confines of our psyche.
Emotions were never designed to stay hidden. The word “emotion” comes from the Latin emovere, meaning “to move out” or “move through.” Which means that emotions were never designed to stay trapped inside us.
They have a way of finding an exit.
They leak into our conversations.
Into our relationships.
Into our reactions.
Into our bodies.
Truth has a funny way of peeking through the cracks.
We’ve been taught that strong people keep it together. They don’t cry, don’t overreact and they don’t let you see them struggle.
I’m not suggesting we trauma dump on strangers in the checkout line or make every emotion everyone else’s responsibility.
I’m saying there’s a difference between expressing an emotion and acknowledging it.
Ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. Lying to ourselves doesn’t make it less true.
It just finds another way to make itself known.
Our resentment shows up in our smile.
Our loneliness hides behind an impossibly busy schedule.
Our insecurity disguises itself as perfectionism.
Our exhaustion wears the words, “I’m fine.”
People notice.
Maybe they can’t name it, but they feel it.
Some say nothing out of politeness. Some say nothing because they don’t want to get involved. Some say nothing because they’re carrying their own hidden truths.
Everyone looks.
Then they look away.
The interesting part isn’t that other people can see it. The interesting part is that deep down, we usually can too and we just don’t say it out loud.
Instead of saying,
“I’m jealous she got the promotion.”
What if the truth is,
“I’m jealous because she got what I wanted, and it makes me wonder if I’m good enough.”
Instead of saying,
“I’m angry he broke up with me.”
What if the truth is,
“I’m embarrassed that I stayed long after I knew it wasn’t right.”
Instead of saying,
“My boss drives me crazy.”
What if the truth is,
“I secretly question my own abilities, and every time she overexplains something, it reinforces the insecurity I already have.”
Those are much harder sentences to say because they ask something of us.
If I admit I’m unhappy, now I have to decide what to do about it.
If I admit this relationship isn’t healthy, I have to decide whether I’m willing to leave.
If I admit I’ve outgrown the life I’ve built, I have to choose whether I keep settling or start over.
Sometimes staying on the surface feels safer. The deeper truth comes with responsibility.
I think that’s why we avoid it.
Deep down, most people already know.
They know they’re overexplaining.
They know they’re staying too long.
They know they’re shrinking themselves to make someone else comfortable.
They know they’re exhausted.
The truth usually isn’t hidden.
It’s just unspoken.
And if we’re honest, we’re all carrying something.
Fear.
Grief.
Regret.
Shame.
Loneliness.
Jealousy.
If the struggle is universal, why do we spend so much energy pretending it isn’t?
Why do we treat honesty like weakness and pretending like strength?
Maybe because if I tell myself the truth, eventually I have to answer the question,
“So... what now?”
That question is terrifying.
Because truth demands a response.
It’s much easier to keep stuffing our emotions into a shirt that’s already too tight and hope nothing slips out.
But life has a funny way of exposing what we’re trying to hide.
Truth leaks out.
In the joke that wasn’t really a joke.
In the tears that surprised you.
In the anger that felt bigger than the moment.
In the exhaustion you couldn’t hide.
It keeps showing itself until we’re willing to look at it. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
So maybe the next time you catch yourself feeling jealous, defensive, resentful, unusually emotional, or quietly numb, don’t rush to push it away.
Get curious.
Ask yourself,
What am I really feeling?
What am I afraid this says about me?
What truth am I trying to keep tucked away?
And if I admitted it to myself, what would I have to do next?
That woman in Paris didn’t become embarrassing the moment her nipple slipped out.
She was the same woman she’d been thirty seconds earlier.
The only difference was that something she thought was hidden became visible.
Maybe that’s what growth really is.
Having the courage to admit what’s quietly peeking out and then doing something about it.
Even if that something is simply buying a bigger shirt.
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