The Hiding Phase

Most days look normal from the outside. You show up, respond when expected, and move through routines without raising questions. Nothing appears broken. That’s part of why this phase is hard to name—because nothing obvious is asking for attention.

What changes happens quietly. You start deciding what to share and what to keep to yourself. Not because anyone told you to, but because it feels easier that way. Certain details stay internal. Certain behaviors stay unmentioned. The absence of attention becomes reassuring.

There’s a constant calculation running underneath things. Who needs to know? What would happen if they did? Would anything actually change, or would it just make things harder? These questions don’t feel dramatic. They feel practical.

You’re not trying to disappear. You’re still present in your life. But parts of it are now managed privately. You keep things contained so days can move forward without interruption or explanation.

What makes this phase confusing is that it often works. Life stays intact. Responsibilities are met. No alarms go off. From the outside, there’s nothing to respond to—and that reinforces the choice to keep things hidden.

This page exists to name that space. Not to label it, not to fix it, but to recognize what it feels like when staying unnoticed starts to matter, and privacy becomes part of how you keep things steady.