The Things I Tried to Hide Are Why You Like Me

Someone told me recently that I was easy to talk to.

Not in a forced, complimentary way. Just a passing observation, like, “You’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re just… chill. Comfortable to be around.”

And I appreciated it, of course. But I also couldn’t help but laugh a little—because they have no idea how hard I used to work to be someone people wanted to be around. For years, I tried so hard to seem like the kind of person who had it together, who could win over a room, who came off as confident and self-assured and impressive. And in all those years of trying, I rarely felt like anyone actually noticed me. I mean, they might’ve seen me, but they weren’t really seeing me.

It’s only now, when I’ve mostly let go of all that effort, that people keep telling me I have presence. Or that I come off as magnetic. It still feels backwards sometimes.

I grew up around a very particular kind of masculinity—South Asian, Pakistani, flavored by religion and tradition and that quiet pressure to always appear strong, composed, in control. No feelings. No uncertainty. No softness.

If you were a man, you were expected to move through the world like you knew exactly who you were and why you belonged there.

And if you didn’t feel that way—well, then you faked it. I saw it all the time. In relatives, in family friends, in uncles and cousins. Men who led with bravado, who inflated their accomplishments, who scoffed at anything they didn’t understand. They always had something to prove, but they’d never admit it. They talked the loudest, but somehow said the least. And you could just tell—underneath all that arrogance was a whole lot of insecurity they didn’t know how to name.

The irony was that none of them were particularly compelling. Their presence didn’t fill a room. It drained it.

Still, I absorbed it. Even if I didn’t believe in that version of masculinity, I couldn’t entirely escape it. I learned how to perform confidence. I knew how to polish my sentences, how to sound smart without sounding like I was trying too hard, how to laugh at the right moments and pivot away from anything too vulnerable.

I wasn’t trying to be fake. I just didn’t trust that the raw, uncertain version of me was good enough on its own.

So I crafted a version that looked like it belonged.

And weirdly, people responded to it. I got compliments. I was invited into rooms. But I never felt like people were connecting with me. They were connecting with the version I’d curated for them.

It’s taken a long time—and a lot of unlearning—for me to realize that charm doesn’t come from performing your worth. It comes from being okay with who you already are. And presence, real presence, isn’t something you have to project. It’s what happens when you’re not wasting all your energy trying to be impressive.

I’ve noticed it more lately. I show up to conversations without any agenda. I tell the full story now, not just the polished summary. I admit when I don’t know something. I let the awkwardness sit there if it shows up—I don’t rush to cover it.

And that’s when people lean in.

That’s when they stay longer. When they say things like, “I don’t know why, but I feel like I can just be real around you.”

And I’m not doing anything special. I’m just not hiding anymore.

What’s funny is that the things I used to try and minimize—my background, the zigzag path I’ve taken, the way I overthink sometimes or speak a little too slowly when I’m processing something—those are the things people say make me relatable. Or trustworthy. Or, my favorite: “safe.”

Not because I’m soft or passive or always agreeable, but because I’m not trying to dominate a space. I’m not trying to sell you on a version of myself. I’m just being here. Fully. Honestly. And that seems to make more of an impact than anything I ever rehearsed.

So when someone tells me I have presence, I don’t shrug it off. I just try to take it in. Because I know they’re not responding to how polished I am—they’re responding to the fact that I’m not polishing myself at all.

And I think that’s something I wish I’d known earlier: that people don’t connect to the performance. They connect to the coherence. To the quiet self-acceptance that shows up when you’re not trying to win anyone over.

And yeah—it turns out the things I used to be afraid of showing… are the same reasons people feel drawn to me now.

Which still surprises me, if I’m being honest.

But maybe that’s the point.