The parts of us we hide don’t disappear. They go quiet.

When I’m struggling, I don’t ask for help.
I stop replying. I leave messages unread.
I disappear until I’m okay again.

For a long time, sadness wasn’t something I shared.

Not because it was forbidden.
Not because anyone told me not to feel it.

It just wasn’t talked about.

So I learned to deal with it privately.

When I feel sad, uncertain, or not okay, my instinct isn’t to reach out — it’s to withdraw. I go quiet. I pull away. Even opening messages can feel like too much.

I’ve noticed this pattern most clearly during periods of transition. One stands out: leaving my job.

I’d lost my sense of purpose. I didn’t yet know where I was going. And when people invited me to social things or checked in, I couldn’t bring myself to respond.

I didn’t want to pretend everything was fine.
But I also didn’t want to say that I wasn’t.

So I chose a third option: I shut down.

I isolated myself until things felt more stable again. Only then did it feel acceptable to resurface — once I had something coherent to say, once I was “okay enough” to be seen.

Looking back, I didn’t withdraw because I didn’t care. I withdrew because I didn’t know how to be seen while I was struggling.

Shadow parts:

In psychology, these kinds of hidden patterns are sometimes called shadow parts.

Not because they’re dark or bad — but because they learned to stay out of sight.
They’re the parts of us that adapted quietly, without ever being fully seen.

When people hear “shadow,” they often imagine something dark or destructive.

But most shadow parts aren’t bad. They’re simply the parts of us that never learned where to land.

For me, my sadness didn’t have a place in relationship — so it learned to live in isolation. It became something I managed alone, quietly, efficiently. From the outside, this can look like independence, insight, emotional regulation. On the inside, it can feel like distance. Loneliness. A subtle sense of living a life that isn’t quite yours.

And what doesn’t have a place in relationship doesn’t disappear — it isolates.

The cost of this pattern wasn’t dramatic, but it was real.

Not expressing what I actually felt meant resentment built quietly. I became annoyed at myself. I learned to be “easy,” “okay,” low-maintenance. Over time, that created a strange kind of disconnection: being close to people, but not fully with them.

Where anger enters the picture:

The emotion that leaked out most wasn’t sadness — it was anger.

Anger showed up when boundaries were crossed.
When I was criticised.
When someone I loved was distressed and nothing I did seemed to help.

Eventually, I saw this clearly: anger wasn’t the problem.

Anger was protecting the same hidden belief:
I’m failing at being okay.

When withdrawal isn’t possible, the nervous system finds another way to defend. Seen this way, anger isn’t an enemy — it’s information. It points to a vulnerable part that has been carrying too much on its own.

What actually changed:

The shift didn’t come from insight.

It came from doing something deeply uncomfortable at first: letting myself be seen during the sadness, not after it had passed.

That looked like telling my wife when I was feeling low instead of disappearing. Sharing what I was struggling with. Allowing myself to be comforted, held, soothed.

Previously, I hated closeness in those moments. It felt exposing. Weak. Unnecessary.

Now, it brings relief. Not because the sadness vanishes — but because I’m no longer carrying it alone.

It also meant expressing my needs more clearly. Asking. Saying no. Taking up a little more space.

And yes, that came with guilt. With the feeling that I was upsetting people or being difficult.

Growth often does. But underneath that discomfort was something steadier: more internal peace, and a growing sense that my life was actually mine.

This isn’t just personal:

I see this pattern often in my work.

People don’t come to therapy saying, “I have shadow parts.”

They say:

• “I’m fine, I just feel disconnected.”

• “I don’t really get angry.”

• “I handle things on my own — I’m just exhausted.”

Often, the work isn’t about learning something new. It’s about allowing support where there was none before.

When that happens, people don’t become less capable — they become more connected. Less alone. More real in their relationships.

A question to leave you with

If you tend to disappear when you’re struggling, it might not be because you don’t need anyone.

It might be because no one ever showed you how to stay.

So the question isn’t:
What’s wrong with me?

It’s:
What part of me learned it was safer to go quiet — and what might it need now to stay?

That question alone can begin to change how you relate to yourself — and to others.