Amer Malas | Fiction & Reflection

I was half-watching a video about insecurity — the kind you stumble on while scrolling, not really paying attention until something stops you.

It listed the usual things: approval, acceptance, power.
Then it said significance.
And I had to pause the video.

Not because I understood why it hit me. Because I didn’t want to.
Approval didn’t land. I’m past trying to win people over — if someone likes me, they do. If they don’t, I’m not performing for it anymore. Acceptance felt the same. I’ve made peace with not belonging everywhere.

But significance? That one followed me around for days.
Because here’s what I don’t like admitting: I do feel something shift when I sense I don’t matter to the people closest to me. Not strangers. Not colleagues. The inner circle. Family. The people I show up for without thinking twice.

I give my time like it’s obvious. My presence like it’s assumed. My loyalty like breathing.
And when it’s not returned with the same weight, something in my chest goes quiet.
Not angry quiet. More like:
Oh. Maybe I’m just… here.

What makes this uncomfortable is that my whole life looks like it’s built around meaning. I write about helping people feel seen. About naming what goes unspoken. About companionship in the hard parts.

So, it stung to realize some of that might have started as a question I never stopped asking:
Do you see me?
I don’t remember a moment when someone told me I didn’t matter. It wasn’t like that.
It was subtler.

Being the one who didn’t need checking on. The capable one. The self-contained one. Not fragile enough to worry about. Not the priority.
Kids don’t have words for that kind of quiet. The body just learns.
You start believing presence equals proof.

To exist is to be chosen.
To matter is to be remembered.
And even when you grow up and think you’ve moved past it, part of you is still in that room. Still waiting to see if anyone notices when you go quiet.

Later, I taught myself independence. Turned it into identity. I don’t need anyone’s acceptance. It sounded clean. Strong.
But lately I’ve been wondering if it was just a different kind of hiding.

If I don’t ask for belonging, I can’t be told no.
That’s when it clicked: significance isn’t just something I value.
It’s a wound I’ve been tending my whole life without naming it.
And here’s the part that surprised me — I don’t want to erase it.

I don’t want to “heal” it away or pretend it never shaped me. Because this longing also made me who I am. It’s why I notice when someone’s voice drops. Why I care about the invisible weight people carry. Why I keep trying to give language to what goes unsaid.
My work might have grown from an old ache.
That doesn’t make it less real.

What’s changing is what I do with the need itself.
I don’t want to chase significance like it’s air anymore. I don’t want my worth tied to who shows up or how loudly I’m remembered. I don’t want every act of care to be a silent test: Did you notice? Do I exist to you?

I’m trying to find ground that doesn’t shift based on someone else’s attention.
Meaning doesn’t start in being chosen.
Showing up can be sacred without being survival.

And that kid who sat quietly, hoping not to disappear — he doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.
I’m not trying to stop wanting to matter.
I’m just trying to stop needing it from specific people in specific ways to feel real.
I still want my work to help people find their voice.
I still want to leave something that lasts.

But now I know this longing came from somewhere tender.
And maybe knowing that is what lets me be gentler with it.

With myself.
With the version of me who’s still learning he was always here, even when no one was looking.

Originally published on Medium · Witnessing Moments