The Art of Being Seen

When Rasa Sagė invited me for an interview, my first response was gratitude. My second was hesitation. Not because I didn’t want to share—but because being seen has never felt neutral to me. It always comes with a tightening in the chest, a quiet question: how much of myself am I willing to reveal this time?

Entrepreneurship keeps asking that question.

I didn’t start my work because I wanted attention. I started because I wanted depth. Space. Meaning. I wanted to create environments where reflection, learning, rest, and creativity could coexist. Ironically, the very work that is rooted in slowness and silence requires visibility to survive.

There is a strange contradiction in that.

I need silence to hear myself. I need rest to stay honest. I need boundaries to remain whole. And yet, to sustain my work, I need to speak. To share. To show my face, my voice, my story - again and again.

Sometimes it feels like standing in front of a window at night, light on inside, knowing anyone can see in.

Self-exposure, I’m learning, is not a single brave act. It’s a continuous negotiation. How much do I share today? From where does it come - fear, obligation, or alignment? Am I visible because I feel ready, or because I feel pressured?

In the interview, I spoke about rest, limits, and learning to listen to silence. What I didn’t say - though it lives just beneath the words - is how hard it has been to trust that I can be seen without being consumed. Without having to over-explain, over-give, or over-perform.

There was a time when visibility felt like danger. Like being exposed meant being misunderstood, judged, or taken from. Old patterns don’t disappear just because you become self-aware; they resurface precisely when something meaningful is at stake.

And my work is meaningful to me.

So I’m learning a different kind of visibility now. One that doesn’t demand constant output. One that allows pauses. One that lets silence remain part of the story instead of something I need to hide or justify.

Being seen doesn’t have to mean being loud. It doesn’t have to mean sharing everything. It can mean showing up truthfully, even if that truth is quiet, unfinished, or still unfolding.

Entrepreneurship keeps teaching me this: visibility without self-connection is exhausting. But visibility that grows from groundedness feels almost gentle. Like an offering rather than a performance. I’m still learning. Still calibrating. Still listening for that inner “yes” before I step forward.

And maybe that’s the point.

To let being seen be a practice - not of exposure, but of trust.

You can read the article I mentioned here (in Lithuanian)