I Don't Want To Be Worshipped

I want to be loved — and more on the art of being witnessed.

self, 2022.

Lately I’ve been thinking about being seen versus being witnessed. They are two contrasting things that I think we tend to frequently muddle together.

For a long time, I foolishly believed that being seen was a measure of my importance. In a day and age such as this one, where one can construct their life on social media (genuinely or not as much so), this ideology became increasingly detrimental to my wellbeing.

To believe that my worth was determined by likes, shares, and interactions was futile. A sense of genuine love and connection often felt fleeting. My assumption is that this developed from the need to fill a void I had — a void of self.

When one does not find home within themself, there is often a need to feel wanted, to feel noticed, to feel validated. I found myself in that positioning in my earlier adulthood. As I have been returning home to myself over the past few years — a journey that takes time, grace, and patience — I’ve comprehended the differing effects of merely being seen versus intimately being witnessed.

This coming to of understanding has translated into me becoming more of a recluse, of sorts — experiencing a deep desire to only belong to myself, and share my access with those whom I please, those whom I love, and those who do life with me.

The art of being witnessed, from what I’ve grasped, is intimate and vulnerable. It is unguarded. It is one of the most profound risks to make oneself visible to another in such a way — bare and bleeding, in hopes of being met with tenderness. The art of being witnessed is much equated to the act of making love. It’s a spiritual experience, to be vulnerably in communion with another.

When I think of being witnessed, I think of being held by one who has caught my tears. Rejoicing with one who has known my tribulations. Watching the clouds clear and the sun rise with one who knows the names of my storms. Having the strength of my light remembered even when darkness abounds. To be witnessed is to be known by one who has seen my demons, and has chosen to love me still. To have love be an unyielding force by one who has known my name in every texture — love, grief, joy, sorrow — and has chosen to love me, still.

That is being witnessed. That is being loved.

It is easy to worship someone for who you see them as/who they portray themselves as, but it is an effort/choice to truly witness them as they authentically are.

The real gist is that I don’t want to be consumed. I am not a quick fix or temporary filler for the ego’s craving. There’s no art in that. No value in that. No nourishing in that. No sustainability in that.

I am no easy swallow, nor is what I birth from these bones and offer unto the world. There’s gristle here — hell that’s been lived, tears that’ve been cried, mountains that’ve been moved. I don’t desire hollow praise or to have my being nor my work feasted on in vain measures.

I don’t want to be seen, nor consumed or devoured. I want to be witnessed. I don’t want to be worshipped, nor idolized or deified. I want to be loved.

And I don’t want to just be love’s inhale, the breath of me that people take. I want to be its exhale, the breath poured out and given back to me. The feeling that lets me know that I am safe here, I can breathe here, I can be here. Without harm, without greed, without consuming desire. Because here, I am held, I am known, I am witnessed — as an art form of the true tenderness, grace, and mercy of love.

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Reflect with me:

- What is the difference between being seen and being witnessed?
- Does one’s ability to see automatically make them a witnesser?
- Do you feel witnessed?