It started with a simple request: “Can everyone turn on their cameras?”
I hesitated.
Not because I was hiding, but because I wasn’t ready to be seen—not like that. My home wasn’t curated for public view. The lighting was harsh. My background was cluttered with the quiet chaos of real life. And I wasn’t sure if my face, my mood, my energy belonged in the frame that day.
But I clicked “Start Video.”
And everything changed.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just a name in a chat box or a voice in a meeting. I was a person. Tired eyes. Messy bun. A child’s drawing taped to the wall behind me. I saw colleagues blink in recognition. Some smiled. One messaged me privately: “It’s nice to finally see you.”
That moment cracked something open.
In the weeks that followed, I noticed subtle shifts. People addressed me more directly. My ideas weren’t just heard—they were remembered. I was invited to lead a project I’d quietly contributed to for months. My manager asked how I was doing—not just with work, but with life.
It wasn’t the camera itself. It was the act of showing up.
There’s something intimate about being seen in your own space. It strips away the polish of office personas. You become more than your role. You become real.
But it wasn’t all easy.
One day, I forgot to mute. My dog barked. My toddler screamed. I apologized, flustered. But instead of judgment, I got laughter. Empathy. Someone said, “Same here.” Another added, “This is the most human meeting we’ve had all week.”
The unexpected consequence of turning on my camera wasn’t exposure—it was connection.
I learned that visibility isn’t vulnerability—it’s a bridge. That authenticity invites authenticity. That when we stop curating perfection, we start cultivating trust.
Of course, not everyone felt the same. Some colleagues kept their cameras off, and I respected that. Privacy matters. Comfort matters. But for me, the shift was profound.
I stopped hiding behind silence. I started speaking up. I stopped waiting to be noticed. I started claiming space.
And maybe that’s the real story.
Turning on my camera didn’t just change how others saw me. It changed how I saw myself.
Not as a background contributor. Not as a quiet observer. But as someone who belonged in the room—even if that room was virtual.
