Why I Stopped Showing Enthusiasm on Camera

When video calls became the norm, I welcomed them. Seeing faces, expressions, subtle gestures — it felt like a bridge back to connection in a time when the world had retracted into screens and silence.

I genuinely believed that showing up on camera meant *being there* — and I treated it as an unspoken promise of presence and engagement. But with time, something about that promise began to unravel.

It didn’t happen with a clear announcement or a dramatic shift. It happened gradually — like a weighted blanket that slowly drapes itself around your shoulders until you can no longer distinguish where comfort ends and confinement begins.

And somewhere in that shift, I stopped showing enthusiasm on camera.

The first moment I noticed it

It was an ordinary team meeting — one of many that filled the workweek. Someone shared a win, and naturally, people began to react with smiles and nods.

I smiled too. But almost instantly, I became aware of my own awareness — the slight tightening in my chest that came not from discomfort with the win, but from the feeling of being *seen* while reacting.

I remember thinking, *Do I look enthusiastic enough? Am I performing it properly? Does my expression match what I actually feel?*

The questions came fast — and in a moment where I expected nothing more than connection, they pulled me inward.

I realized then that my camera had become a kind of mirror — not reflecting what I felt, but reflecting what I *thought others expected me to show.*

And once that feeling settled in, the ease of showing up on camera began to fade.

When presence became performance

At first, everyone’s cameras were on. It felt inclusive, communal, like being in the same room even when we were scattered across time zones and living rooms.

But as meetings went on, I noticed something I hadn’t expected: the more cameras were on, the more conscious I became of *my face,* *my expression,* *my energy* — even when I had nothing urgent or exciting to contribute.

There was an unspoken expectation that cameras on = engagement. But engagement looked less like genuine attention and more like *performing attention* for the sake of being seen.

In larger forums — much like the company town halls I wrote about in why I stay quiet during company town halls — presence became a place where I felt *observed* rather than *connected.* The screen no longer felt like a window into collaboration — it felt like a stage where expressions were continuously evaluated.

And that altered something fundamental in how I showed up.

Enthusiasm — once spontaneous — began to feel rehearsed.

Smiles — once genuine — felt like *indicators* of alignment.

I noticed how often people would switch to *presentation mode* — eyes bright, posture forward, face lifted toward a camera that now felt like a test of visibility rather than a room of peers.

And I felt myself retreat into a quieter version of presence — one that wasn’t broadcast as performance, but lived quietly in focus and attention.

The cost of being seen

I began to notice how much energy it took — not to be engaged, but to *appear engaged.* There’s a subtle difference between the two: the first is internal and felt; the second is external and observable.

On camera, every micro-expression feels magnified. Every slight distraction feels like a signal. Every pause becomes visible.

And that visibility — which was intended to foster connection — paradoxically created a kind of self-consciousness that made me *less present*.

My attention started splitting: half on what was being discussed, the other half on how I *appeared while listening.*

It reminded me of how hybrid work left me unsure of how to *be* in different spaces — not just physically, but emotionally, as I wrote in why I don’t know how to act in hybrid workspaces anymore. In both cases, the external context reshaped internal experience.

On camera, the internal experience of being present became entangled with the external experience of being *seen to be present.*

And that entanglement made enthusiasm feel like a *signal* rather than a *feeling.*

That subtle transformation was draining.

Performance anxiety disguised as engagement

I began to understand why — even in meetings where I was genuinely excited about the content — my face felt *heavy* instead of light. It wasn’t discomfort with the topic; it was discomfort with the *observation* of reaction.

I became aware of how often I monitored myself: I checked whether my smile looked authentic, whether my eyes looked attentive, whether my posture signaled energy. What once felt like natural human expression became a set of *criteria* I was measuring against.

Over time, that internal monitoring made enthusiasm feel like performance — not authentic presence.

And the more I felt my internal experience shifting into external assessment, the less inclined I was to broadcast it.

So I stopped showing enthusiasm on camera.

Choosing presence over performance

I didn’t turn off my camera to *disengage.* I simply stopped using it as a stage for expressing emotions I felt internally.

I found that, in many cases, my *engagement* was still there — but it didn’t need a display.

I could listen intently, respond thoughtfully, contribute carefully — without offering a performative smile or a visible signal of energy.

That felt quieter, but heavier. It felt like presence without projection.

And it felt more honest.

I began to notice how much emotional labor I had been expending not just in contributing to discussion, but in *presenting* participation itself.

On camera, the *how* of participation became almost as noticeable as the participation itself.

And the *how* was exhausting.

I wanted to engage in ways that felt natural, unguarded, and internally coherent — not ones crafted for visibility through a screen.

So I chose presence over performance.

And that choice was quiet.

But it changed how I stepped into each meeting.