I Didn’t Know I Was Being Felt

There’s something strange I’ve noticed for years. I don’t talk about it much because I’ve always brushed it off. Thought maybe I was imagining it, or maybe I was just being overly self-conscious. But it keeps happening, again and again, quietly but clearly.

People look at me twice.

Not everyone, not always. But enough for me to notice the pattern. The first glance, normal. The second—deliberate. A dart of the eyes. A flicker of recognition or confusion or something I can’t quite name. It’s not a stare. It’s a soft jolt. Like they saw something they weren’t expecting, and for a split second, it made them pause.

Before, I thought it was my hair. My crown. The top of my head that was thinning more than it should for a woman my age. Strangers' eyes would glance up there, and I’d feel exposed. I assumed that’s what they were seeing. What else could it be? It made me shrink a little, carry myself like someone quietly apologizing for being seen.

But lately, it’s different. Ever since I started taking care of myself again—really taking care of my hair, doing what the beautician from Yun Nam told me, being gentle with my body, drinking water, slowing down—my hair is fuller, softer. It’s growing back. And the eyes still look. Only now, they don’t dart to the top of my head. They look at my face.

And still… that second glance.

It hit me recently when I went out for lunch alone. Just me, a meal, some quiet. I stepped into the restaurant like I’ve done a hundred times before. But the moment I entered, I felt it. That subtle shift in the air. Eyes glancing. People noticing. And then, this Indian girl—she came up to me while I was eating and asked if the seat in front of me was free. But before she asked, she looked at me like I startled something in her. Like her brain paused for a second before she returned to herself. I had a mouthful of food, so I just smiled and nodded, but I felt that moment linger.

That moment happens a lot.

Even back in high school, every time I changed schools, people were drawn to me. Not in an obvious, loud way—but in this strange, quiet curiosity. Other new students didn’t get the same reaction. But with me, there was this... energy. People watched. They were cautious, hesitant, but eager. Like they wanted to come closer, but something in them said wait. Like I had this invisible force field around me they didn’t want to disturb too quickly.

At the time, I thought I must be intimidating. But when I got closer to them—when they finally did speak to me—they always said the same thing.
“I don’t know. There’s just something about you.”

And maybe they were right. Maybe there is something.

But it’s not the kind of “something” people can point to. It’s not in my clothes, my face, my words. It’s in my presence. It’s something I carry without trying. Something that wraps around me quietly and tells the world: I’ve seen things. I’ve felt things. And I’m still here. Soft, but standing.

Some people call it magnetism. Some say it’s energy.
Me? I think it’s just the way my soul moves through the world.

I’m not loud. I don’t perform. I don’t walk into rooms trying to be seen. And yet, somehow… I am.

And maybe that’s why certain men me back then. It wasn’t about physical attraction, even though they might’ve thought it was. It was something else. Something deeper. A pull. A glow. A pause in their chest that made them look at me and think, wait, who is she?

They were drawn in. And they couldn’t explain why.

But they couldn’t stay.

And that used to hurt. It used to make me wonder what was wrong with me. Was I too quiet? Too deep? Too complicated? Too sensitive? Too much?

But now I see it.
I wasn’t too much.
I was just too real for men who hadn’t figured themselves out yet.

Men who were still building themselves. Still trying to understand what they wanted. Still learning how to sit with emotions they didn’t have names for.
And then they met me.

Someone who wasn’t perfect, but present.
Someone who didn’t pretend.
Someone who held softness with strength.

And they couldn’t hold that. Not because I was difficult—but because I was clear. And clarity is terrifying when you’re used to chaos.

So yes. That’s probably why they left.
Not because I lacked something.
But because I carried something they weren’t ready for.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the same reason people read what I write.

Maybe it’s the same frequency.
The same quiet gravity.
The same presence that makes them pause in person, makes them pause in my words.

Because I don’t write to impress. I don’t write to teach or preach or pretend I have all the answers. I write because it pours out of me. Because there are things I feel that have nowhere else to go. Because sometimes the ache has a voice, and that voice wants to be heard—even if only once.

And the people who read?
They feel it.
They sit with it.
They come back later and say, “I read your post. I didn’t know how to respond. But I felt it.” And that’s enough for me.

Because I’m not trying to be viral.
I’m trying to be honest.

So if people pause when I walk in… or pause when they read me… maybe it’s not weird at all.
Maybe it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe I’m just finally learning how to see what others have seen in me all along.