When I Dance and No One Looks
Today, I feel the little girl in me. She’s tugging at my sleeve, wide-eyed and vulnerable. I notice her whenever I reach out to be seen, to be heard, to be met—and silence answers back. Not just from my partner. It shows up everywhere. At work, when I offer an idea and it floats into the void, no feedback, no echo, just air. With my children, when I pour my wisdom into them and they don’t take it in—or they act like they never even heard me. When I ask for help and either no one shows up, or the help I do get feels careless and clumsy, like an afterthought. When I text a close friend and they’re too deep in their own overwhelm to hold space for mine. And from my parents—oh, from my parents—it’s like they’re still speaking to a version of me that no longer exists. The old me. The one I’ve shed.
All of it adds up. These aren’t isolated things. They press on the same bruise—the one connected to my deepest fears. The fear of being judged for how I show up. The fear of being rejected for wanting too much. The fear of being abandoned when I need someone most. It’s not just about the silence or the lack of response. It’s about what the silence touches. That old part of me that still wonders if I’m too complicated to love. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too much.
That bruise is old. It has memory. It flinches before I can think. It’s the ache of invisibility. The ache of absence. The pain of putting energy out into the world and not feeling it come back. It feels like dancing—spinning, glowing, offering something real—and no one turns to watch.
It’s not about ego. It’s about recognition. About feeling like the love I carry deserves a landing place.
And yet… I feel the shift. Even in the pain. There is gratitude buried in the ache. Gratitude for how deep this wound runs—because the deeper I go, the more I uncover. The more truth I meet.
So I stop. I sit with the little girl in me. I hold her close. I don’t silence her this time. I don’t tell her to get over it. I walk her to the mirror. Bare face, bare truth. I look into my own eyes, not to judge, but to witness.
Hey baby girl, I see you. I see how hard you try. I see how beautiful you are when you light up the room with your love, your voice, your care. I see how it breaks your heart when no one turns toward you. And I need you to know—whether they look or not, you are still magic.
You don’t have to perform for love. You don’t have to sparkle to be safe. You don’t have to earn care with sweetness or strength or silence. I am the one you’ve been waiting for. I am here now. And I’m never leaving you again.
If they can’t see you, it’s not because you’re invisible. It’s because they’re looking with eyes too small for your shine. You don’t have to dim. You don’t have to disappear. You don’t have to dance for attention. You get to be—just be—and still be worthy.
I place my hands over my heart. I breathe in the fullness of who I am. Not who I was. Not who they think I am. Who I am, right now, today.
I whisper to myself:
I call all parts of me back home. Whole. Seen. Safe. Loved.
Not when they notice me.
Now. Because I choose to be whole now.
This isn’t a one-time healing.
Embodying and integrating this mindset is a lifestyle. A daily decision.
It’s a ritual in motion, a practice of choosing me over and over again—even on the days when I feel like hiding. Even when my nervous system is fried. Even when my emotions run ahead of my logic.
Some days are not fucking easy.
As much as I train myself to notice my triggers, to pause, to breathe, to listen—I still get swept up sometimes. I still feel that heat rise in my chest when I don’t get a reply, or when I feel misunderstood, or when I see others receive what I long for. I still fall into the spiral some days.
But the difference now is, I know it’s a spiral.
I know I can catch myself. I know I can land. I know I’m not falling apart—I’m just feeling deeply.
And I’m so fucking grateful for that awareness.
Because with my expanding awareness, I feel more present. More safe. More grounded.
More able to pivot, to shift, to soothe, to stand tall, to walk away or stay open—whichever is right in that moment.
And underneath all of it? Emotional resilience.
That’s the key. That’s the win.
Me cultivating emotional resilience is how I keep showing up, how I keep returning to myself, how I stay soft without getting swallowed. That resilience is the bridge between my triggers and my transformation.
It’s the reason I keep winning—no matter what I face. No matter who sees me. No matter who doesn’t.
I am not the same as I was before.
I am not as fragile. I am not as easily pulled off my center.
I’m learning that staying present with myself is the most radical love I can give.
So I say it again.
I choose me. I see me. I will never look away from me again.
Today, I dance for me.
The one my ancestors never stopped watching.
And I never miss them.
Ase.