read with Jenn!

I was around eight years old when I first became aware of the gaze of other people.

At that age, I did not understand why people looked at me the way they did. The attention made me uncomfortable. Sometimes it felt as though I became the center of a room without wanting to be. There was something about me that drew attention, and because I could not explain it, I feared it.

People would stare. Some looked directly into my eyes. Others watched me in a way that felt impossible to ignore.

I did not know what they were seeing.

I only knew that I wanted to disappear.

Without realising it, I began seeking refuge inside myself. Whenever the world felt overwhelming, I retreated inward. With no parents nearby to explain what I was experiencing or teach me how to handle that attention, I became both the child asking questions and the one searching for answers.

One afternoon after school, a friend and I were studying with a private teacher. Like many children, our minds wandered. Instead of focusing on our lessons, we became fascinated by a different idea.

My friend suggested that perhaps we could perform a little magic so our parents would forget to ask about our homework.

The idea was ridiculous.

And yet it fascinated me.

I cannot remember exactly what we did. It was probably nothing more than childish imagination. But I believed in it completely. For the first time, I considered that there might be hidden forces in the world beyond what adults could see.

When I returned home that evening, something unexpected happened.

My father forgot.

To this day, I cannot say whether it was coincidence or childhood imagination. But to the little girl I was, it felt like proof.

For the first time, the world seemed mysterious instead of frightening.

The attention of others no longer felt like the only force shaping my life. There was something larger, invisible, and beautiful at work.

I began to feel that I was more than my fears, more than being a girl, more than being a body.

There was an innocence inside me that seemed connected to something sacred. I could not name it then, but I sensed a healing presence within me.

As I grew older, life challenged that belief.

The magic became harder to find.

Reality brought suffering, uncertainty, and disappointment. 

My home country struggled through difficult times, and fear returned in new forms.

One day I found myself praying.

Not casually, but with the sincerity that comes when someone feels powerless.

I prayed for help.

And during that prayer, something happened.

It felt as though I had fallen beyond thought itself, beyond hope and despair, beyond questions and answers into a strange silence.

I reached a place where every question seemed to dissolve into nothingness.

Not a frightening nothingness, a vast one.

A place where suffering, ambition, and certainty faded away.

Yet within that emptiness, there was peace.

Two weeks later, circumstances changed. My aunt and uncle were able to return to selling their books, and life moved forward.

Again, I felt answered.

Again, I sensed that mysterious dialogue between my inner world and the world around me.

As the years passed, I stopped searching for magic as an event.

Instead, I began to recognise it as a way of being.

I noticed that no matter where I went, I could enter difficult spaces without being consumed by them. I could meet people where they were emotionally without abandoning myself. I did not need to lower my energy to match theirs or elevate myself above them.

I could simply remain present.

If someone was angry, I could listen.

If someone was hurting, I could understand.

If someone was lost, I could sit with them without needing to rescue them.

What I once thought was sensitivity revealed itself as strength.

The little girl who hid from the gaze of others had spent years learning to look inward. Eventually, that inward journey taught her how to look outward with compassion.

Perhaps that is the real magic.

Not changing reality.

Not controlling destiny.

But becoming a vessel through which understanding, patience, and healing can pass. 

Looking back, I no longer see those childhood experiences as accidents. They were invitations into a deeper understanding of myself. The gaze that once frightened me taught me self-awareness. Wonder taught me curiosity. Prayer taught me surrender. Life taught me presence.

And presence revealed something I had been searching for all along.

The healing I sought was already within me.

What I once mistook for sensitivity was a reservoir of strength. What I once experienced as isolation became a doorway to self-knowledge. The inward journey taught me how to listen, not only to myself, but to others.

For me, this is the essence of feminine healing.

It is not weakness. It is not passivity. It is not the obligation to carry the wounds of the world.

It is the willingness to know oneself deeply enough to remain present in the face of life. It is the patience to cultivate one’s inner landscape. It is the courage to transform pain into understanding and understanding into compassion.

As a woman, I learned that my body was often seen before my humanity was understood. Yet my worth was never contained in the gaze of others. I am not merely a body to be desired, judged, or defined. I am a human being with a mind, a spirit, a voice, and a presence.

The feminine is not something given to us. It is something we learn to embody.

When cultivated with care, it becomes a source of creation, healing, intuition, and renewal.

Today, I see the traces of that journey everywhere in my life. I became a painter whose work invites others inward because that is where I first found myself. My art is not about escaping the world. It is about helping others remember the parts of themselves they have forgotten.

I have come to understand that wherever I step, the light grows, not because I create it, but because I have learned how to carry it.

The child who feared being seen became the woman who helps others see themselves.

And the healing continues.