You felt it the moment you crossed the threshold.
The slight pause in conversation. The heads that turned just a beat too long. That shift in the room's energy that said, unmistakably, someone just arrived.
And what did you do?
You pretended you didn't notice. Made yourself smaller. Beelined for a corner. Started fiddling with your phone like you were expecting a very important text from absolutely no one.
Here's what just happened: You treated your own presence like a disruption. Like something to apologize for. Like the attention you naturally command is a problem you need to manage.
Where did you learn that?
Because you weren't born believing your presence was an inconvenience. Somewhere along the way, someone taught you that being noticed was dangerous. That the safest thing a magnetic woman can do is pretend she isn't.
So you shrink. You hide. You act confused about the effect you have, like it's all some big misunderstanding.
It's not a misunderstanding. It's you.
What if you stopped treating that room shift like an accident? What if you let it land — not with arrogance, but with honesty?
Yes, I just walked in. Yes, you noticed. That's allowed.
She wasn't looking to be noticed yet was impossible to ignore. Not because she performed anything. Because she stopped pretending she didn't already know.
You felt the room shift.
You weren't imagining it.
Permission to stop acting like your own presence is a problem.
Intoxicating — your accomplice in owning what was always yours.