The other day, while we had visitors over, my then eleven-month-old son started doing something unexpected. Right there, in the middle of the living room where everyone was gathered, he put on a performance unlike anything I had ever seen before. He threw his little body into strange, deliberate movements, rolling and prostrating himself as if the living room floor was his stage. And the applause he got only seemed to fuel him—he revelled in it, grinning and emphasizing each movement with more gusto. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of it, both amazed and amused by how much he loved the attention.
A quiet thought emerged as I watched him: This is absolutely my son. He loves attention just like I do.
I sat with this long after the visitors had left. What struck me most was how natural, how innate his craving for attention was. It wasn’t learned, it wasn’t taught—just pure instinct. And my son is far from unique in this. Spend time with any baby or child, and you’ll see it too. They delight in attention, in knowing they are seen. It’s as if, in everything they do, they’re asking:
Do you see me?
Do you see how wonderful I am?
But something shifts as we grow. That innocent question—Do you see me?—gets quieted, tucked away like a secret we’re not supposed to share. Suddenly, we’re told not to ask. Suddenly, we’re ‘attention seekers,’ as though wanting to be seen, heard, and valued is something shameful. Especially as Black girls, we’re nudged to keep to ourselves, to not draw too much attention, to sit quietly, blend into our surroundings, and not be seen.
But the truth is, we never really outgrow our need for attention. That need doesn’t disappear just because you got older. We simply learn how to mask it better.
And I won’t soften it by calling it just ‘the need to be seen.’ We crave attention. I loooove attention and I'm no longer terrified nor ashamed to admit that, out loud.
Say it to yourself too,
I LOVE ATTENTION…
and keep saying it until it shakes up every part of you that has found comfort in the shadows. Say it until the shame melts away.
Attention is not vain nor is it superficial. Wanting attention is wanting to be attended to. It’s the act of having someone notice your presence, having someone attuned to the small details of your existence. Every single person is worthy of being attended to, to have someone take interest in their being, their life, thoughts and that their work matters. To attend to someone is to say,
‘I see you, I hear you, I know you’re here.’
Attention is an act of care. It’s what makes us feel valued, what makes us come alive.
This need for attention also extends into our creative lives, especially for those of us who put our words, art, or ideas into the world. Writing, for me, is not an act performed in a vacuum. It’s an offering, a conversation, and without an audience, without someone to give attention to my words, it risks falling into the void. To write is to ask,
Will you see me?
Will you listen?
Will my words touch you?
To quote a fellow Substacker,
, whose words, gave me the courage to dust off from my drafts, my own reflections on this theme and revisit them,sometimes it's difficult for me to write for myself. I might say, “write even when no one is reading” but I want you to read that's why I'm writing. I want you to see how beautifully I've crafted the words and how they dance swiftly on each line.
As a writer, I don’t write for myself, and I won’t be dishonest and claim that I’m content if my words never get read or acknowledged. I write with the urgency of a prophet shouting to the masses. Like someone with a vision that must be shared. My words need to be seen because they carry something beyond me. They have saved lives, they have saved my life, time and time again. How could I then hide them?
If I were to discover a cure for a disease that plagues the masses, would I dare keep it to myself? Would I hide it and say, “It’s fine if no one else ever finds it”? Of course not. My writing, my creative work, is no different. Sometimes words are medicine. Sometimes they are the lighthouse, guiding others through the dark.
But here’s where it gets difficult. We live in a world that shames us for wanting to be seen, for wanting attention. Especially as women, we have been socialised to downplay ourselves, to blend into the background. The fear of self-promotion is rooted in that same fear of being too much, of asking for too much.
You didn’t enter this world quietly. So why have you quietened yourself down?
You didn't enter this world quietly. So why have you quietened yourself down?
This thought came to me as I was reflecting on the fear of being seen, the fear of standing out. And this was prompted by a thread I read from a Substacker, who spoke about how hard it is for them to self-promote, how self-promotion always felt like a challenge. And I resonated with that. I’ve felt it too, that hesitation to wave my arms and say, “Look at me! Look at what I’ve done!”
But how do we expect others to support us if they don’t even know what we do? How can they applaud if they don’t even know we’re standing on stage?
If you want to be found, you can’t sit still with folded arms, waiting. You need to wave. You need to wave until someone notices, until someone turns their head and pays attention.
Maybe it feels safer to say we don’t care if people see us, if people read our work, because it shields us from the possibility of disappointment.
We tell ourselves, “If I have no expectations, I can’t get hurt.”
But living without expectation is living guarded. It’s protecting yourself from the heartbreak of wanting something that might not want you back. But to expect, to hope, is to make yourself vulnerable. And being alive is being vulnerable.
To expect attention, to want it, to wave your arms and declare your presence is to say, “I’m here. I matter. And I’m willing to risk the disappointment that might come with being ignored, because I owned my desire to be seen.”
I think back to that day in the living room when my son quite vulnerably performed for our guests, stepping into a spotlight that wasn’t guaranteed. He performed with an open heart, not knowing how we’d respond but doing it anyway, hoping to be met with applause. And when the applause came, he found more within himself—movements and expressions that we, who know him best, had never seen before. It as if the attention itself unlocked a deeper well of creativity within him. Each clap an invitation to show more of who he truly was.
And isn’t that what attention does for all of us? When we risk being seen, opening ourselves to the possibility of being validated, we bring forth things we never knew we were capable of.
Maybe that’s the bold truth we’ve been afraid to admit: attention doesn’t diminish us—it actually expands us. It births things we didn’t know were inside us, things that need an audience, a witness, to come alive.
There’s no safe way to do life. There’s no safe way to create. So, wave your arms. Be loud. Be expectant of attention, because you are worthy of it.
The one who sees you,
Reflection prompts
In which areas of your life do you crave attention but have been terrified to admit?
In what ways do you feel like you'll thrive by being affirmed?
What are you terrified of admitting you want but reluctant to say out loud because of how you may be perceived?
How can you reclaim your desire to be seen? How can you healthily ask for more of it?
You can also Buy Me A Sunflower if you love my work and feel moved to monetarily support a writer. This kind of support is affirming and life-giving 🤎🌻
If you would like to read more on this from another writer and perspective, I came across this letter by
. I was snapping my fingers through every paragraph. It is so raw and says out loud the things we are thinking but not brave enough to say:
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