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The Girl Who Saw the World Through a Window
Some stories begin at the window, watching life unfold from a distance. This is one of them—a look back at a childhood spent observing from the sidelines, and how those years taught me to notice what others often miss.
3 min read
Dear Friend,
I’ve been thinking lately about how much of who we are now was shaped quietly and slowly, sometimes through moments that felt small or even painful at the time.
When I was a little girl in the 90's, I used to spend hours watching the world go by from the study window. It was slightly elevated—just enough to give me a kind of bird’s-eye view of our street. I’d see the kids walking home from school, later getting together to play cricket or soccer in the middle of the street, or ride their bikes around the neighbourhood. The air would hum with chatter and laughter and the occasional cheer when someone scored.
I especially loved summer evenings, when the days stretched on, and the sunset carried that unmistakable “eau de bitumen and gum tree” on a warm, lazy breeze. Some evenings I'd sit on the heated garage roof, or just lie on the driveway looking up at the sky until the sun went down.
I was a bit of a wallflower, a quiet, shy kid. In school, I dreaded drawing any attention and much preferred fading into the background, unheard, unseen, unnoticed.
I remember looking at the big lunch groups in high school and wishing I were one of the girls sitting there, laughing loudly, always having something to chat about, like it all came so easily.
I didn’t realise it back then, but I often felt like I was on the outside looking in.
Even now, as an adult, I still sometimes feel like that. Socialising doesn’t come naturally—small talk makes my palms sweat, and I fumble for the right words to say, if any come to me at all they seem awkward and disjointed.
And truthfully? Every now and then I still find myself wishing I had one of those girl squads — there's at least 5-10 of them, girls who’ve known each other since school, who go on annual girls’ trips, celebrate every major milestone together and every year they get together somewhere for their annual christmas do. You know the ones I mean.
But something’s shifted lately. Maybe it’s turning 40 (there’s a kind of magic in this age, isn’t there?). I’m beginning to see how those years of quietly observing the world weren’t wasted. They taught me something.
While those years of feeling out the outside, sometimes painfully lonely, left a kind of ache I couldn’t name back then, they’ve given me a gift. And I’m finally learning to see it, practice it and appreciate it.
When I get still within and really pay attention, I can sense what’s happening beneath the surface — the mood in a room, the undercurrent of a conversation, the feelings someone might be carrying but not saying out loud. I pick up on more than words when people are talking — the words themselves, and the sometimes hidden story beneath them.
And it’s not just people — I notice the scent of the air when the rain is coming, the smell of ground after the dew. The sunrises and the energy of an awakening world. The sunsets the quieting, slowing moment when the sun begins to sink and the world retreats.
I feel the way energy subtly shifts around me. There’s a peace in it. And I’m starting to see that my quietness and sense of being an outsider — what once felt like a flaw — is actually something quietly strong.
A kind of superpower.
Maybe the parts of us we thought we had to “fix” were never broken. Maybe they were just the beginning of something powerful. Maybe the lonely bits, the awkward bits, the “on the outside” bits—they were quietly growing our resilience, our intuition, our depth.
I’ve been wondering: what parts of your story—especially the painful or uncomfortable ones—might actually be the roots of your greatest strengths?
And just know, I think you’re magic—every part of you.
With love from A Little Life in Bloom 🌻
Gwen x