The Girl Who Saw the World Through a Window

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, 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 soccor 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 garage roof, or just lay 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 rathered fading into the background, unnoticed, like a chameleon curled on a leafy branch.

I remember looking at the big lunch groups in high school and wishing I were one of the girls sitting there, laughing loudly, chatting 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. Like I was part of the scene, but not in it, if that makes sense.

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.

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 milestone together and every year they go to a nice restaurant 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 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 quiet and really pay attention, I can sense things—what’s really going on beneath the surface in a room, the mood in a conversation, the feeling someone might be carrying but not saying. And it’s not just people—I notice the trees, the sky, the stillness, the way energy subtly shifts around me. There’s a peace in it. And I’m starting to see that my quietness—what once felt like a flaw—is actually something 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?

I’d love to hear if this resonates with you. And just know, I think you’re magic—every part of you.

With love from A Little Life in Bloom,
Gwen x

Last updated April 2025