the power of the gaze
ours is a pick-me culture.
we strive to be picked at every turn—at all the stops along this thing called life.
pick-me for your soccer team. your baseball team. your volleyball team. pick-me for your academic institution—for college, for high school, for elementary school. shit, all the way down to preschool. pick-me to be your girlfriend, boyfriend, lover, tuesday night date—to be a part of some situationship. just pick-me.
everywhere we go, in every way, we strive to be chosen.
and when we aren’t? insecurities abound. we doubt ourselves. we question our value—our self worth. and, even when we are picked, where in the count we are selected matters. were we picked first or last? or, some meh-middle. selection, and non-selection, reaffirms our suspicions. our hunches about who we are or aren’t are confirmed—our self-narrative called into question.
bink, bink, bink. hit after hit. cracks in our protective armor.
so, it’s obvious, right? we’ve just got to work harder to be picked!
well, let's think about it from another angle. (spoiler alert, it’s not a rosy take.)
a pick-me culture means that in our scramble to be picked, we toil endlessly to be pickable. we don’t just practice. we practice longer and harder than they do. that test? we live in the library. you expect it tuesday? we’ll be done with it sunday night—with more bells and whistles than you could have imagined.
indispensable. first-round draft pick.
listen, this is not some controversial diatribe against discipline. discipline is great. it’s essential. anyone who knows me, knows i put in the work. it’s how we fine tune our craft, build finesse, and operate with a nuanced excellence that enables us to walk with confidence and defy the seemingly impossible.
the real question is who is all of this discipline for? is it in service of our unique contribution? or, are we reactively charged? working to appeal?
when we work to appeal, in a way that gets us picked every time and across life’s many categories, we inevitably twist, bend, and contort ourselves to fit the bill. leaving us to wonder, who even are we?
all for the gaze.
you know the gaze. oh, the emotions the gaze thrusts upon us. that first glance. is it approving? disapproving? and then, the knowing glance. oh, they are certainly approving. wait, or is that judgment? are they even looking at me? wait, why are they looking at me? the stomach flips. the mind-fucks. the quickening heartbeat. the sweaty palms.
the power of the gaze.
the gaze has the ability to send our system into a spiral.
it is the picker. it doles out opportunity. and, when it lands just right, we get to do some dope shit. picked to do things that others don't. certainly, for othered folks operating within a scarce construct, the gaze favorably bestowed means we get to go places some others won’t. so there's an (albeit, problematic) upside to it.
and, that dopamine rush? winner, winner, chicken dinner.
yet in our pursuit of that rush, to be the most appealing, the most pickable, we often make ourselves less than. we shrink. we carve off our edges to smooth and position ourselves directly into the line of sight of the gaze. our bow tied perfectly, front row-seated, shoes polished, and hand raised. we speak in perfect tone and tenor (we are just so articulate). other’s comfort is our focus. never too hot, never too cold—just right.
all the while drifting further, and further from our brightest, shiniest, most excellent original self.
pick-me means we get that spot. we get the title. we raise the capital. we seed the fund. even that boo-thang. we get all the things.
but, at what cost?
pick-me requires that we wear the mask. it requires that we code switch. it requires us to place other’s comfort ahead of our own—that we not only bite our tongue but swallow it. it requires an unreciprocated level of emotional labor. it extracts its pound of flesh.
how might we find liberation in this lifetime such that the gaze holds no power, no consequence, no opportunity? how might we live beyond the reach of the gaze?
because, on the other side of that contemplation lies an alternate reality. one where we show up brighter, louder. one where we take up space. one where we don’t just authentically exist, we thrive. a reality where we choose for and on behalf of ourselves—versus in reaction to others.
and, the more authentically we thrive the more the universe responds in kind.
pathways to your people are revealed. chosen kinfolk vibe off of your energy—your unique gifts. your journey abundantly opens up to access and opportunity, often in unexpected ways.
now, that’s not to say that those first big steps towards liberation won’t be bumpy as you shed the layers—the relationships and ‘opportunities’ that gaslit with the gaze. it takes a leap of faith. but, the payout? the payout is golden.
to be truly seen.
being seen for who you are, your glorious gifts, your astounding contributions versus some twisted, contorted version is beautiful. an affirmation of the intention, effort and energy you’ve put in to be you—well, that’s gorgeous. that’s filling. that’s regenerative. that’s love.
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