Reclaiming Space: Presence and Self-Worth

Sometimes I think about how much space people take up. Not literally, though that’s part of it too. It's more a feeling—the sheer volume of presence someone projects. At Jacobs Pavilion last weekend, during the National show, there was this one woman who just *filled* the room. She wasn’t yelling or doing anything flashy; she simply stood, head high, shoulders back, taking up every inch her body allowed. Everyone seemed to instinctively give her a wider berth.

I've always been…smaller. Not physically—though I am on the shorter side—but in how I occupy space. It used to be crippling. Looking back at photos from sophomore year of high school, I’m almost embarrassed by how hunched over I seem, my shoulders perpetually drawn forward as if bracing for impact. Like maybe someone would notice me *too* much, and that was something to avoid.

It’s funny the things you pick up. My mom always told me I had a tendency to “shrink,” especially in groups of people she considered important. She meant it with concern, wanting me to be more assertive. But what she saw as shrinking, I felt like self-preservation. A way of disappearing when it felt safer. It’s odd how deeply ingrained those habits can become; automatic reactions triggered by social cues you barely register.

There's this theory – I don’t remember where I read it exactly – but the gist is that your body doesn’t just *reflect* how you feel, it influences it. Sounds kind of woo-woo, I know, but there's something undeniably true to it. Like when I’m feeling particularly anxious about a presentation—and those always come around—I start to fold in on myself, and then the anxiety gets worse because I *look* more nervous. It becomes a feedback loop.

I noticed that woman at Jacobs Pavilion again after her initial entrance. She was holding court with several people who seemed genuinely drawn to her energy. They were laughing, gesturing expansively. When I thought about it later while editing my blog post (twenty-seven views! Seriously!), I realized how much of their interaction seemed fueled by her confidence—or perhaps more accurately, the visible manifestation of it.

It's not necessarily about being loud or aggressive. It’s something quieter than that. A sense of ownership over one’s presence. The realization that you don’t need to apologize for taking up space, both physical and metaphorical. I think advertising leverages this – all those photos of people leaning against things, casually confident in expensive clothing—it's an attempt to sell a feeling more than a product.

I've started trying small things. A deliberate lift of my chin when I walk into a room. Rolling my shoulders back. It feels ridiculous sometimes, almost like pretending, but the effect is…interesting. Not a radical transformation, obviously. But there’s a subtle shift in how people respond to me. Fewer apologies for getting in my way. More direct eye contact.

It's not about becoming that woman at Jacobs Pavilion overnight – I don't aspire to that level of magnetic intensity. It's simply about reclaiming some of the space I ceded, consciously or unconsciously, over the years. About understanding that sometimes, standing a little taller isn’t just about posture; it’s about believing you deserve the room you occupy.