Last month, a friend teased me: “You’re so nice, but also… kind of hard to reach.” I laughed it off, but it stayed with me. Was that a compliment or a quiet complaint?
For years, I’ve kept myself approachable: warm, helpful, open. I tried to be someone others felt comfortable reaching out to. I said yes to casual invites and checked in when people needed a hand. It felt good to be reliable and easy to be around.
But lately, I’ve started noticing something important: easy access isn’t the same as earning respect. We can be well-liked, but our voice is undervalued. Being always available can make us seem convenient instead of thoughtful. People value the ease, but might not truly consider us. We began to see that when we say yes to everything, our presence fades. We might be around a lot, but our impact becomes lighter, like background music no one really hears. In contrast, saying no when needed is not cold; it helps us focus on the moments that matter.
What we want, perhaps we haven’t said out loud, is probably changing too. We don’t just want to be liked; we want to be truly valued. We want our presence to be intentional and memorable. The kind of presence people lean in to know better, one that quietly draws the right people closer. Not just pleasant to have around, but respected enough that our yes holds weight. We don’t have to be mysterious or cold; being clear and genuine is enough to make interactions feel special. Think less “always available” and more like Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, warm but authentic, she commands attention.
To get there, we had to rethink boundaries, not as shields that push people away, but as a framework for our presence. Boundaries don’t mean being distant; they mean choosing where to invest our best energy. They’re what separates noise from clarity.
Boundaries speak silently: I’m here and I care, but I won’t be available all the time. They create a strong presence. People start noticing when we do engage, as it isn’t frequent. This enhances our presence, not because we’re hard to reach, but because we decide when to be fully present and give our best.
Greg McKeown calls this living by Essentialism, as carefully choosing where we say yes, so it actually means something meaningful. It’s not about saying no just to be tough; it’s about protecting the quality of our yes. I’ve started trying this in a small way: pausing before accepting casual invites, asking myself, Will this add to my life or just fill it? I say yes more firmly to things that matter: like a lunch with someone I want to know better, a conversation that sparks ideas, or spaces where I can be my true self.
And when I do show up, it’s different. I’m not half-distracted or quietly regretting being there. I’m present. Eyes up, energy in, listening that makes people feel seen. They feel relaxed because they don’t feel like one more name in an inbox; they feel special. Even silence is comfortable; we don’t need to fill the air to show we care. And it’s surprising how rare that kind of presence is.
And something unexpected happens: respect builds. Quietly, almost invisibly. People hesitate before requesting our time. They pay attention when we talk. Invitations feel more thoughtful; our presence is appreciated. It’s not about fear or distance; it’s about them realizing that our attention has weight and meaning.
And once respect settles in, curiosity naturally follows. People want to understand someone who clearly values their time. Conversations become more meaningful. They turn thoughtful; involve better questions, sharper listening, and a deeper sense of who we are without oversharing. They are seeking not just our presence, but our perspective. Our boundaries don’t push them away; they attract the right ones. The connection feels intentional, not casual, like an Inception Movie, a dream within a dream-layer, but only if we earn it.
And slowly, we change from being a nice company to someone unforgettable. Not because we’re flashy or mysterious, but because we are present. People walk away with something: a moment of genuine attention, a line we said, the way we listened. It lingers with them, like a chorus from a favorite song that pops up hours later.
That kind of presence leaves a mark. After we leave, people remember how we made them feel: heard, valued, not just accepted. And honestly, that makes them love us more.
That’s the quiet power of intention: our presence lasts long after we’re gone. Because presence, when it’s rare and real, doesn’t just fill space, it shapes it.
Make every entrance a scene worth remembering.
Love,
Kirana
