“I thought presence meant standing tall. I didn’t know it could mean softening.”
For a long time, I thought being present meant being loud. Bold. Forthcoming. In charge.
Chest forward, shoulders back, walk straight, dress sharp.
Presence was performance — a kind of curated visibility.
The crisp voice, the clean lines, the opinions that pierced through a room like a sword.
I wore it like armour — like success. Like the people I had admired growing up.
My father, my older sister, people in the finance and business magazines with heads held high and noses slightly in the air.
People who took up space with certainty, who voiced their preferences with condescension,
as if superiority was the only way to be heard.
I tried to become that.
Tried to shape myself into someone who spoke first, who walked like a lion, who looked like she belonged in boardrooms and in control.
But something in me felt out of place.
Even when I was succeeding.
I didn’t know it then, but I was performing a version of presence that wasn’t mine.
A masculine, forward-driving, dominant kind of presence.
And beneath all that — was the ache.
The quiet pull.
The feminine whisper saying: There’s another way.
I first felt feminine presence when I was allowed to be soft — when I allowed myself to be soft.
It happened quietly, not through achievement, not through applause, but through care.
When I began caring for myself the way I had always cared for others — tenderly, attentively, with deep love —
I realised something: I needed care, too.
And the only person who truly knew how to care for me… was me.
This masculine version of presence — the loudness, the forwardness, the performance — it was untrue to who I was.
I was always acting. And when you’re acting, your energy fluctuates.
And energy — unlike words — never lies.
You may be “doing well,” people probably even admire you, follow you, praise you —
however, if your energy is off, your results will be fragile. They won’t last.
Because something in you is quietly at war with itself.
And eventually, that inner conflict will show up in your body, in your spirit, In your health, in your heart.
When I began softening — something sacred returned to me.
Feminine presence, for me, is not weak. It is unshakeable serenity. It is gentleness, in listening.
It is sitting back and observing without rushing to fix or prove.
It is letting dramas unfold around me — without disturbing my calm.
Where my forehead remains unwrinkled, my smile, gentle,
my gaze, loving and clear, and my words fewer, but fuller.
Feminine presence is knowing that I don’t need to be louder to be powerful.
I don’t need to dominate a room to hold it.
My presence doesn’t need to shout — it simply radiates.
So how did I get here?
It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t a transformation, it was a slow undoing.
It began with exhaustion — the kind you can’t sleep off and a deep inner question I could no longer silence:
Who am I when I stop performing?
This unfolding continued with stillness. Moments by the sea, in the mountains, with my breath — where I met myself without needing to fix her.
Then came the yoga, not the asanas, but the real bonding of my mind with my body.
And not the yoga I used to chase — not perfection, not performance.
Instead, I began to move in rhythm with my breath, with my feminine body, with its softness, its cycles, its tenderness, its resistance.
I practiced every day, not to become better — but to become closer.
Closer to the body I had ignored. Closer to the heart I had silenced. Closer to the me who existed underneath the pretending.
I started listening — really listening — to my womb, to my tiredness, to the rise and fall of my emotions.
And slowly, I stopped seeing them as problems. I started seeing them as messengers of wisdom.
My pace changed, my tone softened, I stopped needing to be “on” all the time.
I started sitting back — not out of passivity, but out of power. Because I didn’t need to chase, I didn’t need to prove, I could just be.
And that… was enough.
So how can you begin softening into your feminine presence?
It’s not a technique. It’s a permission.
Start with noticing:
Where are you performing?
Where are you pushing?
Where are you tightening your shoulders just to be taken seriously?
And then — soften.
Wear something your body loves, Eat slower, Say less, Listen more, Sit in the sun, Dance without performing.
Let your belly rise and fall like a prayer.
Begin caring for yourself with the same attention you give to those you love.
And when that critical voice gets loud — hold it like a child who’s scared.
And then you don’t have to prove your power, you will be the power.
Not the kind that dominates, but the kind that magnetises.
Let your presence be felt in the pause. Allow your radiance to speak before your words.
You don’t need to chase light.
You are light — when you’re no longer hiding from yourself.