Low diatribe

I've told my walking story previously. How I wouldn't let anyone see me learning to walk. How I'd practice in secret, falling over and over, then sit back down the moment someone entered the room. How one day I just walked out, fully formed, like I'd known how all along.

I always thought the point of the story was about me. About perfectionism. About not wanting to be seen struggling. About the pattern I carried for decades: perfect it in private, only perform when polished.

But it occurs to me now, all these years later, that I only thought no one was watching.

Pops was watching.

He was hiding around the corner. Witnessing without interfering. Holding space for me to find my own way.

But it wasn't just that he was lurking there, waiting. Everything he did when he wasn't around the corner created the conditions that made it possible to wait around the corner.

He'd built trust. He'd been there consistently. He'd proven he was safe. So when I needed to feel alone to explore, I could feel alone without feeling abandoned. The foundation was already there.

The watching wasn't the work. The work was everything that came before the watching. The work was building the kind of relationship where I knew, even when I couldn't see him, that he was there if I needed him.

He didn't correct my form. Didn't coach my technique. Didn't rush me or offer suggestions. He just watched me fall, over and over, trusting that I'd find my way.

The kind of witness that doesn't make you self-conscious.

There's a paradox here that I've only recently begun to understand.

I needed to feel unwatched to try. The moment I knew someone was looking, I'd stop. Sit down. Pretend I wasn't attempting anything. The audience made the risk unbearable.

But I also needed him watching to be safe. Not just physically safe, though that too. Safe to fail. Safe to fall. Safe to struggle without it meaning something was wrong with me.

Pops created the conditions for me to feel alone enough to explore, while never being abandoned.

I've spent years thinking about the audience I feared. The judgment I was avoiding. The performance anxiety that kept me frozen.

But I misread the audience entirely.

I assumed watching meant judging. That witness meant critic. That being seen meant being evaluated.

Pops was watching, but not like that. He was watching the way you watch a sunrise. Present. Attentive. Without needing it to be different than it is.

Struggle is learning, not failing.

He saw me fall over and over, and he didn't see failure. He saw the process. He saw what falling was teaching me about balance, about weight distribution, about getting back up.

He didn't need to prevent my struggle. He trusted it.

That's the kind of witness I want to be.

I think about this now when I'm working with people who are learning something new. Who are trying something that scares them. Who are falling over and over in their own ways.

The instinct is to step in. To correct. To coach. To prevent the fall. To make it easier.

But sometimes the most supportive thing you can do is hide around the corner. Be present without being intrusive. Hold space without taking space.

Watch them struggle, trusting that struggle is teaching them something you can't.

There's an art to this kind of presence.

Too far away, and it's abandonment. Too close, and it's pressure. The self-consciousness freezes them.

Pops found the distance where I could feel alone enough to try, but held enough to be safe. Close enough to hear. Far enough to be invisible.

He would have been there if I'd asked. But he knew I had to ask for it to be of any use. Help offered too soon teaches dependence. Help offered when asked teaches that it's safe to need support.

The discipline of waiting to be asked.

I don't always get this right.

Sometimes I step in too soon. Sometimes I stay too far back. But I'm learning to ask: What does this person need right now?

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is nothing at all.

I watched a development team I'd recently scaled 3x work against a tightening deadline. Every instinct screamed to jump in. To take over. To fix it. I could see the pressure building, the struggle with new dynamics, the compressed timeline.

But I sat back. Ready if asked. The same way Pops watched me fall.

They didn't ask. They figured it out. And they learned something in that struggle I couldn't have taught them by stepping in — that they could handle the pressure, that they could figure it out together.

If I'd intervened, I would have robbed them of that.

The walking story isn't just about me learning to walk.

It's about Pops teaching me that struggle is safe. That falling is part of the process. That I could figure things out on my own, but I didn't have to do it alone.

He was watching. Silently encouraging. Trusting the process. Holding space.

And because he did that, I learned more than how to walk.

I learned that someone could witness my struggle without needing to fix it. That being seen didn't have to mean being judged. That the audience I feared might actually be silently supporting me.

I thought I was hiding my struggles. But he was watching me struggle without judgment. And realizing that — years later — has helped me be more open about my learning. More willing to be seen falling. More willing to ask for help when I need it.

Because someone was watching then. And it didn't destroy me. It held me.

I'm still that kid who doesn't want anyone to see him fall. But now I'm also trying to be the person around the corner — the one who watches without judging, who holds space without taking it, who trusts that struggle is teaching something I can't.

And as I practice being that witness for others, I'm learning to recognize it when I'm the one struggling: the people watching might not be judges. They might be holding space. Trusting my process. Waiting to be asked.

I still have to push through the instinct to freeze when I know someone's watching. I still want to perfect things in private. But I remember that someone was watching then. And even if someone is watching now, I don't have to feel embarrassed to let my process be seen.

I also remember that I can't just show up and hold space. The foundation has to be there first. The trust. The consistency. The proof that you're safe. Pops could wait around the corner because he'd already done the work that made the corner safe.

Someone was watching. And that made all the difference.