I didn’t stop chasing because I became confident. I stopped because my body got tired of running ahead of itself.
There was a time when I thought wanting something meant leaning forward, reaching first, explaining myself better, trying harder, softening my edges so I could be easier to hold. I confused movement with intention, effort with care. I chased conversations, connections, replies, men, women, moments, platforms — not desperately, not loudly, but consistently enough that my body never fully rested. And then one day, without ceremony, something in me refused to move. Not out of pride. Out of exhaustion.
Not chasing didn’t arrive as a strategy. It arrived as a pause. A stillness I didn’t plan. I noticed my fingers hovering over the screen and not finishing the sentence. I noticed the urge to clarify, to follow up, to make sure I hadn’t been misunderstood — and for the first time, I let the misunderstanding exist. That was new. That was terrifying. That was relief.
When you stop chasing, the silence is loud at first. It presses against your ribs. You wonder if you’ve disappeared. You wonder if you’ve become cold. You wonder if people will think you don’t care anymore. The truth is more uncomfortable: you start seeing which connections were only alive because you kept breathing into them. There is grief in that. Real grief. Not everything that fades was false — some things were just asymmetrical.
With men, not chasing changed the texture of desire. Attraction either met me where I stood or dissolved on its own. There was no performance to keep it warm. No leaning forward to be chosen. The clarity was almost cruel, but it was clean. My body stopped bracing. Pleasure stopped feeling like proof.
With women, not chasing felt different. Softer. Heavier. It meant trusting that emotional intimacy doesn’t need pulling. That what is meant to root will root without force. It meant allowing longing to exist without immediately trying to resolve it. That restraint taught me more than pursuit ever did.
I stopped chasing readers too. Stopped refreshing. Stopped caring — no, that’s not true. I stopped shaping my words to land better. I write now and let the words walk away from me. Some return with stories. Some don’t. Both outcomes feel honest. Writing stopped being a negotiation and became a place I could breathe again.
The strangest part is the shift people feel before they can name it. When you stop chasing, some step closer. Curious. Attentive. Others vanish quietly, as if your stillness removed the invitation they relied on. Neither reaction is a failure. Neither is a victory. It’s just information.
Confidence, I learned, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It feels like slower breathing. Softer shoulders. Hands that don’t rush to fix the moment. It feels like staying where you are and letting what wants you find you there.
I didn’t stop chasing to be powerful.
I stopped chasing because I wanted peace.
And somewhere in that stillness, power something truer found me anyway.