There’s something about being watched that hits different when it’s not out of admiration but out of judgment. Not the paranormal kind of watched but that heavy, suffocating feeling where you’re hyperaware of everything about yourself. Every breath, every step—it’s like you’re being scrutinized under a microscope. Your skin prickles with the knowledge that eyes are on you and not for the reasons you’d hope. You don’t even need to turn around to know. You just feel it. All the time.
Growing up, I didn’t get it at first. I thought maybe it was in my head—that I was overthinking. But eventually, reality smacked me across the face. I wasn’t being paranoid. The stares were real. The whispers? Real. The subtle but piercing looks of disgust? Real. And it was all because of one thing: my skin.
It’s wild how something so natural to who you are, can become a weapon for others to use against you. You can’t change it. You didn’t choose it. But still, it becomes the thing people latch onto to diminish you, to make you feel small. And when that happens, you start to shrink in other ways too. You try to take up less space, keep your head down, blend into the background—because being seen only ever meant being hurt.
It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never experienced it, the damage it does. It’s not just about being called names. It’s deeper than that. The real pain comes from how it shifts your entire understanding of yourself. When you’re told, day after day, that there’s something wrong with you—something unfixable—it starts to get inside your head. No matter how much you try to push it away, it sticks. The words, the stares, they become a constant soundtrack, looping in the back of your mind, reminding you that you don’t belong.
I remember being 13, on my first day of high school. I was nervous, like any kid would be. But that nervousness turned into a full anxiety attack the moment I realized all eyes were on me. Not because I was the new girl. Not because I was wearing something bold or doing something loud. Just because I existed—and I was darker than everyone else.
The whispers started before I could even settle into my new environment. The first few days? I tried to brush it off. Told myself it would get better, that people just needed time to get to know me. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. People didn’t want to know me. They didn’t want to see beyond my skin. And once that message settled in, it became impossible to unsee. Every interaction felt tainted. Was it genuine? Or was it just another jab, another veiled insult hidden behind a smile?
I learned early on that being different wasn’t something people admired or celebrated. It made me a target. I was the “crow,” the “cockroach,” the girl who was “dirty.” The girl who didn’t belong. And it’s funny in a way because I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I didn’t choose this. But somehow, the blame was placed on me—as if I had any control over the way I looked.
There’s this memory that sticks with me. I was walking to canteen when I overheard whispering. They weren’t even trying to be subtle about it. “Like, why doesn’t she just use something to lighten her skin?” Suddenly I was no longer just a student. I was a thing. An object of ridicule.
That’s the thing about these moments. They don’t just end when the laughter dies down. They stay with you. They burrow deep into your skin and before you know it, they start to define you. I started to see myself the way they saw me. I started to believe that I was dirty. That I wasn’t good enough. That no matter how smart or kind or interesting I was, none of that mattered because I was too dark.
It’s not easy to admit this, but part of me became obsessed with the idea of being invisible. If I could just disappear, maybe the pain would stop. If people couldn’t see me they couldn’t hurt me, right? But the irony is, even when I tried to hide, I still felt all eyes on me. In a crowded room, on a street, in the most mundane places. The hyperawareness was always there. The overthinking. The constant questioning of what people were thinking, what they were whispering about, what they were laughing at.
Years later, the scars are still there. You’d think time would heal them and in some ways, it has. I’ve grown. I’ve learned to accept parts of myself that I used to hate (no). But that feeling of being watched? It never truly goes away. It’s woven into the fabric of who I am now. And that’s the hardest part to explain to people who haven’t lived it. This is something that stays with you. Forever.
Because even when no one is looking, I still feel all eyes on me. And maybe I always will.
I felt like writing this because next week, I’m starting my university life and I’m already feeling that anxiety creep in. I can’t shake the fear that history will repeat itself. What if I go through the same judgment, the same isolation? I just don’t want to relive those experiences. The thought of being back in that spotlight, feeling like the outsider again is terrifying. I want to believe it’ll be different this time but that fear is hard to ignore…
your words hit so deeply — i can feel the weight of it all. sending you so much love as you step into this new chapter
janu, your emotional depth and wisdom are just from another world. I'm sorry you had to go through this, I feel this deeply 💜