The Predator’s Gaze

Metaphorical Narrative

A rare bird lives in the forest, its feathers shimmering in the sun. It doesn’t dress this way for attention — it was born with those colours.

But the forest has many eyes. Some look in awe. Some look with hunger. Some look with the calculation of a hunter.

One day, the bird catches the wrong gaze — the predator’s gaze. Its body tightens. Ancient instinct whispers: Hide your colours or lose your life.

From then on, the bird tucks its wings. It stays in the shadows. It forgets the warmth of sunlight on its back.

Core Insight

This is how the nervous system learns to shrink:

• You shine.
• You’re seen.
• You’re misread, judged, or hunted.

The mind writes a protective contract:

“Your beauty, confidence, or joy will make you prey. Better to hide.”

But this contract was forged in fear, not truth. Your light doesn’t belong to the hunter. Their misinterpretation is not your responsibility. Your worth was never on trial in their court.

Saturday Experiment

Give your body a safe experience of shining again.

• Dress in a way that feels slightly more “you” than usual — not a leap, just a notch up.
• Step into a space where you control the context (a coffee shop, a walk, a small gathering).
• Notice your breath. Notice your posture. Feel the difference between being seen and being hunted.

The goal is not to seek approval — it’s to prove to your body that visibility does not equal danger.

Sunday Reflection

Write in third person:

“They wore their colours today, and nothing bad followed. They were not prey. They were a presence.”

Read it back slowly. If tension rises, breathe into it — you are teaching your nervous system that the light can stay on, and the doors can remain locked.

Contract-Breaking Declaration

“I am no one’s prey. My light is mine. My shine belongs to me.”