The day’s end, another moment to reflect.
Dear Journal,
There’s a peculiar kind of silence that comes with eye contact — the kind that feels like both an invitation and a mirror. As a child, I was shy, not because I lacked anything but because I had yet to learn what it meant to be seen without needing to shrink. At some point, someone told me that confidence lived in the eyes — that to hold someone’s gaze was to hold your ground. And so I practiced. I met stares. I anchored my words with presence.
But somewhere along the way, I started to pull back again — not from everyone, not always, but in conversations that asked too much of my emotional center. It wasn’t out of fear or shame. It was adaptation. A former colleague once bristled at even a moment of eye contact during tense discussions. Out of care, I softened my gaze. I looked away. And maybe, over time, I absorbed that habit as my own.
Now, I find myself occasionally hesitating in moments of emotional depth — not flinching, but navigating. Searching for the balance between connection and overexposure. Not because I’m hiding something, but because I’m feeling something. And when you’re feeling deeply, eye contact can sometimes intensify everything. Especially when the conversation isn’t simple, when hearts are on the table.
That’s something I want to get better at explaining. I don’t avoid someone’s gaze because I feel small. I do it because I’ve learned to sense when a moment needs care — and sometimes, the softest kind of care is space. My gaze isn’t a challenge, nor is it absent. It’s present, just a little more tender when emotions run high.
It’s also worth saying: this isn’t a static trait. We grow into ourselves, and sometimes we overcorrect. I know I have. There were years I practiced eye contact like a performance. Holding it too long. Using it like punctuation. Believing I could “prove” confidence by staring down the world. But strength isn’t in the stare — it’s in the self-awareness behind it.
There’s another layer to this I rarely admit out loud: eye contact, for me, isn’t just about interpersonal confidence. It’s also about energy. There’s something uniquely draining about being highly observant — about noticing micro-expressions, micro-shifts, the subtle cues that others might overlook. I don’t mean this in a romanticized way. It’s a genuine cost. When you’re naturally tuned into people’s internal states — noticing the flicker of discomfort behind a smile, the way someone’s fingers tense before they speak — prolonged eye contact can feel like opening every channel at once.
Studies have found that eye contact can increase cognitive load, particularly in socially demanding tasks. One study by Helminen et al. (2011) showed that eye contact not only increases arousal but can impair cognitive control during complex tasks[^2]. In simpler terms, sometimes when I look someone in the eyes, I lose track of my words — not because I’m weak, but because I’m tracking everything.
This hyper-awareness isn’t always a gift. It can be exhausting. And when compounded by emotionally charged settings — conflict, vulnerability, shame — it becomes even more taxing. That’s where the silence begins. Where I turn my eyes away, not out of avoidance, but as a way to stay grounded.
This hesitation isn’t unique to me. Studies show that how we learn to process eye contact varies across people and cultures. For example, in developmental models of atypical gaze behavior, researchers have found that our early experiences can shape how we view eye contact as either engaging or overstimulating (Senju & Johnson, 2016)[^1]. And while that study focused on autism, it still echoes the idea that not everyone arrives at eye contact from the same starting point — or with the same response.
It’s a gentle reminder that adaptation doesn’t always need a diagnosis. Sometimes it just needs a story. And in my case, I can trace a change in gaze back to a moment of empathy — when I adjusted to someone else’s discomfort. But the longer I held that adjustment, the more it settled into muscle memory.
And now, I feel like I’m working on it again. Business environments reward assertiveness — and with it, sustained eye contact. I’m back in the rhythm of re-practicing that presence, not for performance this time, but for connection. For clarity. For trust. It’s different now. Less about proving and more about tuning in without draining myself. That line is thin, but I’m learning to walk it.
The energy depletion is also cumulative. On some days, after multiple conversations, meetings, or simply existing in emotionally rich environments, I find that even casual eye contact can feel like too much. It’s not social anxiety. It’s more like social fatigue. There’s a difference, and I think more of us need to acknowledge it. Especially those who are seen as strong, composed, or emotionally intelligent. Sometimes the person holding space for others needs space too.
And there’s still more. Beyond culture and energy, there’s the invisible pressure of what eye contact has come to represent. Power dynamics. Dominance. Reassurance. Even flirtation. We project so much meaning onto a glance that it’s no wonder it carries weight. A study by Adams and Kleck (2005) found that direct gaze can intensify emotional interpretation, especially when the face displays ambiguous emotions[^3]. That explains a lot — especially when I find myself wondering, “Did they think I was upset?” or “Was that too much?” after simply holding a glance a few seconds too long.
I suppose this is all a long way of saying: I still care about being present. About being someone who sees and is seen. But I’ve stopped trying to meet someone’s eyes just to prove I can. Now I do it with intention — not as a default, but as a decision.
And in moments where I do look away, I hope it’s not mistaken for disinterest. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s because I care enough not to let my gaze push someone away — or burn through what they’re not ready to share.
Yours in letters, always,
Pandora
P.S. Eye contact is often framed as a test of courage, but sometimes it’s a gesture of compassion — to soften the space between two people. Do you feel seen when someone meets your eyes, or when they look away with care?
[^1]: Senju, A., & Johnson, M. H. (2016). Atypical eye contact in autism: Models, mechanisms and development. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, 71, 768–778. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neubiorev.2016.10.001
[^2]: Helminen, T. M., Kaasinen, S. M., & Hietanen, J. K. (2011). Eye contact and arousal: The effects of stimulus duration. Biological Psychology, 88(1), 124–130. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biopsycho.2011.07.002
[^3]: Adams Jr, R. B., & Kleck, R. E. (2005). Effects of direct and averted gaze on the perception of facially communicated emotion. Emotion, 5(1), 3–11. https://doi.org/10.1037/1528-3542.5.1.3
Title inspired by the song “Eyes Closed” by Halsey. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.