The Quiet Power of Noticing

An underrated green flag in any relationship (romantic, platonic, professional) is when someone notices. 

Not in the "Oh, you got a haircut" way (though, sure, that's nice too), but in the real way.

The you're not quite yourself today way.

The... I know you won't ask for help, so I handled this for you way. The way that I see it is that love of any kind is about noticing.

It's about paying attention.

Noticing when someone's energy shifts, when they're barely holding it together when they're hoping someone will ask one more question so they don't have to be the one to bring it up. And it's not about getting credit for it. It's not performative. It's just what you do when you care.

But here's where it gets tricky because noticing isn't passive. It's not just seeing; it's choosing to engage. And that's where the vulnerability comes in. Because once you notice, you have to decide what to do with that awareness. That's what makes it feel like a superpower sometimes.

Brené Brown tells this story that's always stuck with me. A husband and wife have a routine. They go to bed together at the same time. One night, she's already in bed, and he's just about to join her, but he notices something. Something off. He hesitates. He's so close to finishing the last few pages of his book. It's one of those books you just need to finish. And he has this moment where he realises he has a choice: pretend he didn't notice and read his book, or ask her what's wrong, knowing it might turn into a much longer conversation. He chooses to ask. And it turns out, she did need to talk.

It's such a small, almost nothing moment, but I think about it all the time. Because that's what noticing is. Those tiny, sliding doors decisions.

Do I lean in, or do I pull away?

Do I risk emotional labour, or do I prioritise my own comfort?

How many of those moments do we let pass, not out of malice, but just because life is busy and hard and sometimes it's easier not to notice?

And I think about who does notice.

Some people seem to move through the world without picking up on these things at all, and others.

Well, they can't not notice.

I think a lot about eldest daughters, or people who've had to navigate complicated family dynamics, or those who've always been the ones holding things together. I find that they're usually the best at it.

They're the ones who send the Hey, you've been quiet—how are you, really? 

Messages, who sense tension before anything is said, who anticipate what's needed before anyone asks. And it's not because they're trying to be saints.

It's just how they've been wired.

I know this because I am that person. And I've always valued it in others because I know what it takes. I know how much effort goes into it. I know how rare it is. And I know how much it hurts when someone doesn't notice.

I used to hold onto that feeling—why don't they just see?

Why don't they pick up on what I would?

But less so now.

Because noticing creates deep connection. It allows you to see people in a way that makes them feel understood, safe, known. And I think that's what makes it so hard when you realise that not everyone does it.

Some people just don't pick up on those things—not because they don't care, but because it's not how they move through the world.

Some people don't notice. Some people don't want to notice. And that's okay. It just means that connection starts to look different.

The people who do notice?

They become distinct, a little sharper in focus. Those connections feel rare, and when they happen, I hold onto them.

And as for the argument from those who don't notice—the whole people aren't mind readers defence? I don't fully buy it.

Because I think we all could notice if we wanted to.

If we were paying close enough attention. But maybe that's just me.