The Art of Showing Up: Why Being Present is More Than Just Being There

Are You Actually Here Or Just Renting Space In The Room?

"You need to learn how to be more present," my therapist said, dead serious.

I blinked, feeling that special kind of defensive that only emerges when someone points out an uncomfortable truth. I mean, hello? My butt was literally in the chair. My eyes were making the appropriate amount of socially acceptable contact. I even nodded at all the right pauses!

So I shot back with that special brand of snark reserved for people who are paid to call you out on your nonsense, "Well, I'm here, so what more do you want from me?"

He sighed that therapist sigh—you know the one—part patience, part "I-can-see-right-through-your-bullshit."

“I want you here, with me, instead of in all the other places your mind is traveling. I can see it in your eyes the second you leave this moment.”

That hit me like a splash of cold water. Because damn it, he was right.

I was there, but I wasn't there-there. My body occupied the chair across from him, but my mind? It was busy rewriting yesterday's conversation with my boss, planning tomorrow's grocery list, and scrolling through imaginary social media feeds.

I was everywhere except the one place I was supposed to be.

The Ghost in the Room

We sit across from the people we love, our eyes glazed over as they tell us about their day. We hold our phones, thumbs on autopilot, while life unfolds around us. We walk through forests looking at screens instead of trees. We lie beside our partners thinking about work deadlines while they share their dreams. We're experts at disappearing while staying put.

But what if presence isn't just some mindfulness buzzword that looks good on Instagram posts with sunset backgrounds? What if it's actually the difference between existing and living?

I started noticing how often I checked out of my own life.

In conversations, my mouth would say "uh-huh" while my mind wandered so far elsewhere it needed a passport. During meals, I'd barely taste my food. Even in moments of supposed relaxation, like sitting on my porch with morning coffee, I'd be mentally rehearsing future conversations or rehashing past mistakes (which somehow always seemed worse at 7 AM).

I was essentially a time traveler stuck in the worst possible loop: always mentally living in the future or the past, never in the now. Doctor Who, but with anxiety instead of a TARDIS.

The Thief We Don't See Coming

Here's what nobody tells you about absence: it's cumulative. Each moment you check out, each conversation you half-listen to, each experience you mentally skip through—they don't just disappear. They pile up into a mountain of missed life.

And that mountain grows silently, stealthily, until one day you look back and wonder where your life went. You were there, just not... there-there.

When a dear friend was diagnosed with cancer later that year, something shifted in me. Suddenly, our weekly phone calls weren't just another item to check off my to-do list between "buy more coffee filters" and "pretend to start that fitness routine."

They became sacred. I would put away my devices and just listen. Really listen—to her voice, the pause between her words, what she was saying and what she wasn't.

For the first time, I understood what my therapist meant.

Presence isn't just about physically showing up and occupying space like human furniture. It's about bringing your whole self—your attention, curiosity, and heart—to the moment you're in. It's about being all the way there, not just sending your representative.

The Space Between Stimulus and Response

(Or: That Pregnant Pause Where Growth Happens)

There's a space between something happening and our reaction to it—a tiny gap where presence lives. Most of us fill that gap with automatic responses, judgments, or mental escapes faster than you can say "avoidance strategy."

But what if we could widen that gap?

What if we could learn to inhabit it?

What if we actually allowed ourselves to feel the discomfort of just being without immediately reaching for the mental escape hatch?

I started small. Baby steps, because being present is harder than quantum physics for someone whose mind works like a cat with a laser pointer.

During conversations, I practiced noticing when my mind started to wander ("Oh, look, I'm now thinking about what kind of bread would be best in a zombie apocalypse") and gently bringing it back without judgment.

While eating, I would put down my fork between bites and actually taste the food instead of shoveling it toward my face while scrolling through social media.

The hardest part? Sitting with discomfort without reaching for distraction.

That antsy feeling during a lull in conversation that makes you want to check your phone. The urge to check email during a moment of boredom as if the fate of the universe depends on it. The instinct to fill silence with words, any words, even if they're about your extensive knowledge of 90s cartoon theme songs.

But in those uncomfortable spaces, something unexpected happened. I started to feel more. Not just the difficult emotions I'd been avoiding like an unpaid bill, but everything—joy, curiosity, connection—with a vividness that made me realize how muted my experience had been before.

It was like I'd been watching life in standard definition and suddenly upgraded to 4K.

The World Wakes Up When You Do

Have you ever really looked at your partner's face? I mean, really looked—not the "yep, still has a nose" kind of looking, but truly seeing the tiny lines around their eyes, the way their expression shifts when they're thinking, the particular shade of their irises in morning light?

One evening, my partner was telling me about his day, and instead of half-listening while mentally drafting emails, I just watched him.

I noticed the way his hands moved as he spoke, the rhythm of his voice, and the light in his eyes when he laughed at his own joke (which, by the way, I actually heard this time).

"What?" he asked, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I said. "I just realized I haven't really seen you in a while."

He smiled, and continued his story with just a little more enthusiasm.

That's the thing about presence—it's contagious. When you truly show up for someone, they feel it. They respond to it. The quality of connection changes.

The same goes for places. The street I've walked a hundred times suddenly reveals details I've never noticed—the particular pattern of cracks in the sidewalk, the way certain trees lean toward each other like old friends, the morning light hitting that one red door that I somehow never saw despite passing it literally every day for two years.

The world doesn't change. But your experience of it transforms completely.

How to Be Where You Are

Presence isn't something you achieve once and triumphantly check off your list. It's a practice—sometimes effortless, sometimes about as possible as teaching your cat to do your taxes, always worth attempting.

Here's what's helped me:

The body anchors you to now.

When I feel myself drifting into the land of "what if" and "remember when," I focus on physical sensations:

• my feet on the floor

• my breath moving in and out

• the weight of my hands

Curiosity keeps you engaged.

Instead of assuming I know exactly how a conversation will go or what someone will say, I try to approach each interaction with genuine wonder.

What might I discover if I really listen?

What if this person I've known for years says something that completely surprises me?

What if they're more than the character I've created in my head?

Forgiveness brings you back.

My mind will wander. That's what minds do—they're like toddlers in a candy store. The practice isn't about never drifting—it's about noticing when I've gone astray, and gently returning without the self-criticism soundtrack.

And perhaps most importantly: Presence isn't perfection.

Some days, the best I can do is catch myself once in a while, like spotting a rare bird. Other days, I move through hours in a state of deep attention. It's all part of being human. Messy, distractible, occasionally present human.

The Present is a Present

My therapist was right. I wasn't present.

But what he couldn't tell me, and what I had to discover for myself, is that presence isn't just about being a better listener or more attentive partner.

It's about reclaiming your life, one moment at a time. It's about being the main character in your own story instead of a distracted extra who keeps missing their cues.

Because here's the uncomfortable truth: the present moment is the only one we ever truly have.

The past exists as memory, the future as imagination.

This breath, this heartbeat, this exact constellation of sensations and thoughts—this is your actual life, happening right now, while you're busy planning what to say next or replaying that embarrassing thing you did in 2014 that nobody else remembers.

And life is asking, with each passing second: Are you here for this?

I'm still learning to answer yes. Some days I nail it. Other days, I'm mentally AWOL before my feet hit the floor in the morning. But I keep trying, because what's the alternative? To be a ghost in my own life?

Been there, haunted that.

What about you? Where are you right now, really? And what might happen if you decided to fully show up, even if just for this one moment? What conversations might deepen? What beauty might you notice? What parts of yourself might you rediscover when you're no longer constantly escaping the now?

To a March full of presence.

-Alex

Up Next - A Yoga Nidra for Presence

Ready to put presence into practice? This Saturday, I'm reviving my guided Yoga Nidra meditations — a gentle invitation to experience profound presence within your own being.

Never experienced Yoga Nidra? Perfect! This isn't about twisting yourself into impossible poses. This is the anti-workout, the practice that celebrates your ability to do... absolutely nothing, and in that nothingness, to find everything.

Join us with just a pillow, an eye covering, headphones, and a blanket. The meditation will be sent out around 8 AM EST, and you can join whenever works for you.

About Alex

I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.

As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.

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