The Presence Effect: How Fear Quietly Fades When You're Fully Here

I sat down to write about fear. But what kept showing up… was presence.

Over and over again, I found myself circling back to this quiet, powerful force — the very thing that makes our relationship what it is. The thing that made all the difference when I was calling in the love I have now. And the thing that was missing when love didn't feel safe, seen, or possible.

Before Roger, I had fears like anyone else. Some small… like the hesitation to reveal my age, not because of how I looked, but because of what the number might suggest. Would someone assume I was ready to settle down and slow down, when I still had so much life and growth in me?

And some fears were deeper. Like the lingering ache that who I really was — all the love in my heart, the way I see humanity, the bigness of what I feel — might never fully have space in a relationship. That I'd have to tuck parts of myself away. That someone wouldn't get me — or worse, they wouldn't want to.

But here's where fear lives: It lives in the "what ifs." What if I'm too much? What if I'm too late? What if I have to choose between love and my truth?

Those "what ifs" pull you out of your body and out of the moment. They toss you into imagined futures, ones filled with loss or rejection, where you're already left behind before you've even arrived. And it makes sense. Fear is part of being human. It often shows up when we're stepping into something new or unfamiliar. I've come to understand that fear isn't the enemy — it's simply a sign that something matters.

But I've also learned this: Fear can't stay where presence lives.

There was a time, about six months into my relationship with Roger, when he began sharing some big dreams — creative visions and goals he wanted to pursue in his career. And suddenly, I felt the quiet rise of something familiar: the fear of being left behind.

It was subtle, but I noticed it. And instead of letting it fester into story or silence, I asked:

"As you rise in life to pursue all these dreams, are you taking me with you?"

I had never asked anything like that in a relationship before. But presence gave me the courage to stay with the feeling and speak it.

He smiled and said something like, "With you, it's all possible. And we'll be doing it together, silly."

In that moment, the fear softened. Not because anything externally changed, but because I stayed present enough to ask, and he met me there.

That's what presence does. It creates a space where fear doesn't get to run the show. Where love gets to respond, not defend. And where truth gets to breathe.

And then there's the presence I cultivated before Roger ever arrived. There was a chapter in my life when I cooked nourishing meals for myself, bought flowers just because, moved my body with care, and tended to my spirit with quiet devotion. I worked through old pain. I forgave some things. I reclaimed others.

And somewhere in that process, I felt so full of love that meeting someone wasn't about completing me — it was about joining me.

There was no urgency. No ache. Just this steady feeling of readiness. Like love could arrive whenever it was time, and I'd still be okay either way.

That kind of presence is what made me a magnet for the relationship I have now. Not striving. Not fixing. Just being fully here, with a heart open enough to receive.

But presence doesn't mean fear never returns. It just means you meet it differently.

When Roger's profile came up on the dating app, I felt drawn to him. Deeply. I sensed who he was. But something flickered in me: fear.

He was highly educated, articulate, thoughtful. And for a brief moment, I worried I wasn't enough. Not because I lacked something — but because an old belief rose to the surface before I had a chance to catch it. In the past, that fear might have stopped me. But this time, I didn't run from it.

Instead, I turned inward. I followed the thread of that belief until I reached the root of it. I sat with it. Questioned it. Gave it presence. And eventually, it softened. I returned to center.

And I kept showing up. Fully me.

This is what fear can do, when you meet it with awareness: it can lead to healing. It can lead to growth.

Fear isn't always a signal to stop. Sometimes, it's an invitation to go deeper into yourself — to clear what no longer belongs.

Presence makes that possible.

But what about when presence is missing?

I've known that too. And I've learned something about myself in the process: when I don't feel presence from someone I'm in relationship with, I begin to check out too. It's not intentional. It's just a slow, subtle drift — like two people standing close, but with nothing real passing between them. There's a shell called "relationship," but no real relating at all.

I felt that in past partnerships, and even with friends. One-way conversations. Inauthentic exchanges. A sense that someone's physically there, but emotionally and energetically… not. The energy feels dull. Disconnected. Like two bodies in a room with no heartbeat between them. It bores me. And truthfully, it makes me want to go to sleep. Or leave.

In those moments, I'd try. I really did. I showed up with the best of me. I modeled presence, asked questions, offered support. But when it was clear that the other person couldn't meet me in that space, I eventually accepted it: a relationship without presence can't sustain itself.

I remember one moment in particular. In my last relationship, he came home from work and began venting about his day — kind of vomiting it all out. I was also carrying something tender that day. I gently asked if we could revisit his story in a couple of hours because I needed some space to process my own feelings.

He responded with anger.

I was disappointed. And honestly, I was angry too.

That moment confirmed what I had already sensed: this wasn't a safe space for mutual presence. I had needs, and they weren't being met with curiosity or care. And this wasn't the first time. It was just the clearest.

I learned that day that presence isn't just a lovely idea — it's a living necessity in relationship. It's what lets both people feel seen. Supported. Whole.

Without it, even love has nowhere to land.

I sat down to write about fear. But it turns out, fear was just pointing me toward presence all along.

It's presence that helps us grow. That helps love take root. That helps us know when to stay… and when to walk away.

And in the end, presence is what allows us to feel the kind of love we no longer have to question.

If you're still on your way to this kind of love, know that presence is already preparing you for it.

And just a quiet reflection before signing off… Where does fear brush up against presence in your life?

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Written by Kim Bajorek

Manifestationship® Coach. Helping people create authentic, fulfilling relationships through conscious awareness and intentional growth