Externally Oriented
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
We were trained
to look outward
for proof of our existence.
Conditioned early—
gold stars, report cards,
smiles that arrived
only when we performed correctly.
Approval became a currency.
We learned the exchange rate quickly.
Be pleasing.
Be impressive.
Be enough—
but only in ways
that can be witnessed.
So we built ourselves
in reflections.
Mirrors. Metrics. Milestones.
A self assembled
from applause and evaluation,
stitched together
by other people’s perceptions.
Psychology would call it
external orientation—
a locus of worth
anchored somewhere
just beyond our own reach.
A fragile architecture.
Because the outside world
is notoriously inconsistent.
It withholds.
It fluctuates.
It forgets.
And still—
we keep checking.
Am I doing well?
Do I look right?
Did they like it?
Did they like me?
Anxiety thrives here.
In the gap
between who we are
and how we are received.
In the relentless scanning—
faces, tones, pauses—
searching for confirmation
that we have not
misstepped our way
into irrelevance.
We call it self-awareness.
But often,
it is surveillance.
A life lived
as both subject
and observer.
Always adjusting.
Always calibrating.
Never quite
arriving.
And somewhere beneath that noise—
quieter, but stubborn—
another voice persists.
Unmeasured.
Unimpressed.
Unconcerned
with being seen.
It does not ask
how we are perceived.
Only—
how we feel
when no one is looking.
This is the disorientation.
To turn inward
after a lifetime
of looking out.
To sit with a self
that has not been filtered,
ranked, or approved.
It feels like absence
at first.
Like stepping off a stage
into silence
so complete
it almost sounds like loss.
But it isn’t.
It is unfamiliar,
not empty.
And slowly—
without metrics,
without witnesses—
something steadier begins to form.
A self
that does not perform
to exist.
A worth
that does not fluctuate
with reception.
A centre
that holds
even when
no one is watching.
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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:
Sometimes the deepest disappointments don’t come from what was done, but from what was never offered. There are relationships where connection is conditional—where being seen depends on how closely we resemble what the other person already understands or values. This piece reflects on that quiet absence, the confusion it leaves behind, and the enduring ache of not being fully met by someone who had every opportunity to know you. 💚