The Art of Noticing

Darin Jawahar

On the Plastic Mind

I grew up around a lot of pressure. Pressure to stay sharp—to maintain a certain image. And I think this is common. For a lot of us, reputation matters. How you’re seen, how you perform, how you carry yourself; this isn’t something we need to deliberate on. How we value ourselves is instilled in the way other people perceive us. But because of this, its hard to know when to trust ourselves.

My mother is an artist.

I’ve seen her paint, cook, and design. I’ve seen her indulge in hobbies meant for self-expression. Based on what she felt in the moment. Her process fascinated me.

She led with intuition first, then judgment after. Never with my father’s permission or expectations (though he had an appreciation for her art and a well-curated taste himself).

When someone compliments my mother’s artistic vision, I notice how pleasantly surprised she is. How she expects very little from other people’s perceptions of her craft. Yet she was confident in what she liked for herself. She didn’t have to overthink every brush. But she held herself to certain standards—and paid incredible notice to detail. I think understanding that combination shaped me more than I realize.

Performing was always difficult for me. At violin recitals, the second I stepped on stage, my nervous system would freeze. Hands would stiffen. Mind would go absolutely blank. Having the piece memorized truly didn’t matter if my body couldn’t access that memory under pressure. I’ve noticed this pattern in other areas of my life too. In tennis, nerves make your knees lock up and your timing fall apart. In interviews, I could memorize everything about myself and still forget it all once I was asked.

In high school, I would dance in my driveway for at least 30 minutes every day. I had no background in dance, but I was always drawn to the idea. And yes, inevitably, I encountered embarrassment. I think the first time was when my neighbor took a video of me which got spread around at school.

I knew I looked out of the ordinary—batshit honestly. But all in all, it became a way for me to feel more at home in my body. Once I detached it from performance only for others. Once it became personal.

There’s neuroscience behind the benefits of dancing. Movement, especially when rhythmic and improvised, can train the nervous system to tolerate being on the spot without completely shutting down. And it does this by engaging the sensory and motor systems (attention to sensation and movement) alongside emotional regulation (managing stress and threat). This can be incredibly helpful in situations that would typically trigger self consciousness.

It’s hard being on the spot, and we are faced with it constantly: work meetings, interviews, social circles. We want to be the most impressive to someone we see higher than us. But at the end of the day, there is no correct way of being seen.

Dancing (especially improv) taught me that your presence matters more than all the polishing. That trusting your body is a form of intelligence, even when you don’t feel entirely certain of it.

I’ve learned that how you react to embarrassment, even secondhand, can be crucial. It can lose you time and self-respect. But I promise, it doesn’t hurt to live and let live. Stop and smell the roses. To treat others how you’d like to be treated, irrespective of who’s watching. 

At the end of the day, you can’t convince others to listen to the music only you can hear. Everyone interprets the world with their own cognitive map. No one has everything figured out. But recognizing your own potential and ability to grow is what matters the most.