Ripple in the Water

Across the street, a man stood outside a small shop. He looked nervous the moment he saw my father approaching.

It wasn’t a subtle shift. It was immediate, visceral, and undeniable. The man had been leaning casually against the doorframe, perhaps waiting for a friend or just enjoying the humid afternoon air. But as soon as my father’s shadow fell across the pavement, the man straightened. His shoulders tensed. His eyes darted away, then back, then away again. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a restless, jittery motion that betrayed a sudden spike in adrenaline. He didn’t run. He didn’t hide. He just… froze. Like a deer catching the scent of a predator it couldn’t see but could certainly feel.

I watched this from the passenger seat, my face pressed slightly against the cool glass. I was seven years old. I didn’t understand the sociology of power. I didn’t know about reputations, or debts, or the unspoken hierarchies that governed the streets of Kuala Lumpur. I only knew that my father had an effect on people. And that effect was fear.

To a child who felt powerless bullied by classmates, abused by teachers, ignored by peers this sight was intoxicating. Here was proof that my father was not just a man. He was a force. He could change the atmosphere of a room, or a street, with nothing more than his presence. He didn’t have to shout. He didn’t have to threaten. He just had to be. And the world adjusted itself around him.

I remember feeling a surge of pride. That’s my dad, I thought. He makes them nervous. He matters.

But looking back, I see the tragedy in that man’s posture. I see the human cost of my father’s "strength." That man wasn’t respecting my father. He was afraid of him. And fear is a lonely thing. It builds walls, not bridges. It creates distance, not connection. My father walked through life surrounded by people who were always watching their step, always careful, always guarded. He was never truly seen, because no one dared to look him in the eye for too long. He was never truly known, because no one felt safe enough to share their truth with him.

He was a king in a kingdom of subjects who feared his wrath more than they valued his wisdom.

And I, sitting in the car, was learning the wrong lesson. I was learning that power is about making people nervous. That control is about making people freeze. That safety is about being the one who causes the fear, not the one who feels it.

So I spent years trying to replicate that effect. I tried to make people nervous. I tried to make them careful. I tried to be the person who held the power in every interaction. I manipulated situations, coordinated secrets, and ended relationships with cold precision, all in an effort to maintain that same untouchable aura my father possessed. I thought if I could make people fear me, even a little, they wouldn’t hurt me. They wouldn’t leave me. They wouldn’t ignore me.

But that man across the street? He wasn’t ignoring my father. He was hyper-aware of him. And that awareness was a burden. It was a constant state of vigilance that exhausted the soul.

Now, I don’t want to make people nervous. I want to make them feel safe. I want to be the person who puts others at ease, not the one who puts them on edge. I want to be the person who invites connection, not the one who demands deference.

My father walked past that shop, and the man remained frozen until he was out of sight. I drove on, proud of the power I thought we shared. But today, I would roll down the window. I would smile. I would say hello. And I would hope that for just a moment, the man across the street could breathe.

Because true strength isn’t about making people freeze. It’s about giving them permission to move.