Main Character Energy Isn’t Just About Looks

He Chased Me Down the Street

One of the first proper conversations I ever had with an ex-boyfriend (who I still hold dear, before anyone gets dramatic) was about main character energy. We were talking about it because, well, he’d literally chased me down the street to give me his number. Not metaphorically. Not as a cute story we’d reframe later. He saw me, clocked something, and physically pursued. If that isn’t main character energy in its purest, slightly unhinged rom-com form, I genuinely don’t know what is.

What made that moment land wasn’t my outfit. It wasn’t a face card. It wasn’t some carefully curated walk I’d practised in the mirror. It was something else entirely, something he picked up on from across a footpath before he even knew my name. We talked about it later and we both agreed, instantly, that we recognised it in each other. That unspoken thing. That quiet hum that radiates off people who are properly inhabiting their own life.

I’ve always carried it. Not in a Pick Me way. Not in a look at me way. Just in the way I move through the world. I don’t shrink to make other people comfortable. I don’t apologise for taking up space. I don’t perform smallness. And honestly, that’s been the thread running through every interesting thing that’s ever happened to me, including the man jogging down a street with his number scrawled on a piece of paper.

Yes, I Love a Bit of Glamour

Let’s be real for a second. I’m a Taurus. I love a bit of glamour. I love a touch of eccentricity. I love an outfit that makes me look like I’ve stepped out of someone else’s beautifully curated dream and into a Brisbane bus stop. The aesthetics are part of the fun. I’m not pretending I rocked up to that moment wearing a sack and a haunted expression. I had hair. I had a vibe. I had legs in some kind of arrangement.

But the clothes weren’t the part that mattered. They never are. Beautiful outfits on someone with zero presence read as costumes. You’ve seen it. The girl in the dream dress sitting hunched over her phone, energy completely absent, dimming herself like she’s apologising for showing up. The aesthetics are doing all the work and getting none of the reward. It’s exhausting to watch.

The clothes are punctuation. They’re the exclamation mark at the end of the sentence, not the sentence itself. My main character energy doesn’t come from what I’m wearing. It comes from the way I walk into a room and decide I belong there. The way I trust myself to take up the space I’m taking up. The way I look at the world like it’s mine to explore, not something I’m visiting on a temporary pass.

Presence Is the Whole Thing

Main character energy is felt, not seen. It’s an aura. It’s the way you carry yourself when you think no one’s watching, except people absolutely are watching, because that’s the thing about presence. It doesn’t need permission. It doesn’t ask for attention. It commands it quietly, almost accidentally, like gravity.

I’ve had people tell me, randomly, that they feel drawn to me. Not in a flirty way. Just in a what is it about you way. It used to confuse me. I’d think, babe, I’m just standing here. I’m not even doing anything. But that’s the point. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t tap dancing for approval. I was simply existing in my own body, fully, without negotiating for the right to be there.

The best part is it has nothing to do with conventional beauty standards. Nothing. You can be five foot nothing and command a room. You can be wearing trackies and still walk like the floor was built for you. You can have no makeup on, hair on top of your head, and still radiate the kind of certainty that makes strangers turn around. Presence isn’t a body type. It’s a relationship with yourself.

What It Actually Looks Like Day to Day

People hear main character energy and immediately picture some cinematic montage with golden hour lighting and a soundtrack. That’s not it. Not for me, anyway. For me, it shows up in the unglamorous bits. The way I order what I actually want at a restaurant instead of pretending I’m fine with the cheap option. The way I leave parties when I want to leave, not when I think it’s socially acceptable. The way I say no without spending three days drafting a paragraph about it.

It’s in the small refusals. I don’t dim myself in conversations to make a man feel taller. I don’t laugh at jokes that aren’t funny to keep the peace. I don’t shrink my laugh, my opinions, or my body to fit into a smaller version of the room. If I’m there, I’m there. Fully. Loudly when I want to be. Quietly when I want to be. But always present.

It’s also in the way I treat my own life like it’s interesting. Because it is. Not because anything wildly cinematic happens, but because I pay attention to it. The bus stop becomes a moment. The walk home becomes a scene. The chat with Lulu about whether he is, in fact, the most handsome boy in the Southern Hemisphere becomes a recurring storyline. When you treat your life like it’s worth narrating, other people start to feel that too.

You Already Have It, Babe

The myth I want to bury is that main character energy is something you have to manufacture. You don’t. You don’t need a new wardrobe. You don’t need to lose weight. You don’t need to wait until you’ve fixed yourself, healed yourself, optimised yourself into some final form. The energy is already yours. It’s been yours the whole time. You’ve just been told, repeatedly and from every angle, that you need to earn the right to take up space. You don’t.

Start small if it feels too big. Stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault. Stop downplaying your wins to make other people feel comfortable. Stop saying sorry before you’ve even spoken. Stop leaving sentences unfinished because you’re worried about how they’ll land. Walk into the room like you’ve been invited, because you have. The invitation is being alive.

That ex of mine chased me down the street because he saw something. He didn’t see a perfect outfit or a face card or a curated personality. He saw a woman moving through her own life like it belonged to her. That’s what people respond to. That’s what they always respond to. It’s not the clothes, honey. It’s the certainty. And the certainty is free. Always has been.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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