The Quiet Magic of Letting Someone Be: Why I Didn’t Walk Up to My Favorite Author

“Do whatever brings you to life, then. Follow your own fascinations, obsessions, and compulsions. Trust them. Create whatever causes a revolution in your heart.”  

― Liz Gilbert, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear

Last summer, one warm evening, my family and I went for dinner at one of the city’s most famous al fresco pizzerias. The chatter of friends and the clink of glasses fed my soul, and the aroma of fresh dough filled the air. I was caught between conversation and laughter at our table when my eyes landed across the room . . . on her.

One of my favorite authors.

Sitting at a small, elegant table close to the live bush-like fence lining the patio, dressed in a golden sleeveless dress that caught the last light of the sun, she was radiant.

Her hair let down yet somehow artfully arranged, her skin kissed by summer. Leaning in toward her friend, she laughed with joy, indulging in her meal . . . living an ordinary yet, to me, extraordinary moment.

In that instant, my heart fluttered.

My smile stretched far across my face and I suddenly felt this irresistible urge to go to her, to tell her how much I loved her newest book, how I wished I had it with me so she could sign it.

I imagined the words spilling from me, sharing my love of writing and my admiration for her pouring from my heart like warm, golden honey.

But then, I paused.

I thought about how much I cherish my own privacy, and how sacred a quiet moment with a friend can be.

Her existence was no different from mine. Fame doesn’t erase the need for stillness and uninterrupted presence.

This took me back to the time when I used to fly and often shared the cabin with celebrities. Some were friendly and talkative, happy to chat even at 3 a.m. Others were firm about their rest and privacy, and it was just as important to honor that. Both deserved the same respect. And in noticing their boundaries, I learned that presence, without intrusion, can be a gift.

It wasn’t my place to intrude on her evening.

So, with a bittersweet tightness in my chest, I sat back and allowed myself to feel the tinge of disappointment of not fully living the moment I had imagined for as long as I can remember.

And then, I shifted inward. I gently turned to her, and simply observed.

I wanted to be fully present, fully immersed in the energy around me. I noticed her smile, the way she chewed thoughtfully as she nodded at her friend’s words, the quiet strength in her lean arms. She clearly cared for herself, even in her late 60s.

I absorbed her energy quietly, remembering every book I had read, feeling a tender connection without exchanging a single word with her.

There was a strange kind of intimacy in that silence. 

As voices around me blurred into distance, I was captivated by her presence, as if I had stepped into another realm. I felt inspired, nourished.

I wondered if she spent nights typing away at her laptop when inspiration struck. Did she talk to her characters the way I did as the book came alive? Was she ever longing for encouragement in the solitude of creation?

And right then and there, I was reminded that admiration doesn’t always need to be vocalized. That the deepest respect we can show to another human being is by allowing them to be fully themselves.

Fully alive. Fully present. Fully human.

As my family and I were getting ready to leave, I peeked in her direction to mentally say goodbye only to witness her light up her cigarette and lean back into her chair in all her femininity, giving her full attention to her friend and their conversation.

In that moment, she became one of her own heroines, poised and utterly alive, as if a scene from her novels had come to life before me.

That night, I left the pizzeria with a heart quietly full. Not from our conversation of course, but from the realization that connection can be felt in divinely subtle ways. That energy often travels without words, and that inspiration comes when we simply witness.

Without claiming. Without interrupting.

In today’s noisy world that constantly asks us to chase interaction and seek validation, there is beautiful power in restraint. There is sacredness in pausing and in honoring boundaries. There is a quiet magic in observing and absorbing beauty without expectation.

Perhaps the greatest gift we can give someone, including ourselves, is the space to simply be.

When was the last time you allowed yourself to simply witness beauty without reaching for more?