One question that has tormented me most of my life is:

Why do bullies always seem to find me?

Much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been on both sides of bullying equation. But the victim aspect is more profound. That formed me more. It remains in my body.

My brother bullied me at home before anyone else ever did—before the playground, before the classroom. My mother, who was supposed to defend me, failed. She would tell him to stop, but that was all. No follow-up. No consequences. No genuine defense. He therefore kept going.

It might appear to be a minor issue. But for a kid, it’s overwhelming. Being repeatedly harmed by someone in your own family and seeing that the one person who could intervene decided not to… it changes something within you. It shows you that your safety is unimportant. That your suffering is inconsequential. That you’re alone.

Later, it was Keith—a neighborhood teenager who made me his target. I can’t even remember what he did, but he terrified me. Then Jimmy in high school, a wrestling team member who appeared to focus on me for reasons I didn’t grasp at the time. Looking back, the whole interaction seems more nuanced than it first appeared, but what I remember most is how little he made me feel. Some of my own high-school pals were bullies. Our friendships were short-lived. Even as an adult, I’ve run across the same energy, though the dynamics have been more subtle. It no longer appears as name-calling. It appears as condescension, humiliation, control, occasionally outright violence. And somewhere in me, it still strikes the same chord.

So the same question keeps returning:

What is it about me that draws them in?

Let me be clear: I do not believe victims are to blame for being bullied. I know I wasn’t at fault. Having lived on this side of the equation for so long, though, I have come to recognize that bullies frequently sense something—something in the energy, in the posture, in the way a person holds themselves. It’s as if they’re scanning for vulnerability. When they notice it, they pounce.

What is that thing? I lack a clear answer. Still, I have a few thoughts. It seems to me to be related to:

• Growing up without protection.
• Not knowing how to set boundaries, to say no.
• Learning to minimize my own needs to survive.
• Holding shame I did not earn.
• And conveying a kind of energetic softness—an openness—that the wrong people exploit.

I’ve long struggled to recognize these patterns. Even longer to quit blaming myself for them. I’m still figuring out how to safeguard my sense of gentleness without either hardening or shutting down. Still figuring out ways to identify the warning signals sooner. Still figuring out how to hold myself with the care I should have gotten as a youngster.

This post isn’t intended to be a complete unpacking. It’s only a beginning. I wish to return to this in future articles—delve further into the patterns, the psychology, the nervous system responses. And also, finally, how I’ve begun to change these patterns—how I’ve started to take back some power, some calm, and a feeling of safety in my own body.

But for the time being, this is where I am.

Still asking the questions.

Still working.

Still finding my way.