Repulsion Has Phases

Repulsion has phases—some slow, some fast.

It doesn’t always arrive as a clean “no.”
Sometimes it arrives as a tightening. A freeze. A backing away that can’t quite back away.

Recently, I felt it in a bar.

Minneapolis. A Prince night. I was having a beer before a Prince tribute concert—several of his bandmates were playing, and the whole evening had that charged, familiar feeling I get when something I love is nearby.

I’ve always been attracted to the darkness of a bar. The music. The warmth inside when it’s chilly outside. And I feel safer in gay bars—more at home, more able to breathe.

A young African American man in his 30s sat down next to me. He was good looking. I was flattered—being in my 50s, I still notice when attention lands on me like that.

And my body noticed something else, too.

The first phase: the quick hit

The first signal was a stomach drop.

Not because he was “bad.”
Not because anything had happened yet.

More like my system asking, immediately: What does he want from me?

I didn’t know what his interest meant, exactly. I only knew my system was already scanning for how to create space.

And then came the familiar calculation: Please don’t let this get awkward. Please don’t make me be the one who has to tell someone to go away. Please don’t make me leave to create distance.

The second phase: the shift

Then—almost immediately—it shifted.

Because I was enjoying the attention. There was a part of me that liked being wanted. A part of me that recognized the old world of one-night-stand energy, even if I’m not living there anymore.

“Been there, done that,” is the simplest way to say it.
I’m not in that space now.

But in the middle of it, I could feel myself trying to absorb the situation like it was a practice round. Like I was studying my own patterns in real time.

Notice.
Don’t get sidetracked by the glitter glue.
See the red flags.
Stay with yourself.

I went quiet.
Or tried to.

At least “be nice” came over me, the way it does. That reflex to smooth, to accommodate, to keep the moment easy—even when my body is already bracing.

He started hitting on me in a way that was insistent and physical, and it surprised my system—especially in a gay bar.

The override: where I go offline

This is the part of what makes repulsion hard for me to track: it can flip me into a stuck state.

A bit of freeze—not cold exactly, but tightening. Wanting to back away but feeling trapped inside politeness, inside timing, inside the moment.

And in that stuck state, I don’t always have access to nuance. I go offline. I’m not elegantly locating it in my belly or jaw or shoulders. I’m just trying to react to the next moment. Trying to get through it. Trying to not make it worse.

There’s almost always chest pressure. My chest is the first point of contact—like an energy burst. The confusing part is that the burst can feel consuming, and in that state I can’t always tell what’s mine and what’s in the room.

Repulsion, for me, often arrives with shame and numbness.

And when shame shows up, the mind starts reaching for stories quickly—anything to make the sensation make sense. The shame isn’t about him, exactly. It’s about the moment I feel myself needing space—and the old fear of being “mean” for wanting it.

That’s where repulsion can start to blur with judgment.

That night, repulsion moved in phases.

We exchanged numbers. We texted for a bit. And then I revealed my sensitivity—simply, honestly—and he ghosted me.

After a day of zero response, something snapped clean.
I was repulsed again—but this time it wasn’t complicated.
Not the slow, negotiated repulsion at the bar.
A faster one. A clearer one.

And I noticed how different it felt when the decision wasn’t being negotiated inside me by politeness or fantasy. When the field made itself obvious.

Repulsion and judgment

Judgment tends to arrive as a story.
A conclusion. A label. A final word about who someone is.

Repulsion is different.

Repulsion is the body’s boundary language, showing up before the story is finished.

It doesn’t always mean “this person is wrong.”
It often means: something in me is not available for this.

Time.
Energy.
Privacy.
Values.
Nervous system bandwidth.

Sometimes all of it at once.

A place I’ve gotten tangled

I’ve mistaken repulsion for “being mean” before.

I remember trying to date a man in a larger body. He was genuinely kind—caring, doting. And my body kept recoiling, which filled me with shame, and made me try to override what I was sensing.

Eventually, he accused me of leading him on.

For years I told myself it was about his body. Now I can see it was also about fit—and about gratitude, because he was good to me and my son when I was a single mother. We didn’t actually have much in common. Our personalities were very different.

Someone can be good to you and still not be right for you.
And your body can know that before your mind has a kind way to say it.

What repulsion protects

I’m learning that repulsion is often protecting everything.

Not in a dramatic way—just in the basic way a nervous system protects itself: from overwhelm, from entanglement, from losing its own signal.

When I ignore repulsion, I typically get caught up in other people’s storylines. Then I can’t figure out which feelings are theirs and which are mine.

When I honor repulsion—even quietly—something clarifies.

I can feel whose feelings are whose.

That’s the gift of it, when I let it be information rather than accusation.

A small way of honoring it

The bridge-builder in me makes this harder sometimes.

When repulsion shows up, that part of me can become conflicted, or it can hyper-focus: How do I accommodate? Where do I fit? Where do I start building?

It’s like a reflex to find a role that will keep the field smooth.

But staying open past capacity has a simple cost:

exhaustion.

So the practice I’m learning isn’t dramatic.

A pause.
Fewer words.
A delayed reply.

Silence.

Sitting back. Reclining. Letting my body take up a little more space without apologizing for it.

If repulsion could speak one sentence in those moments, it would say:

Take notice. No need to react. Chill out and observe.

Not to become cold.
Not to become cruel.

Just to become honest.

Because repulsion isn’t always a rejection.

Sometimes it’s simply a boundary signal saying: Not this. Not now. Not at this pace.

And maybe the image that fits repulsion best isn’t the doorway itself.

It’s the moment before the doorknob.

The step back.

The quiet that gives you your own shape again.

If I could leave you with anything here, it’s this:

You don’t have to explain what your body knows in order for it to matter.

You might notice the moment you step back inside yourself—
the moment the pressure drops—
and you can feel, without drama, that you still belong to you.

You might continue with Magnetism Isn’t Proof, The Pause That Changes Everything, or After the Surge—each offering a different way of meeting intensity.

Series: Discernment & Relational Fields