We’ve heard how tiring it is—
to drown in constant desire,
framed as questions
of ownership or geography.
Fine girl, are you taken?
Fine girl, are you lost?
To step out of your house is war
with boys younger than your brother
and men older than your father.
Please my dear, be strong.
This plague of stares
won’t last so long.
One day, you’ll pass a group
of men, and give thanks
because no one turned.
That sun dress that stops traffic
won’t fit, and you’ll
have to give it to your niece.
The drivers and waiters will still flirt,
but they’ll do it to someone else.
As days become months,
and months become years,
the storm of attention will shrink—
from a flood,
to a drizzle,
to a drought.
And at last,
you’ll be free.
When I first shared “A Poem to Comfort the Beautiful Woman Drowning in Male Attention”, I expected it to stir a bit of discomfort. Not because it says anything radical, but because it points gently toward the quiet tension between privilege and inconvenience: the truth we don’t often say out loud, that being wanted can feel like a burden, until it disappears.
The poem isn’t a defence of harassment. That would be ridiculous. It’s not asking anyone to be grateful for attention when it’s unwanted. What it does, instead, is hold up a quiet mirror, reflecting how visibility, value, and desirability often come with their own set of inconvenient consequences.
It’s a poem about what I like to call a good problem.
A good problem is still a problem, but it’s the kind that only exists because something else is going right. You’re frustrated, yes, but the frustration is born from privilege, not lack.
You apply for jobs and get four offers. Now you’re anxious about making the right choice, asking for advice, worrying you’ll regret your pick. But that stress only exists because you have something others are hoping for. The alternative? No offers at all. No stress, and no opportunity.
Or you’re very wealthy. And now every act of kindness, every compliment, every smile comes with a question mark: Do they like me, or just my money? You long for sincerity. But again, what’s the trade? Would you rather be poor and completely sure no one is pretending? Few would take that deal.
I’m a tall guy who has had my fair share of unfortunate hands-on experiences with ceiling fans and cramped seating in cars and airplanes. Years of dodging blades and folding into awkward spaces. It’s uncomfortable, occasionally painful. But would I trade this height for convenience? No. Because even the inconvenience is built on something I value.
That’s what makes a good problem what it is: an annoyance tethered to something you’d never give up. So why complain about something you’d never give up?
This is the quiet tension, and subtle hypocrisy, the poem tries to capture. Many who express frustration at being desired wouldn’t actually trade it for invisibility. If offered the option to remain beautiful, but go entirely unacknowledged by anyone, no compliments, no stares, no second glances at all, would they take it?
Most wouldn’t, because being seen is a kind of affirmation. And whether we like it or not, attention often signals value.
The poem doesn’t say: “Be thankful.” It says: “Be aware.” Because these things shift. Attention fades. Beauty, no matter how striking, doesn’t stop time. And the flood of eyes you once found overwhelming might eventually dry to silence, without drama, without warning.
And if, beyond the frustration, you are someone who longs for connection, family, relationship, something lasting, then perhaps this season, inconvenient as it feels, still holds opportunity. So grab that opportunity, it won’t always be there. Beauty, money, long legs, or job offers: in each is a value to be recognised, appreciated, and exploited while you can.
This is not a lecture. It’s not even advice. It’s simply an observation:
A good problem is still a problem.
It can wear you down.
But it can also serve you,
if you recognise it while it’s still here.
Because not everything that frustrates you is injustice.
Sometimes, it’s a season.
And like all seasons,
it ends.
