Katt Williams On Why I Had to Turn Around and Look At Her Twice | HO!!!!

Katt Williams said he had to look at her twice. Not because of how she looked—but because she was quietly reading a book and had no idea who he was. No performance. No angle. Just real. “That whisper,” he said, “was louder than any scream.”

“I was never in the house without a drink. Holler at a pimp. Play that shit one more again if you would. Let’s get the spirit, church.”

 

“I don’t care what you say, this song is going to make you happy. This is the kind of song when you walk into the Slauson Swap Meet with four hundred dollars and you know not only can you buy anything you want, shit, you can buy a booth if you want to. Just go.”

 

“This is the song that plays in your head when you go to Ralphs. And the register comes up at a hundred forty-six and you know you ain’t got but a hundred forty and then you pull out your Ralphs card and watch the shit just come tumbling down. Shit, you got to feel me.”

He paused there in the original recording, that moment where the audience is still laughing but leaning in because they know something’s coming. Something real.

I was never the kind of person who watched comedy specials for the wisdom. I watched them to escape, to laugh, to forget that my own life was a pile of unpaid bills and broken promises and the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.

But Katt Williams had a way of sneaking up on you. One minute he’s talking about Swap Meets and grocery store magic, the next he’s dissecting your entire existence with a sentence that lands like a left hook you didn’t see coming.

That night, I was lying on my couch in my one-bedroom apartment in Atlanta, the kind of place where the carpet had seen better decades and the air conditioning unit sounded like it was gargling rocks.

My phone had died three hours ago, which meant I couldn’t scroll, couldn’t distract myself, couldn’t pretend I wasn’t sitting in the dark with nothing but my own thoughts and a man on a screen who was about to make me feel things I had been avoiding for years.

The special kept playing. I kept watching. And somewhere between the jokes about church farts and the commentary on why weed should be legal, Katt said something that made me sit up straight.

He said, “What I’m saying is a song like this could change your life if you would just allow it. It’s time to do some new shit. You need a theme song in your life.”

And I thought about that. About theme songs. About the soundtracks we play in our heads when we’re walking into rooms, when we’re facing down another Monday morning, when we’re trying to convince ourselves that today is going to be different from yesterday, which was different from the day before, which was exactly the same as every other day we had been sleepwalking through.

“I don’t give a shit what you say. You can’t fight to that song. You can pull out your gun, but you can’t shoot. You just go stop.”

 

The audience lost it. I almost lost it too, because I knew exactly what he meant. There are some energies that disarm you, that make violence impossible, that force you to recognize that the battle you’re about to fight isn’t worth the oxygen you’re burning to rage about it.

Katt leaned into the mic, that familiar glint in his eye, the one that said he was about to say something that would stick in your ribs for days.

“What I’m saying is that if you—I know some of y’all hate your job. You wake up happy and mad at the same time. You just good morning, motherfuckers. You need a song like this on your alarm clock. But you can wake up to some pimp shit in the morning. You just get the fuck up. Go.”

 

That was the first time I reached for my laptop. Not to close it, but to open a notes document. Because I wanted to remember this. I wanted to remember the feeling of being seen by a man who had never met me, who was performing for a crowd in Los Angeles, who had no idea that in a small apartment three thousand miles away, someone was having their entire worldview shifted by a joke about a shopping cart.

“You don’t feel what I’m saying. You don’t feel what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that even if you recycle cans for a living, if you could just put that song in your shopping cart, you’d be all right. You just going down Sunset. Just—”

He stopped himself, laughed, shook his head.

“I don’t feel what the fuck I’m saying. I’m saying I’m saying even if you had a shopping cart with a fucked up wheel, you still just—I think you feel me. I think uh—”

The crowd was with him. They had been with him from the first word. But there was something different about this part, something that felt less like comedy and more like a man trying to translate a truth that didn’t fit neatly into a punchline.

“What I’m saying is even if you worked at McDonald’s and somebody came through the drive-thru and ordered a number seven and you looked around and nobody was working but you. And you could just get that song on the PA system, you’d be all right. You just get the fuck up. Go.”

 

I wrote that down. “Get the fuck up. Go.” I wrote it in all caps. I underlined it three times. I didn’t know why yet. I just knew that those words were medicine I hadn’t known I needed.

—

The video I found later—the one that really changed me—wasn’t from a comedy special. It wasn’t on any of the major platforms. It was buried in a YouTube rabbit hole at two in the morning, recommended by an algorithm that had apparently decided I needed to cry.

The title was simple: “Katt Williams On Why I Had to Turn Around and Look At Her Twice.”

No thumbnail of him laughing. No dramatic text overlay. Just a quiet title and a grainy image of Katt sitting on what looked like someone’s front porch.

I almost scrolled past it. I almost closed my laptop. The screen was dimming, my hand was on the mouse, and I had already said good night to the room. But then I saw the title again, and I stopped.

I stopped because Katt Williams is not a man who gives away his heart easily. He’s not a man who talks about love or relationships or the soft, tender moments of life. He’s a man of jokes and truths and pain and power.

So when I saw that he was talking about how someone caught his attention—how someone broke through his walls, how someone made him feel something—I knew I had to watch. I knew this was going to be different. This was going to be real. This was going to be Katt like I had never seen him before.

I clicked.

The video started quietly. No music, no flashy graphics, just Katt. He was sitting on a couch. Not a fancy couch—a comfortable couch. The kind you sink into. He was wearing a simple hoodie, no hat, no sunglasses, no jewelry.

He looked different. Softer. Younger somehow, or maybe just more human.

He wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking down at his hands. Thinking. Remembering.

Then he started talking.

His voice was low, quiet. Not the voice he uses on stage. This was a different voice. A private voice. A voice he doesn’t share with the world very often.

“You want to know how she caught my attention?” he said. “You want to know what made me look twice?”

He looked up. Not at the camera, exactly. Through it. Past it. Like he was seeing something on the other side of the lens that none of us could perceive.

“It wasn’t her looks. I mean, she’s beautiful. Don’t get me wrong. She’s fine. But that’s not what got me. I’ve seen beautiful women before. I’ve been around beautiful women my whole life. That’s not rare. That’s not what makes you stop and pay attention.”

He paused. Ran his palm over his chin. The way people do when they’re deciding how much truth to tell.

“What got me was her mind. Her spirit. The way she looked at the world. The way she looked at me. Like she saw something that nobody else saw. Like she saw past the jokes, past the fame, past the money, past the chaos. She saw me. The real me. The me that I hide from everybody.”

I leaned closer to my screen.

He said, “You know how many people see the real you? Not many. Not many at all. Most people see what you want them to see. Most people see the performance, the persona, the mask. And that’s fine. That’s how it works. You show the world what you want to show. You hide the rest.”

He shifted on the couch. Pulled one leg up beneath him. Got comfortable in a way that suggested this wasn’t a performance. This was a conversation. A confession.

“But then someone comes along and looks right through all of it. Like you’re not wearing any mask at all. Like you’re standing there naked and they don’t flinch. They don’t judge. They don’t run. They just look. And they see you. And they stay.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Just a little. Just enough.

“That’s how she caught my attention,” he said. “She stayed.”

—

I felt that in my chest. Because who hasn’t wanted to be seen that way? Who hasn’t wanted someone to look past the performance, past the persona, past the mask, and see the real you? The messy you. The scared you. The hopeful you. The broken you.

And not just see it—stay.

Stay even when it’s hard. Stay even when it’s ugly. Stay even when you don’t deserve it.

That’s the kind of love that changes you. That’s the kind of love that Katt Williams was talking about.

He said, “I’ve been on top of the world and I’ve been at the bottom. I’ve had everything and I’ve had nothing. I’ve been loved and I’ve been hated. I’ve been praised and I’ve been mocked.”

He looked down at his hands again. Turned them over like he was examining his own palms for answers.

“But through all of it, I’ve always been alone. Not lonely. I can handle lonely. I’ve been lonely my whole life. But alone. Alone in a way that nobody can fix. Alone in a way that you get used to. Alone in a way that becomes comfortable.”

His jaw tightened. He swallowed.

“And then she showed up. And suddenly being alone wasn’t comfortable anymore. Suddenly, I wanted something different. Something more. Something I didn’t even know I was missing.”

That was the second time I reached for my laptop that night. Not to take notes this time. To make sure the recording was still there. To make sure I wasn’t dreaming this. Katt Williams, the man who had made me laugh through some of the darkest years of my life, was sitting on a couch in a hoodie telling me about the woman who saved him.

And I was crying. Not the quiet, dignified kind of crying. The ugly kind. The kind where your nose runs and your chin trembles and you have to keep wiping your eyes just to see the screen.

—

He said, “She didn’t try to impress me. That’s the first thing. She didn’t try to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t pretend to be into my music or my comedy or my lifestyle. She was just herself. Completely, unapologetically herself.”

He laughed. Not his stage laugh—the real one. The one that came from somewhere deep and surprised even him.

“And that was refreshing. That was rare. That was something I hadn’t seen in a long time. Because everybody wants something from you. Everybody has an angle. Everybody is trying to get something.”

He looked at the camera. Right at it. Right at me.

“But her? She just wanted to be around me. She just wanted to talk. She just wanted to know who I was. Not what I did. Who I was.”

He let that sit for a moment. The silence in that room was louder than any laugh track.

“And that’s a big difference. That’s a huge difference. That’s the difference between a fan and a partner. Between a groupie and a soulmate. Between someone who loves your image and someone who loves you.”

I thought about that. About how many people want something from you. About how many people have an angle. About how rare it is to find someone who just wants to be around you. Just wants to talk. Just wants to know who you are.

Not what you can do for them. Not what you can give them. Not who you know or where you’ve been or what you’ve achieved.

Just you. Just your soul. Just your heart.

“She caught my attention because she wasn’t trying to catch my attention,” Katt said. “That’s the irony. That’s the beauty. She was just living her life, being herself, doing her thing, and I noticed.”

He shook his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe it, like the memory was too fresh and too strange to be real.

“I noticed because she was different. Because she was real. Because she wasn’t performing. And in a world of performers, that stands out. That grabs you by the throat and makes you look.”

—

I remembered the first time I felt that. The first time someone saw me instead of the version of me I was projecting.

I was twenty-three, working a job I hated at a call center in Phoenix. Seventeen dollars an hour to get screamed at by strangers about their cable bills. I had perfected the art of the customer service voice—cheerful, patient, completely hollow.

Every day I would put on that voice like a uniform. I would clock in, sit down at my computer, and become someone else for eight hours. Someone who didn’t mind being called every name in the book. Someone who didn’t fantasize about throwing her headset through the window and walking out into the desert sun.

And then one day, a woman named Diane called. She was eighty-three years old. She had lost her husband six months ago. She didn’t understand why her bill had gone up by four dollars and thirty-seven cents.

I explained it to her. Slowly. Patiently. The way I would want someone to explain it to my own grandmother.

And at the end of the call, she said, “Honey, I can tell you’re a good person. I can hear it in your voice. Don’t let this job steal that from you.”

She hung up before I could respond. I sat there for a full minute with my headset on, staring at my computer screen, feeling something crack open in my chest.

That was fifteen years ago. I still think about Diane sometimes. I still wonder if she knew what she did for me that day. I still wonder if she had any idea that her words would outlast every other conversation I ever had at that job.

She saw me. She stayed on the phone long enough to tell me. And then she was gone.

—

Katt said, “I remember the first time we had a real conversation. Not small talk. Not flirting. Not the kind of conversation you have when you’re trying to impress someone. A real conversation. About real things. About our lives, our fears, our dreams, our failures.”

He leaned back on the couch. Looked at the ceiling like the memories were projected up there.

“We talked for hours. Hours. I forgot about the time. I forgot about my phone. I forgot about the world. There was just her and me and the words. And I remember thinking, this is it. This is what I’ve been missing. This is what I didn’t even know I was looking for.”

His voice got softer. Almost a whisper.

“She asked me questions that nobody else asked. Not about the business. Not about the money. Not about the fame. About me. About who I was before all of that. About what I wanted. About what I was afraid of. About what made me happy.”

He paused. Swallowed again.

“And I answered. I answered honestly. I didn’t hold back. I didn’t put on a show. I just talked. And she listened. She really listened.”

He looked at the camera again.

“Not the kind of listening where you’re waiting for your turn to talk. The kind of listening where you’re actually hearing. Actually understanding. Actually caring. And that’s rare. That’s so rare. That’s the kind of listening that makes you feel seen. That makes you feel heard. That makes you feel like you matter.”

—

I wiped my eyes because I knew that feeling. The feeling of being truly listened to. The feeling of someone really hearing you—not just the words, but the spaces between the words. The things you’re not saying. The things you’re afraid to say. The things you’ve never told anyone.

And when someone listens like that, it changes you. It opens you. It makes you want to be better. It makes you want to be worthy of that kind of attention.

I thought about Marcus. About the year we spent together. About the way he used to look at me when I was talking about something that mattered to me. Not the polite nod-and-smile look. The look that said he was actually there, actually present, actually invested in whatever I was saying.

We met at a coffee shop in Decatur. I was reading a book—an actual physical book, the way Katt described—and he asked me what I was reading. I told him. He asked if he could sit down. I said yes.

That was the beginning of everything. And also, in some ways I didn’t understand until much later, the beginning of the end.

Because Marcus saw me. Marcus really saw me. And I spent the entire relationship trying to hide from that.

I wasn’t ready to be seen. I didn’t think I deserved it. I had spent so long building walls, perfecting masks, learning to be whoever people needed me to be, that when someone came along who wanted the real thing, I panicked.

I picked fights. I pushed him away. I convinced myself that he was the problem, that he was too much, that he wanted things I couldn’t give.

The truth was simpler and uglier: I was scared. I was terrified of being loved for who I actually was because that meant I couldn’t hide anymore. That meant I had to show up as myself every single day. That meant I had to be accountable. That meant I had to stop running.

So I ran. I ended things on a Tuesday afternoon in his kitchen, standing by the refrigerator, making up reasons that sounded reasonable but were really just cowardice dressed up as self-awareness.

He said, “I see you. I’ve always seen you. And that’s what you’re running from, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I just walked out the door and drove to my apartment and sat in my car in the parking lot for forty-five minutes, crying so hard I thought I might throw up.

That was seven years ago. I hadn’t thought about Marcus in at least two years. But sitting there in the dark, watching Katt Williams talk about being seen, I thought about him again. I thought about what I lost. I thought about what I was too afraid to hold onto.

—

Katt said, “She caught my attention because she saw me. Not the celebrity. Not the crazy guy from the internet. Me. The person. The human. The man who gets scared and lonely and tired and sad. The man who has doubts and fears and regrets. The man who is not always funny. The man who is not always strong. The man who is just trying to figure it out like everybody else.”

His voice was steady now. Stronger. Like he had made peace with this truth somewhere along the way and was just sharing it now because someone needed to hear it.

“She saw that man. And she didn’t run. She didn’t judge. She didn’t try to fix me. She just stayed. She just sat with me in my mess. And that’s love. That’s real love. That’s the kind of love that catches your attention and never lets go.”

He looked at the camera. His eyes were wet. He didn’t wipe them.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But meeting her? That was not a mistake. That was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because she taught me that I am worthy of love. Not because of what I do. Because of who I am.”

He took a breath. Held it for a second. Let it out slowly.

“And that’s a lesson I needed to learn. That’s a lesson I’m still learning. That’s a lesson that will take a lifetime to fully understand.”

—

That was the first video. The one on the couch. The one that made me cry and think and remember things I had buried.

But there was another video. A longer version. More stories. More details. More of Katt’s heart laid bare.

And I couldn’t walk away. Not from him. Not when he was talking like this. Not when he was letting us into the private corners of his life.

So I pressed play on the second video.

This one started differently. No couch. No quiet room. Katt was outside, sitting on a porch. Wooden steps. Old trees. The sun was setting. The light was golden.

He was wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans. No hat. No jewelry. He looked peaceful. He looked like he’d been thinking for a long time and finally decided to share.

He was holding a cup of something—tea maybe, or coffee. He took a sip. Set it down. Started talking.

Not to the camera. To himself. To the air. To whoever was listening.

“You want to know how she caught my attention? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you the whole story. Not the short version. The long version. The version that makes me sound soft. The version that I don’t tell people. The version that I keep locked up because it’s mine. It’s ours. It’s private.”

He looked out at the trees. The light was fading. The shadows were getting longer.

“But I’m going to tell you anyway. Because maybe somebody needs to hear it. Maybe somebody needs to know that love is real. That attention is real. That being seen is real. And that it can happen to anybody. Even to somebody like me.”

He paused. Breathed in. Breathed out.

“I met her at a time when I wasn’t looking for anything. I wasn’t looking for love. I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I wasn’t looking for a friend. I was just existing. Going through the motions. Doing my shows. Going home. Sleeping. Waking up. Doing it again.”

He pulled his knees up. Wrapped his arms around them. Looked small. Looked human. Looked like a man who had seen too much and done too much and been through too much.

“I was in a routine. A numb routine. A routine that kept me from feeling too much. Because feeling too much is dangerous. Feeling too much can break you. And I had been broken before. I didn’t want to be broken again.”

—

He was quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if the video has frozen, if your internet has gone out, if something has gone wrong. But then he shifted on the step and started talking again.

“She wasn’t trying to get my attention. That’s the crazy part. She wasn’t doing anything special. She wasn’t wearing anything flashy. She wasn’t saying anything clever. She was just there. Being herself. And I noticed.”

He shook his head. Smiled. Not a happy smile. A wondering smile.

“I noticed because she was quiet. Because she wasn’t performing. Because she wasn’t trying to be the center of attention. In a world where everybody is screaming, she was whispering. And that whisper? It was louder than any scream. It got under my skin. It crawled into my chest. It made me want to know more.”

He laughed that soft remembering laugh again.

“The first time I saw her, she was reading a book. Just sitting there, reading a book, minding her own business. Not looking at her phone. Not taking selfies. Not posting on social media. Just reading a physical book with pages.”

He looked at the camera. Raised his eyebrows.

“And I thought, who does that anymore? Who just sits and reads? And I was intrigued. I was curious. I wanted to know what she was reading. I wanted to know what she was thinking. I wanted to know what was going on in that quiet head of hers.”

He leaned forward. Lowered his voice like he was telling a secret.

“So I walked over. And I asked her, ‘What are you reading?’ And she looked up at me. And she didn’t recognize me. She didn’t know who I was. She didn’t care. She just said, ‘A book.’ And went back to reading.”

He sat back. Let that land.

“That was it. That was the whole conversation. She didn’t ask for my autograph. She didn’t ask for a picture. She didn’t ask for anything. She just went back to her book. And I stood there for a second. For a minute. I don’t know how long. I just stood there looking at her, trying to figure out what just happened.”

He laughed again. Louder this time.

“I left. I actually left. I walked away. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Nobody had ever dismissed me like that. Nobody had ever treated me like I was just some random dude interrupting their reading time.”

—

I could picture it. Katt Williams, one of the most famous comedians in the world, being dismissed by a woman who just wanted to read her book. Who didn’t care about his fame. Who didn’t care about his money. Who didn’t care about his status.

Who just wanted to be left alone.

That’s the kind of woman who catches your attention. That’s the kind of woman who makes you want to know more.

“I should have walked away,” Katt said. “I should have let her read her book. I should have minded my own business. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Something about her pulled me in. Something about her made me want to try again.”

He looked down at his hands. Turned them over the way he had in the first video.

“So I came back the next day. And the next day. And the day after that. I sat near her. Not too close. Not too far. Just close enough to be there.”

He smiled.

“And eventually, she started talking to me. Not about who I was. About what I was reading. Because I started bringing books too. I wanted to have something to talk about. I wanted to have a reason to be there. So I read. And I read. And I read.”

He paused. Looked out at the trees again. The sun had almost set. The sky was deep blue, purple at the edges.

“And she noticed. She noticed that I was trying. That I was putting in effort. That I wasn’t just some guy trying to get something from her. And that’s when she started to open up.”

—

He smiled. A real smile. A smile that reached his eyes.

“We started talking about the books. About the characters. About the stories. About what we liked and what we didn’t like. And then we started talking about other things. About our lives. About our pasts. About our fears. About our dreams.”

He pulled his knees up tighter. Wrapped his arms around them again.

“She told me things she had never told anyone. And I told her things I had never told anyone. Because she was safe. Because she didn’t judge. Because she didn’t try to fix me. Because she just listened.”

He looked at the camera.

“And that’s rare. That’s so rare. That’s the kind of thing that makes you fall in love without even realizing it’s happening.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I didn’t know I was falling for her. Not at first. I just knew that I wanted to be around her. That I thought about her when she wasn’t there. That I looked forward to seeing her. That I missed her when we were apart.”

He looked down at his hands. Then up at the sky. The first stars were starting to appear.

“And then one day, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was sitting on my couch, watching TV, and I realized that I wasn’t really watching TV. I was thinking about her. About her laugh. About her voice. About the way she looked at me when I said something stupid. About the way she made me feel like I mattered. Like I was important. Like I was worthy of love.”

His voice cracked again.

“And I started crying. Not sad crying. Happy crying. Because I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Because I thought I would never feel that way again. Because I had given up on love. And here it was. Sneaking up on me. Catching me off guard. Changing everything.”

—

He wiped his eyes. Didn’t hide it. Didn’t pretend.

“I remember the first time I told her I loved her. I was scared. I was terrified. Because what if she didn’t feel the same way? What if I ruined everything? What if I pushed her away?”

He shook his head.

“But I said it anyway. I said, ‘I love you.’ And she looked at me. And she smiled. And she said, ‘I know.'”

He laughed. That surprised, wondering laugh.

“Just like that. ‘I know.’ Not ‘I love you too.’ Not ‘I’ve been waiting for you to say that.’ Just ‘I know.’ And I realized that she had known all along. That she had seen it in my eyes. That she had felt it in my presence. That she had been waiting for me to catch up. To realize what was already there. To stop being scared and just be.”

He leaned back on his hands. Looked at the stars.

“That’s the thing about her. She always knew. She always saw. She always understood. Even when I didn’t. Even when I was confused. Even when I was scared. She was there. Patient. Waiting. Loving me even when I didn’t love myself.”

He looked at the camera. Straight into it.

“And that’s how she caught my attention. Not by trying. By being. Not by performing. By existing. Not by screaming. By whispering. She caught my attention because she was real. And in a world full of fake, real stands out. Real shines. Real saves.”

—

I sat there in the dark, my living room, my blanket, my cold tea, my tired eyes, my wet cheeks. Thinking about Katt Williams. About the man who reads books on porches. About the man who falls in love without realizing it. About the man who is scared to say I love you. About the man who is still working on being better.

I thought about the woman. The one with the book. The one who didn’t recognize him. The one who dismissed him. The one who opened up slowly. The one who knew before he did. The one who said, “I know.”

I don’t know her name. I don’t know her face. But I know she is extraordinary. I know she is patient. I know she is kind. I know she is exactly what Katt Williams needed.

And I hoped she knew how much she meant to him. I hoped she knew that she changed his life. That she made him believe in something he had stopped believing in. That she made him feel worthy of love.

I thought about my own life. About the people who have seen me. About the people who have stayed. About the people who have loved me not for what I do, but for who I am.

Marcus. Diane from the call center. My grandmother, who died five years ago and who used to say, “I see you, baby. I see exactly who you are. And I love every bit of it.”

I thought about all of them. And I was grateful. Grateful for every single one. Because they caught my attention. They caught my heart. They caught my soul.

—

Katt said, “I’m not perfect. I’ve never claimed to be. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people. I’ve been hurt. But that woman, she made me want to be better. She made me want to be the man she saw. The man she believed I could be.”

He looked at the camera one last time.

“And I’m still working on it. Every day. Every show. Every moment. I’m still working on being that man. Because she’s worth it. Because love is worth it. Because being seen is worth it.”

He reached out. His hand touched the camera. The video ended.

And I was just sitting there. In the dark. My living room. My blanket. My cold tea. My tired eyes. My wet cheeks.

Thinking about what he said about being real. About not performing. About whispering instead of screaming.

That’s what catches attention. That’s what lasts. That’s what matters.

Not the flashy stuff. Not the loud stuff. The real stuff. The quiet stuff. The stuff that happens when nobody is watching.

That’s where love lives. That’s where attention lives. That’s where life lives.

—

I thought about calling Marcus. His number was still in my phone, buried under seven years of other contacts, other conversations, other lives lived and abandoned. I hadn’t deleted it. I had never been able to delete it.

It was two in the morning. He was probably asleep. Probably with someone else. Probably happy in a way that didn’t include me.

But I wanted to call him anyway. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry. I was scared. I was so scared. And I’ve spent seven years trying to convince myself that I made the right decision, but I didn’t. I made the wrong one. And I’ve been living with that mistake every single day, even when I wasn’t thinking about it, even when I was pretending I was fine, even when I told myself that I had moved on.”

I didn’t call. I couldn’t. That wasn’t the kind of thing you did at two in the morning after watching a Katt Williams video. That was the kind of thing you did in therapy. The kind of thing you wrote in a journal and then burned. The kind of thing you carried with you until it became a part of you, indistinguishable from your bones, your blood, your breath.

But I thought about it. I thought about what it would feel like to hear his voice again. To hear him say, “I told you so.” To hear him say, “I forgive you.” To hear him say, “I’m still here.”

He probably wouldn’t say any of those things. He probably wouldn’t even answer. He probably had his phone on Do Not Disturb, the way sensible people do, the way I should have done instead of scrolling through YouTube at two in the morning looking for answers to questions I was afraid to ask out loud.

—

The special kept playing in the background. Katt was talking about something else now. Something about baby mamas and single fatherhood and the economics of video game consoles.

“When the new Jordans come out, I take that little nigga to the Foot Locker with the rest of the children and let him try them on. Just go try them on. No, they tight. They tight. Okay, I want you to do me a favor. Run down this aisle real quick. I’m going to time you. On your mark. Get set. Go. Nine seconds. Nine seconds. That was fast. Okay, time. Hey, listen. I want to show him something. I want to show him something.”

The audience was laughing. I was barely listening. My mind was still on the porch. On the sunset. On the books. On the woman who said, “I know.”

“But for the same price as the Jordans, you can get the Batmans, the Robins, the Pokemons, the Digimons. You can get these that don’t have no name, but they light up every time you walk. Just every step you take. And that little nigga bling bling out the store. He just—y’all been all that. I’ve been counting my blessings for the time.”

 

 

I closed my laptop. For real this time. The screen went dark. The room went quiet. Just me and the ceiling and the memory of Katt Williams’s quiet voice and his wet eyes and his real smile.

And the hope that somewhere in a world full of performers, there are people who are real. People who read books. People who whisper. People who see. People who wait. People who know.

People who catch our attention and change our lives forever.

—

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the times I had been the one performing. All the times I had put on a mask instead of showing my face. All the times I had screamed when I should have whispered.

I thought about my job. The one I had been at for eleven years. The one I told myself I was grateful for even though it made me miserable. The one I stayed at because the paycheck was reliable and the health insurance was good and the thought of starting over was too terrifying to entertain.

Katt said, “You need a theme song in your life.” And I realized I didn’t have one. I had a soundtrack of obligation and fear and the quiet hum of settling for less than I deserved.

I thought about my apartment. The one-bedroom with the bad carpet and the dying air conditioner. The one I had lived in for eight years because moving was too much hassle and rent control was too good to give up.

I thought about my friends. The ones I had let drift away because I was too tired to call, too scared to be vulnerable, too convinced that they didn’t really want to hear from me anyway.

I thought about all the versions of myself I had buried over the years. The girl who wanted to be a writer. The girl who wanted to travel. The girl who wanted to fall in love and stay in love and build a life with someone who saw her.

Where was that girl? What had I done with her? When had I decided that she was naive, that her dreams were impractical, that it was better to be safe than to be alive?

—

The next morning, I called in sick to work. I never called in sick. I had six hundred and forty-seven hours of unused sick time accrued. I was the kind of employee who showed up even when I was contagious, even when I hadn’t slept, even when I could barely stand.

But that morning, I called in sick. I said I had a fever. I said I couldn’t stop throwing up. I lied, and I didn’t feel bad about it.

I got in my car and drove to the coffee shop in Decatur. The one where I had met Marcus. The one I had avoided for seven years because it held too many memories, too much pain, too much of the life I had walked away from.

It looked the same. The same worn wooden floors. The same mismatched chairs. The same smell of coffee and cinnamon and something else I could never identify but that always made me feel like I was coming home.

I ordered a latte. Sat down at the table where Marcus and I had sat on our first date. The table by the window, where the afternoon light came in just right, where we had talked for four hours about everything and nothing, where he had first looked at me with those eyes that said, “I see you.”

I pulled out my phone. Opened my notes document. Scrolled past the things I had written the night before—Katt’s words, my reactions, the fragments of memories that had surfaced like bodies from a river.

At the bottom of the document, I wrote three words: “Get the fuck up. Go.”

Then I deleted them. Then I wrote them again. Then I closed the document and opened my contacts and scrolled to M.

Marcus. His name was still there. Still saved. Still with the heart emoji I had added years ago and never removed.

I stared at his number for a long time. My thumb hovered over the call button. My heart pounded in my chest the way it used to when I was about to do something brave, something stupid, something that might change everything.

I didn’t call. Not then. But I didn’t close the contacts app either. I just sat there, holding my phone, holding my latte, holding the memory of a man who had seen me and a comedian who had reminded me that being seen is the whole point.

—

Katt said, “If you’re out there and you’re wondering how to catch someone’s attention, don’t try so hard. Don’t perform. Don’t pretend. Just be yourself. Be real. Be honest. Be present. Because the right person will notice. The right person will see you. The right person will stay.”

I thought about that. About not trying so hard. About being real. About being present.

I had spent my whole life trying. Trying to be smarter, funnier, thinner, quieter, louder, whatever I thought people wanted me to be. Trying to anticipate what others needed so I could become that thing before they even asked.

And where had it gotten me? To a one-bedroom apartment with bad carpet. To a job I hated. To a phone full of numbers I never called. To a heart full of walls I had built myself.

I finished my latte. Walked out of the coffee shop. Got back in my car. Sat there for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, looking at the building where I had met Marcus, where I had fallen in love, where I had convinced myself that love was too dangerous, too risky, too much.

“You need a theme song in your life,” Katt said in my head.

I turned on the radio. Scrolled through stations until I found something that felt right. Something with a beat that made my foot tap, my shoulders loosen, my chest open.

I didn’t know the song. I didn’t know the artist. I didn’t know the words. But I knew the feeling. The feeling of something shifting. Something cracking open. Something new trying to be born.

I pulled out of the parking lot and drove. Not home. Not to work. Just drove. Windows down. Music up. Sun on my face.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t wearing a mask. I wasn’t trying to be anyone other than exactly who I was.

A woman in a car. A woman with a past full of mistakes and a future full of possibility. A woman who had been seen by a comedian on a screen and was finally ready to let herself be seen in real life.

—

I drove for an hour. Two hours. I didn’t keep track. I ended up at a park I had never been to before, a place with trees and a lake and benches where old people sat feeding ducks.

I parked the car. Got out. Walked to a bench near the water. Sat down. Pulled out my phone.

I opened my contacts again. Scrolled to M. Pressed call before I could talk myself out of it.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

“Hello?”

His voice. The same voice. The voice that had said “I see you” in a coffee shop seven years ago. The voice that had said “That’s what you’re running from, isn’t it?” in a kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Hey,” I said. “It’s me.”

Silence. A long silence. The kind of silence that says everything and nothing.

“I know,” he said.

Just like that. “I know.”

Like the woman in Katt’s story. Like the one who had been waiting for him to catch up. Like the one who had seen him all along.

I started crying. Not the ugly cry from the night before. Something quieter. Something softer. Something that felt like a door opening instead of a wound bleeding.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know that too,” he said. “I’ve always known.”

We talked for an hour. Two hours. I don’t know how long. I forgot about the time. I forgot about my phone battery. I forgot about the world.

There was just his voice and my voice and the words. The words we should have said years ago. The words we had been carrying separately, alone, convinced that the other didn’t want to hear them.

He said, “I never stopped seeing you. Even when you walked away. Even when you pushed me out. Even when you told yourself that you were doing the right thing. I saw you. I saw the fear. I saw the walls. I saw the girl who wanted to be loved but didn’t think she deserved it.”

I said, “I’m still that girl. But I’m trying not to be.”

He said, “That’s all anyone can do. Try. Show up. Be real. Let yourself be seen.”

We made plans to meet. Not that day. Not the next day. But soon. Soon enough that it felt real. Soon enough that I could hold onto it.

I hung up the phone. Sat on the bench by the lake. Watched the ducks paddle in lazy circles. Watched the old people toss breadcrumbs into the water. Watched the sun start its slow slide toward the horizon.

And I thought about Katt Williams. About the man who taught me that being seen is the scariest and most beautiful thing in the world. About the man who reminded me that love is worth the risk. About the man who said, “Get the fuck up. Go.”

I got up. I went.

—

That was months ago. A lot has changed. Some things haven’t.

I still have the same apartment. The carpet is still bad. The air conditioner still sounds like it’s gargling rocks. But I don’t mind it as much anymore. It’s mine. It’s where I live. It’s where I’m learning to stop hiding.

I still have the same job. Mostly. I put in my notice last week. Sixty days and I’m out. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t have a plan. But I have a theme song now. And a voice in my head that sounds like Katt Williams telling me to stop performing and start living.

Marcus and I are seeing each other again. Slowly. Carefully. The way you approach something precious that you broke once and are trying to piece back together. It’s not the same as it was seven years ago. It’s better. Because we’re not pretending. We’re not performing. We’re just two people, sitting in the mess, choosing each other anyway.

I still watch the video sometimes. The one on the porch. The one with the sunset and the books and the woman who said “I know.” I watch it when I’m scared. When I’m tired. When I forget why I’m doing any of this.

And every time, Katt says the same thing at the end. The thing that hits me right in the chest, no matter how many times I hear it.

“I’m still working on it. Every day. Every moment. I’m still working on being that man. Because she’s worth it. Because love is worth it. Because being seen is worth it.”

I’m still working on it too. Every day. Every moment.

Because I’m worth it.

Because love is worth it.

Because being seen is worth it.

—

The last thing Katt said in that video—the one I watched at two in the morning, the one that changed everything—was this:

“She caught my attention because she was real. And in a world full of fake, real stands out. Real shines. Real saves.”

I closed my laptop that night with those words echoing in my head. I lay in bed with them. I woke up with them. I carried them with me to the coffee shop, to the park, to the phone call that changed my life.

I still carry them. They’re heavy sometimes. Heavy in the way that truth is heavy. Heavy in the way that love is heavy. Heavy in the way that being seen means you can’t hide anymore, can’t pretend, can’t run.

But I’m not running anymore.

I’m sitting on my own porch now. Not a fancy porch. A small porch. A porch with a cracked step and a dying plant and a view of the parking lot.

But it’s mine. It’s where I sit. It’s where I think. It’s where I remember that Katt Williams, a man who has never met me, a man who performs for thousands of people every night, a man who has his own pain and his own walls and his own fears, reached through a screen in the middle of the night and caught my attention.

And I turned around.

And I looked twice.

And I’m still here.