The moment I first felt truly seen wasn’t romantic. At least not at first.

Picture this: A creaky, quintessential New England bookstore in late October. One of those shops where shelves lean slightly from decades of loyal use, the air smells like aging paper and faint ocean salt, and everyone whispers for no discernible reason. I was flipping through a battered copy of Sarah Orne Jewett’s The Country of the Pointed Firs, using sheer willpower not to buy yet another Maine-coast classic (already had three editions at home).

Then I saw him. Or rather, he saw me.

He was standing at the end of the aisle holding a dog-eared collection of ghost stories, an oversized fisherman’s sweater pushing his shoulders slightly forward. His face lit up.

“Excuse me,” he said, tugging lightly at one of his sweater’s frayed cuffs, “Are you always this predictably New England?”

Reader, I felt attacked. And also—oddly known?

Because his question, while veiled in teasing banter, hit on something real. How often had I felt like a stereotype of myself: the sea captain’s house, the Bowdoin degree, the casual obsession with crinkly maps of shipping routes and the history of lighthouses? Here was someone, a complete stranger, who saw all of that with just a glance at me and the book in hand. But instead of making me feel boxed in by those things, he made me feel delightfully me.

And that brings us to the crux of this deeply universal experience: the first moment someone sees you—all of you—without the need for a roadmap or navigation.

1. The Myth of Being “Mysterious”

Let me preface this by admitting something: I spent a large chunk of my early twenties convincing myself that I needed to be more Enigmatic With a Capital E. You know the drill: The carefree woman of Instagram captions, casually aloof, mysterious to the point of unreadability. Think Zooey Deschanel in a quirky indie movie—with a sprinkle of Jane Austen’s brooding inner turmoil.

Spoiler alert: It didn’t work.

My first dates were like stylistically bad jazz—too much improvisation, no consistent melody. I’d avoid talking about my love for niche topics like the Maine Windjammer fleet or Edith Wharton in favor of saying whatever sounded cool and mysterious. I laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny. At worst, I leaned into this vaguely chaotic character I thought would be more appealing.

But when you’re constantly trying to be unknowable, you’re not just protecting yourself—you're actively erasing yourself.

That day in the bookstore, my fisherman-sweatered stranger (we’ll call him Henry) didn’t uncover some version of me I’d carefully curated. He saw a me that I often hid—history buff, book hoarder, walking stereotype of coastal New England. And when he pointed it out teasingly, I didn’t feel the need to stifle it.

The result? He got to meet Charlotte, not Mysterious Girl #32.

2. Stop Airbrushing Your Personality

We’ve all been there. You meet someone new, and suddenly, the details of your life seem too nerdy, too niche, too weird to share. You think, “Oh, they’ll never ‘get’ this part of me.” You skim over the fact that you’ve ranked most scenic lighthouse hikes in your Notes app. Or that you still love Pride and Prejudice despite seeing five different film adaptations (Keira Knightley’s is obviously superior).

But here’s the truth: The specifics of who you are—the quirks, passions, and peculiarities—are like a fingerprint. They’re what make you impossible to replicate.

If you airbrush your personality to impress someone, you’re essentially selling a counterfeit version of yourself. Sure, it might look good in the short term, but at some point, people are going to realize you’re not deeply interested in “modern jazz fusion” or whatever trend you pretended was your personality.

Instead:
- Speak to your passions unapologetically. Whether it’s restoring antique furniture or baking your way through vintage cookbooks, own it.
- Anticipate vulnerability. If someone doesn’t respond well to hearing about the things that make you you, that’s information you need early on.

3. When Being Seen Feels a Little Too Much

I’ll admit, the vulnerability that comes with being seen can be unsettling. Even now, I sometimes find myself wanting to blur the lens when someone hones in too sharply on who I really am.

When Henry and I had what I call The Lobster Bake Debate—disagreeing over which coastal town hosted the best summer seafood spreads—he jokingly pinpointed a lifelong quirk of mine. Apparently, I argued with such fervor that I resembled a Chamber of Commerce spokesperson for southern Maine.

“I feel like I just watched the human embodiment of the state motto,” he said, referencing our “Dirigo” slogan: “I lead.”

Was I embarrassed? A little. No one enjoys feeling like their idiosyncrasies are on full display. But there was also relief in that raw, unfiltered perception of myself. Up until that moment, I worried my enthusiasm might be too much for certain people. And for some, it probably is.

But not for Henry. Or, on a larger scale, for the kind of people who truly belong in my life.

4. Celebrate the You-Shaped Puzzle Piece

I’ll let you in on a little secret. The night I met Henry, I walked home still clutching my yellowed Sarah Orne Jewett book, and my mind buzzed with all the ways he “saw” me. Yet here’s what I realized: He wasn’t creating that version of me out of thin air. I’d been quietly building this woman—enthusiastic, curious, maybe a touch sea-obsessed—for years.

Finding someone who celebrates you is lovely, yes. But the lesson here isn’t just about other people. You have to give yourself permission to show up as the full version of you—whether that be to a partner, colleague, or yourself while staring at the bathroom mirror on a Tuesday morning.

5. Getting Started

So, how do you help someone see the real you (without feeling like you’re handing over a magnifying glass at customs)?

  • Be mindful of how you share your story. Skip the 30-minute monologue on why Great Gatsby-era slang should make a comeback. Instead, offer snippets that leave room for curiosity.
  • Create shared experiences. Suggest an activity that’s close to your heart—a hike on your favorite trail, a visit to a quirky local library. It’s easier to be yourself when you’re in your happy place.
  • Laugh at yourself. Henry didn’t fall for me in spite of my coastal-New-England-ness but rather because I leaned into it, flaws and all. Own your quirks. Your people will meet you halfway.

The Takeaway

The first time I felt truly seen wasn’t about grand declarations or love-at-first-sight fireworks. It was found in a quiet bookstore, a teasing jab, and the gentle realization that my love for rocky coastlines, 19th-century fiction, and seafood arguments didn’t just make me interesting—they made me me.

And whether it’s love, friendship, or just chasing the endless allure of human connection, the right people will never ask you to shrink. They’ll sit beside you, marveling at the contradiction, the complexity, and the sheer beauty that is uniquely, fully, unapologetically you.