The first time I felt truly seen was over a cup of Cuban coffee and a secret that changed my life.

Picture this: I’m 16 years old, sitting in my abuela’s kitchen in Little Havana. The smell of sugar melting into espresso hugs the air, and her ancient percolator hums in the corner. It’s the soundtrack of any Cuban household worth its salt. She pours the café into tiny porcelain cups, the kind that makes you feel like you’re at a tía’s wedding, and then she does the unexpected. She looks at me—not the kind of look that comes before telling you to clean your room—but an unflinching gaze, the type that makes you feel like the only person alive. Her eyes crinkled with the weight of someone who had lived and suffered enough to skip the small talk.

“What do you want, mi cielo?” she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it echoed louder than my awkward teenage insecurities.

At the time, it seemed like a simple question. But for a girl who was balancing dual identities—the traditional Cuban values I was raised with and the American ideals I was beginning to crave—it wasn’t simple at all.

Between Salsa and Sleepovers

Growing up in a bilingual household meant my identity was always up for negotiation. One minute, I was busting out salsa moves at a family quinces, and the next, I was trying to convince my parents to let me go to a non-chaperoned sleepover. Navigating the space between old-world traditions and new-world adolescence felt like living in a sitcom where every punchline came with a family guilt trip.

I loved being Cuban, but there were parts of me that didn’t seem to fit into the mold I’d grown up with. I didn't dream of quinceañera dresses or perfectly coiffed curls through enough hairspray to hold up a Miami high-rise. I wanted something different, but I couldn’t quite name it yet.

So, when my abuela asked me, “What do you want?” it wasn’t just about the moment. It was about all the moments I’d spent tiptoeing between two cultures, wondering where I belonged.

Seeing Through the Noise

That kitchen conversation with my abuela wasn’t a lengthy Oprah-style breakthrough; Havana-wise grandmothers don’t work like that. Instead, she sipped her café and started sharing little stories I’d never heard before—like how she’d once dreamed of becoming a singer as a teenager in Cuba but never dared to pursue it after marrying my abuelo.

For her, it was the music. For me, I realized, it was the writing. I’d always been obsessed with crafting stories, peppering the pages of my notebooks with snippets of romance, adventure, and sometimes-overdramatic breakups inspired by middle school drama. I’d thought of it as a hobby, but for the first time, I allowed myself to consider: What if it wasn’t? What if it was me?

Abuela didn’t give me a step-by-step plan for my future (she wasn’t that kind of Cuban matriarch), but her willingness to stop and see me for who I was and not who I was “supposed to” be was life-changing. For years, I hadn’t realized how much I needed someone to look past the “you” I offered to the world—the smiling, always-trying-to-please granddaughter—and see the messy parts: the small doubts, the unpolished dreams, the parts I wasn’t ready to share.

It made me think: how often do we ignore these parts of ourselves? How often do we stay hidden because we think nobody would understand or, worse, care?

Permission to Be You

What I learned in that moment is something I’ve carried into every relationship since—romantic, platonic, and otherwise. Feeling seen isn’t about grand declarations or expensive gestures. It’s in the tiny, deliberate moments that quietly scream: “I care enough to know you, not just the version of you that’s easy to like.”

So, how do you create those moments? Whether it’s with a partner, a friend, or even yourself, here are a few lessons learned in the warm embrace of abuela’s kitchen:

  1. Start with curiosity.
    Ask questions that go beyond surface-level chit-chat. What’s their karaoke song of choice? If they could only eat one food for the rest of their life, what would it be? Even if you're answering these questions in the mirror, curiosity can lead you to surprising truths.

  2. Share your “ugly.”
    One of the most vulnerable things we can do is share the parts of our stories that aren’t curated for Instagram. Whether it’s fears, failures, or random quirks (me: I punctuate all life milestones with Tupperware-worthy leftovers), showing these pieces is an invitation for connection.

  3. Be present.
    In a world of constant distractions, truly seeing someone means leaving the phone, worries, and to-do lists in another room. Be all in, whether you're sharing Cuban coffee or just folding laundry while discussing your latest existential crisis.

  4. Acknowledge the shift.
    If someone makes you feel seen, don’t take it for granted. Tell them! There’s nothing like hearing, “You really understand me” to strengthen bonds. It’s the emotional version of getting five stars on Yelp.

Back to the Cafecito

By the end of our little talk, my abuela smiled in that knowing way only abuelas can. “You’re my writer,” she said, like it was already decided. In her mind, there was no debate—it wasn’t about whether or not I could write; it was about trusting I would.

That day didn’t instantly transform me into some fearless, badass version of myself (though wouldn’t that be a plot twist?). It did, however, hand me the courage to experiment—whether that meant tackling romance in my short stories or fumbling through relationship missteps as I waited for someone to finally “see me” in the way I needed.

If this sounds like a neat, tidy ending, let me be clear: life isn’t always as poetic as my abuela’s café. I’ve had moments since where I felt invisible—whether while navigating the chaos of New York internships or facing rejection in work, love, and everything in between. But the memory of that cafecito conversation sticks with me, reminding me that being seen first starts with seeing yourself.

The Takeaway

If you’ve ever felt invisible—in a relationship, at work, or even in your friend group—know this: it’s not about becoming someone louder or shinier. It’s about showing up authentically, messy edges and all, and allowing space for others to do the same.

Because here’s the thing about being seen—it can’t happen if you’re hiding. Whether it’s over a coffee, a late-night phone call, or even a journal entry, let yourself be known. Trust that the people who truly matter will look past the easy version of you and fall in love with the whole thing—the unpolished, uncensored, breathtakingly real you.

And if that starts over some Cuban coffee, well, trust me: the cafecito helps.