The First Time I Felt Seen

Growing up in Santa Barbara, where every sunset was an oil painting and life unfolded under the glow of a perfectly calibrated golden hour, you’d think that feeling “seen” would come naturally. After all, this town isn’t shy about its presentation—landscaped within an inch of its life and dressed for the occasion. But it turns out, being surrounded by beauty doesn’t mean feeling understood. My life was curated: private school uniforms, summer sailing lessons, and parents who thought casual conversation topics should include the local property market. In the midst of all this perfection, I moved through life like an understudy in someone else’s play.

Until one night, at a fundraiser disguised as a dinner party (because that’s how events rolled in Montecito), I felt it for the first time. Truly seen. And it all started with roasted carrots.

When Carrots Get You

The dinner had the usual trappings: a sea of linen napkins, something-something reduction drizzled artfully over seared halibut, and the distinct hum of social-climbing chatter. It wasn’t a miserable scene, but it wasn’t somewhere I felt like “me” either. My parents were at the main table, probably discussing zoning laws with someone named Carter or Whitney, leaving me marooned at the kid-alt table, which was composed of one awkward college intern and a handful of second cousins.

That’s where I met her: Linda. Sixties, sharp as a tack, with silver streaks running through her wild curls like a rogue lightning storm. She was a caterer, but not in the way you think. She didn’t hover politely or suggest wine pairings. She commandeered the table. A whirlwind of wit and charm, she served vegetables like she was dealing cards. Her energy was refreshing, electric in a room that could otherwise pass as a lampshade showroom.

And then came the roasted carrots—perfect little things drizzled in tahini. “You don’t like carrots, do you?” Linda asked, smirking. Something about the way she said it felt like I’d just stepped into a long joke and she already knew the punchline. I didn’t say anything at first, because how do you respond to a question about your root vegetable preferences without sounding like a lunatic?

“I’m indifferent to them,” I finally said with authority, because that’s what my boarding school education trained me to do: answer decisively, even if the question was absolutely bananas.

“You’re too polite,” she said, sliding the roasted carrots closer to me. “But these will convert you.”

Ironic now, isn’t it, that “converted by carrots” would become part of my mythology—the moment I first felt understood?

A Recognition Beyond Words

Linda and I fell into an oddly specific banter. We talked food in a way that wasn’t about excess or pretense but actual flavor. Instead of nodding politely at my somewhat stilted description of sustainable farming (because everyone loves to parrot facts about soil health at fancy parties), she challenged me. She brought up the dying citrus groves along California’s Central Valley—something I’d studied extensively in undergrad—and we locked into a conversation that felt alive. It was the first time someone seemed more interested in my ideas than the curated shell of my life.

And it wasn’t just the content of our chat. It was the way she held my gaze, really listened—even when I faltered in my excitement and overshared about the eucalyptus-lined trails where I went to clear my head. She didn’t interrupt or pivot. She saw me, carrot indifference and all.

Why Feeling Seen Hits Different

At its core, “being seen” isn’t about grand gestures or sweeping declarations—it’s the tiny moments, the pauses filled with curiosity instead of silence, the follow-up questions that dive below the surface. And when it happens, something shifts. You’re unwrapped, layer by layer, in a way that feels grounding instead of terrifying.

It doesn’t always happen over food (though honestly, sharing a plate can crack open so much vulnerability), but for me, this seemingly small moment stuck. That’s how connection works: It sneaks up on you. And when you experience it, you start to understand why so many of us move through the world silently craving it—the way a desert misses rain.

Lessons in Being Seen

To this day, I think about what made that exchange so special. Tucked between bites of halibut and philosophical musings about heirloom squash, Linda taught me something fundamental about connection. Spoiler: It’s not about carrots. It’s about how we choose to engage with the world—and the people in it.

Here’s what I’ve unpacked since that night:

  • Ask better questions. Forget “What do you do?” or “Where are you from?” Those are fine as openers, but if you want to really see someone, dig deeper. Ask, “What excites you right now?” or even a playful challenge like, “Convince me why your favorite snack is superior.” The goal isn’t to interrogate but to engage.

  • Notice the little things. At that party, Linda didn’t ask if I liked carrots; she stated I didn’t. That one observant moment opened the door to a connection. Paying attention—whether it’s to someone’s body language, their tone, or even their choice of words—signals you’re truly present.

  • Drop the script. Real connection requires leaving behind your auto-responses. Forget presenting the “perfect” version of yourself and lean into authenticity—yes, even if that means admitting to a lifelong indifference to carrots. Vulnerability often feels magnetic when it’s real.

  • Give people space to shine. Feeling seen doesn’t happen in a vacuum. If we want to receive it, we have to learn to give it too. That means not racing to fill pauses or pulling the conversation spotlight back to ourselves—but leaning fully into another person’s world for a moment.

Where Being Seen Leads You

I left that party different. I know it sounds melodramatic, but it’s true. It wasn’t just Linda; it was the realization she sparked. For the first time, I felt permission to stop performing and start participating—for real. This carried into every room I walked into after that, from relationships to conversations with strangers at coffee shops. And you know what? It works. People respond when you let them come alive in your presence.

So next time you’re at a party—or on a first date, or sitting across from your best friend—be present. Be curious. Notice something no one else does. Be the Linda about it. Who knows? You might just meet someone who changes everything... starting with carrots.

And if not? Well, at least you’ll have a great snack.