The First Time I Felt Seen

We all have those moments when we realize we’re just... background noise. Like the third wheel in a rom-com who exists solely to deliver zingers and then conveniently disappears before the happy couple dances in the rain. Romantic relationships, friendships, even family dynamics—sometimes it feels like your entire role is to blend into the wallpaper. For years, I played the part so well you would’ve thought I majored in Decorative Arts. And then, one unexpected moment, someone saw me.

No, I don’t mean they looked at me. I’ve been looked at plenty, thank you very much. I mean they saw me—like, me-me. The sarcastic, overthinking, highly-caffeinated, occasionally-messy woman I am, beneath the Instagram filters and polite “How are yous?” Turns out, being seen like that changes everything.

Let me back up.

Let’s Talk About Perfect Packaging

I grew up in a family where excellence wasn’t optional. My dad always had a stethoscope around his neck, my mom rocked her power suits like Olivia Pope in her prime, and I learned early that Black girls had to work twice as hard to get half as far. So, of course, I became fluent in “packaging.” Good grades? Check. Winning smile? Double check. Polished demeanor that said “I have my life together, and yes, I recycle”? Triple check—with a bow on top.

That packaging carried me far. In academic settings, I thrived. In professional spaces, I fit the mold. But when it came to personal relationships, the edges frayed. It’s hard to be vulnerable when you’ve mastered the art of only showing the parts of yourself people want to see. Letting someone peek behind the curtain? Well, I might’ve taken that as seriously as Miranda Priestly takes an unsatisfactory latte.

Then came him.

Not the Meet-Cute You Expect

This isn’t one of those stories where I dramatically meet someone in a coffee shop, our hands grazing as we both reach for the last almond croissant. I’m not Zooey Deschanel, and the caffeine in my bloodstream usually beats me to the pastry anyway. Our story was far less cinematic.

We met at a wedding—specifically, at the third cousin’s table, aka the we-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-you section. I was nursing a lukewarm glass of Merlot and bracing myself for the DJ’s inevitable decision to play “Cha Cha Slide.” Weddings are beautiful celebrations of love, but they’re also where single people are subjected to existential crises disguised as small talk. A stranger inquired, “Why are you still single?” as if it were a logistics issue I could solve with Excel.

And then he chimed in. “I don’t know about her, but maybe it’s because she’s too busy solving world peace at this table.” He raised his glass to toast my obvious brilliance, leveling the stranger with a playful grin.

Was this... banter? Directed at me?

Seeing Beyond the Curtain

We spent the rest of the evening talking—first in that casual wedding way about mutual acquaintances and overly dry chicken, but soon the conversation went deeper. I told him about my dream of writing stories that make people feel seen. I confessed my complicated relationship with always having to “perform” for other people’s approval. I admitted why I secretly like the electric slide even though I pretend to hate it. And as the words spilled out, I wondered why they didn’t feel heavy.

He wasn’t phased by the honesty—or the messiness. He laughed at the right parts, asked follow-up questions, and didn’t try to fix me or mold me into something I wasn’t. He just listened.

When I hesitated mid-story, afraid I was talking too much, he said, “Do you even realize how funny you are when you’re on a roll like that? Please—keep going.”

Y’all. My brain short-circuited.

Not because he called me funny (although, fair), but because he saw my rambling for what it was—me letting my guard down—and he didn’t tie it into a neat little judgment. That moment, I didn’t feel like I had to layer myself in ambition, wit, or achievement to be worthy of his attention. I felt like I could... show up. And that showing up was enough.

The Ripple Effect

The wedding ended, as weddings do, and no, we didn’t ride off into the sunset. This isn’t a story about a knight in shining armor swooping in to save me; it’s about the healing power of feeling seen. Even though our romance didn’t last long, his presence in my life left an imprint.

When people say, “Relationships are for learning,” it sounds cliché—like the kind of thing you’d hear from a yoga instructor between downward dogs. But I’ll say this: being seen in that way showed me the transformative magic of showing up as myself. No edits, no performance, no trying to squeeze myself into boxes I was never meant to fit.

How to Let People See the Real You

Here’s the thing: Being seen starts with allowing yourself to be visible. I know, groundbreaking stuff, right? But it was a revelation to me. If you’re out here trying to be the curated museum exhibit version of yourself, a little patina of perfection, here are a few ideas to let the authentic you shine instead:

  • Start small. Vulnerability doesn’t mean spilling your soul over appetizers. Start with sharing a simple truth, like, “Hey, weddings give me a little social anxiety.” You don’t have to dive into the deep end right away.

  • Stop trying to edit yourself. Love Beyoncé’s power moves and Hallmark movies in equal measure? Let it be known! You don’t need to “fix” your quirks—those are the good parts.

  • Watch how they respond. When you let someone see the real you, pay attention to their reaction. Do they encourage your honesty? Do they meet your stories with curiosity, not judgment? If yes—keep them around.

  • Practice with safe people. This might mean a close friend, a sibling, or even (brace yourself) a therapist. Work those vulnerability muscles before flexing them in high-stakes relationships.

Being seen doesn’t mean being perfect; it means being fully present—which honestly feels a whole lot better than being someone else’s ideal.

The Takeaway

The day someone truly sees you for who you are, beyond the polished surface and perfectly timed jokes, feels like finally being let in on a secret you didn’t know you needed. It’s a reminder that connection isn’t about impressing anyone; it’s about showing up, mess and all, and seeing who stays.

So, the next time you’re at a wedding or a party or even just sitting across from someone at a cafe, take a chance. Slide off the “perfect packaging” just a little and see what happens. You might be surprised how good it feels to stop hiding.

Oh, and maybe say yes to the Cha Cha Slide, too. Sometimes the joy is in letting go.