I was 20 years old, standing in the middle of my dorm’s common room, mortified and furious. My anthropology classmates were howling with laughter, which might have been flattering if their hilarity wasn’t directed at me. We'd just started a unit on kinship systems, and someone had decided it would be "fun" to put my family tree on a whiteboard, trying to dissect the complexity of my clan relationships like they were unraveling string lights before Christmas.
“Wait… so your cousin is also like, your sister? And your mom has four sisters, but you call all of them ‘Mom’?” someone asked, face twisted in confusion. Another chimed in with, “Man, how do you even date on the rez?” Cue more laughter.
They didn’t mean harm; these were just some poorly-worded questions from 19-year-olds who’d probably never had to think about cultural norms beyond their immediate nuclear families. Still, I felt flayed open, reduced to a puzzle they could pick at for fun. For the rest of the semester, I was “that girl with the complicated family.” The irony? This was one of the first times I’d ventured out of my comfort zone to proudly explain my heritage and the beauty of Navajo kinship. And it ended with me retreating into silence.
It would take years—along with plenty of self-reflection and a few awkward post-class apology emails—before I had another chance to feel truly seen for who I am. But that next moment? The one where I genuinely felt it was okay to be my full, dazzling, clan-connected, culturally-hybrid self? I’ve held onto it ever since.
The Moment I Felt Seen
Fast forward five years. I'm in a restaurant in Portland, Oregon, at what appears to be the world's tiniest table for two. Fall is in the air. Or, more honestly, in the soup—because this date had taken us to a spot serving pumpkin-lentil stew in bowls as big as my face. Across from me sat a guy named Ryan, who seemed both nervous and preoccupied with counting every freckle on his hands.
I initiated the talk. You know, the talk—the one where you're tentatively peeling back layers of yourself, hoping you don't scare the other person off. I told him about my Navajo upbringing, the rez dogs that used to follow me to school, and the time my aunties spent three days repairing a ruined rug we later found out the family goat had shredded. I had trained myself to deliver these stories in a practiced way, each laugh line timed to perfection. It was a defense mechanism, really—dress up the cultural realities of my life to sound whimsical, not complicated.
But when I was done, Ryan didn't laugh. He just smiled and said, "That’s incredible. You've got so many layers... like fry bread. Soft, but still kinda crispy."
Now, do not misunderstand me. I know that comparing someone’s personality to a warm carb is an eyebrow-raising move. But this guy had lived in New Mexico for eight years. He got what fry bread meant to me—a little piece of home that ties together resilience and comfort. It wasn’t just some random foodie metaphor. It was the first time someone had used something from my own culture to say, “I see you, and I get it.”
Why "Being Seen" Hits So Differently
Up until that moment, I didn't realize how much emotional weight I had been carrying. When you’re someone like me—straddling two cultural worlds and constantly explaining your existence to others—you get used to performative empathy. People nod politely or toss out a generic, “Wow, that’s so cool,” before conveniently steering the conversation back to Trader Joe’s pumpkin spice launches or whatever’s binge-worthy on Hulu.
But real connection comes hand-in-hand with curiosity and understanding. It’s not just about having someone listen to you or even compliment you. It’s about them stepping into your story for a moment and staying there. Not to dissect or judge it (looking at you, 19-year-old anthropology major) but to appreciate its intricacies as something uniquely you.
How to Make Someone Feel Seen
Full disclosure: I am not your relationship therapist. But if you’re reading this and thinking, Hmm, do I make the people in my life feel truly seen?, here are a few things that might help:
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Ask Real Questions
Skip the generic surface-level stuff. Instead, go deep but respectfully. For example, instead of “Where are you from?” try “What was it like growing up where you did?” It’s a small tweak, but it invites storytelling rather than a one-word response. -
Listen for the Details
Remember that one quirky fact someone tells you—their favorite childhood snack, the thing they secretly geek out about, or the way they light up when they talk about their family? Reflect it back later or tie it into a compliment. People notice when you notice. -
Witness Without Judgment
Everyone’s experiences and identities are as unique as a plate of Navajo tacos (and trust me, those vary person to person!). You don’t have to relate to everything, but you should honor what makes someone different. Real curiosity doesn’t come with a side of condescension. -
Skip the Comparisons
Sometimes people think shared struggles will help build connection, but constantly replying with “Oh, that reminds me of my experience with ___” can derail the moment. Give them space to talk about themselves. You’ll get your turn.
What Fry Bread (and Feeling Seen) Taught Me
These days, I like to think of cultural identity the same way I think of that fry bread metaphor. Like fry bread, we’re all made of layers. There are the surface layers—the shiny versions of ourselves we’re comfortable showing the world. Then there’s everything deeper: the soft parts, the pain, and the traditions or quirks that don’t fit neatly into everyday conversation.
If someone takes the time to notice and appreciate all of it—even the slightly crispy, imperfect spots—you walk away feeling a little lighter, a little more whole. And that’s what relationships are supposed to do, aren’t they? Help you feel not only connected but reflected.
I never married Ryan—I’m not dropping an “I was seen, and now it’s happily ever after!” fairytale ending here. But our moment over pumpkin-lentil soup stuck with me for a reason: it was proof that we don’t always need grand gestures or dramatic confessions to build intimacy. Sometimes, just saying, “I see you for who you are,” is enough to light up a room. Even the world's tiniest table for two.
So whether you're trying to be a better partner or simply a better friend, my advice is this: when someone puts their layers on display for you, step into their story, not to fix it, compare it, or explain it—but just to honor it. And for goodness’ sake, feel free to borrow the fry bread analogy. It works every time.
