It was a random Thursday, the kind that feels like it only exists to mock you because the weekend isn’t close enough to celebrate, but far enough from the start of the week to remind you that life, like your laundry, still needs sorting out. I had been invited to an open mic night at a small, dimly lit café in Brookland—one of those artsy spots where the air feels thick with poetry, vegan lattes, and existential questions. I almost didn’t go. My day had been piled high with work stress, and to top it off, I’d had one of those conversations that makes you question if people actually hear you or just wait for their turn to speak.

But when a friend of mine bribed me with the promise of jerk chicken sliders from the food truck parked outside, I caved. Few things are harder for a Jamaican American man to resist than good food and a gentle nudge. What I didn’t expect was that the night would serve me something even more nourishing: a moment where I’d feel truly seen, maybe for the first time.

It Started with a Stranger and a Mic

The open mic was hosted by a local collective—amateurs, professionals, and everyone else who enjoyed oversharing under the guise of art. I opted for a corner seat, the introvert’s stronghold, and busied myself breaking apart my slider. If you sat still long enough, you could feel the rhythm of it all—snaps of appreciation, nervous laughter, the occasional sound tech who forgot they weren’t invisible. It was the same vibe I’d grown up around at family gatherings when the adults threw on Dennis Brown and started lecturing the kids about “real music.” Comfortable chaos.

About seven or eight performances in, a young woman stepped up to the mic. She wore her skin like armor—spine straight, eyes piercing, with the kind of presence that makes you sit up just to see what’s coming. Then she began to speak. Not talk—speak. Her words danced sharp and fluid, weaving vivid stories about roots, belonging, and the constant push-pull of feeling "too much" and "not enough."

Something about her cadence cracked something open inside me, like striking a tuning fork against your ribcage. She spoke about her father’s hands being calloused from laying bricks, her mother’s sighs being loud enough to carry entire conversations. My chest tightened. I didn’t know her, but I knew those hands. I knew that sigh.

I leaned forward unconsciously because suddenly, every aspect of my upbringing—being the kid in D.C. balancing my parents’ Jamaican accents with the code-switching D.C. required, learning to merge Caribbean warmth with American ambition—was right there in vivid detail. She was telling my story, though we’d never met.

Recognition Between the Lines

To be clear, I didn’t grow up invisible. My parents and siblings celebrated everything. You got a B on your geography quiz? Break out the curry goat. But as I got older, that celebration started to feel conditional. Not because my family’s love was limited, but because society tends to define recognition in narrow terms. We’re seen through academic awards, impressive job titles, or the rungs we’ve climbed on the golden ladder labeled "Success."

And, for me, as the bookish kid who actually enjoyed reading policy briefs, people mostly saw the Georgetown grad, the Capitol Hill up-and-comer, or “that dude who writes thrillers about people in suits plotting morally questionable things.” Rarely did anyone ask—or seem to care—about the Marcus who, as a kid, used rhythm and rhyme to cope with the fact that sometimes, being different isolated you in ways words couldn’t fix.

That night in Brookland, though, it wasn’t an award or career milestone that struck me. It was a human moment—unexpected and profound. Standing in that café, hearing a stranger speak to my experiences so vividly, reminded me that our most honest selves are rarely the ones we present as LinkedIn profiles or dating bios. It’s usually the bits we hide or downplay, convinced people wouldn’t understand—or worse, wouldn’t care.

The Undoing of Masks

Here’s the thing: being seen isn’t just about someone noticing you. It’s about being recognized for the messy, complicated layers that make you you. It’s when someone hears the dialects you’ve muted to make others comfortable or sees the small parts you’ve polished over to avoid judgment. Too often, we think “being seen” equates to romance in a Nicholas Sparks sense (cue the rainstorm kiss scenes), when really, it’s about something far quieter but much harder to find—authentic connection.

In relationships—whether new or seasoned—it’s easy to settle into what I call the “highlight reel trap.” That’s when you present the shiny version of yourself: the traveler who goes zip-lining on vacations (but freaks out at the height of a small ladder), the listener who always has thoughtful advice (but sometimes zones out during tedious monologues). We spoon-feed people curated parts of ourselves, hoping they’ll like what they see. Spoiler alert: the filtered version eventually fades.

And the reason moments like the one I experienced in Brookland hit so hard is because they resist that curation. They dissolve the mask. In that dimly lit room, I wasn’t Marcus the writer, Marcus the overachiever, or even Marcus the guy who probably ate four sliders when three would’ve sufficed. I was just Marcus—the D.C. kid with Caribbean roots, a love of words, and a lifelong craving for recognition.

How We Can Truly “See” Others—and Ourselves

That night didn’t just teach me the power of being seen; it taught me the responsibility of seeing others. Here are some practical ways to tap into this truth, whether in friendships, family dynamics, or romantic connections:

  1. Listen Without Agenda.
    Don’t listen just to respond. Listen to understand. Be curious and ask thoughtful questions. It’s easy to miss someone’s soul when you’re only waiting for your turn to speak.

  2. Challenge Your Assumptions.
    That confident coworker? Maybe they spend hours perfecting their every email because they’re terrified of being misunderstood. That friend who’s always cracking jokes? Maybe they long for someone to ask them how they’re really doing. Let yourself look beneath surface behavior.

  3. Celebrate the Vulnerable Stuff.
    Whether it’s the quirks someone hides or the insecurities they fear, be the kind of person who makes others feel brave enough to share. Stop waiting for perfection to validate connection.

  4. See Yourself First.
    Sounds corny, but seriously: it’s hard to allow someone else to see you when you’ve covered your mirror in post-it notes titled "Not Enough." You are worthy of connection—not just the parts of you that sparkle, but the parts you’ve tried to dim.

A Lifetime in a Moment

When I left the café that night, my friend mistook my quietness for deep philosophical reflection. Truthfully? I was just overwhelmed—by gratitude, by validation, by the realization that being seen wasn’t something I could micromanage or manufacture. It’s a gift. One that happens when you least expect it.

So to the poet who unknowingly held up a mirror: thank you. You probably came to share your truth, not mine. But in doing so, you reminded me—and maybe all of us—that recognition isn’t reserved for loud moments in big rooms. Sometimes, it’s as simple as hearing a stranger’s voice and realizing your story was worth telling all along.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s another open mic night in need of a corner seat and a jerk chicken slider.