The Person Who Saw Me

Sometimes, someone sees a spark in you before you even realize you’re holding a match. For me, that someone was Dr. Ella Mae Singleton, a woman whose wisdom was wrapped in the unapologetic cadence of the South, all fire and grace. She was my first creative writing professor at Spelman, and I didn’t know it at the time, but she’d change the entire trajectory of my life, one slow, deliberate word at a time.

Now, before I introduce Dr. Singleton properly, let me take you back to the version of Ebony who walked into her classroom that first day: skeptical, shy, and entirely unprepared for what was coming. I was fresh off of writing book reports and high school essays, the kind with safe, predictable opening sentences. (“Since the dawn of time…” was my greatest guilty pleasure.) The mere idea of writing something from my own voice—raw, personal, exposed—felt like skydiving without a parachute. But in a world that often says, "Shrink yourself," Dr. Singleton dared me to spread my wings.

The Moment She Saw Me

We were in her office, surrounded by overflowing bookshelves holding everything from James Baldwin to tattered Gullah folklore collections. I had just handed her my first writing assignment of the semester, an uninspired story I’d thrown together out of fear and procrastination. She read it silently, her gold-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose, and then she delivered a blow I’ll never forget: “You’re hiding,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Why?”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been called out by someone who isn’t even mad at you—it stings worse. It’s like being read to filth by your favorite aunt who still hugs you after. I stammered something about wanting to get a good grade, and she laughed. No, y’all, she cackled. Then she leaned in, her sharp eyes holding mine. “You don’t write for grades, baby. You write for truth. For de people. Don’t make them wait for you.”

It was like she’d laid me bare in that cramped office. For the first time, someone wasn’t saying, “do better,” they were saying, “I see something in you, so stop playing small.”

Lessons from the One Who Saw Me

Dr. Singleton’s lessons weren’t just about craft—they were about life. They’re the kind of truths that stick with you when you’re deciding whether to swipe left or right on a relationship or whether to put your heart on the line. Here are her greatest hits, which I scribbled in my journal so often back then that I can recite them like gospel now:

  1. "Don’t water yourself down for the people sitting in the back."
    Whether it was about writing or love, this was her constant mantra. Dr. Singleton once told our class, “If you’ve got flavor, use it. Salt doesn’t apologize for being salty.” Ever since then, I’ve tried to live my life as unapologetically as Charleston’s crab stew, a little messy but rich with history and depth.

  2. "Be rooted in who you are, or the wind gon’ blow you every which way."
    After school, I carried this advice into every first date, every not-so-cute rejection, and every time I thought I’d lost myself a little in relationships. Knowing who you are makes it easier to let someone in—without letting them completely take over the room.

  3. "Honey, no one out there can read your mind. Speak."
    She barked this at me one time when I tried to explain a character’s emotions without writing about them. Turns out, it applies to feelings in real life too. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard Dr. Singleton’s voice in my head cheering, “Use ya words!”—whether telling someone I needed more effort or admitting (out loud!) that I felt vulnerable.

From Fear to Flourishing

One of the most profound things Dr. Singleton did was call out my fear without judgment. She spotted the walls I’d built around myself—the way I stayed polite, predictable, prim. After all, in relationships (friendships, romantic, professional, you name it), fear often manifests as playing it safe. We write safe. We love safe. We dream safe. And we cheat ourselves out of the magic that blooms when vulnerability cracks us wide open.

Hiding, she taught me, doesn’t just shrink you—it deprives others of really knowing you. Imagine if Serena Williams had decided tennis just wasn’t her thing or if Beyoncé had settled for a quiet desk job in Houston. What if Zora Neale Hurston never picked up a pen in Eatonville? Those are the melodramatic questions I hear in my head every time I think about backing away from something hard or exposing—and they always push me to take one more step.

Can We Talk About Being Seen?

When was the last time someone saw you? I mean, truly saw past all your layers—the curated Instagram posts, the just-enough vulnerability you give on date three, the "I’m fine" you toss out to friends when you’re anything but. Being seen is equal parts beautiful and unnerving. It’s like taking off your makeup and realizing someone likes your face more that way.

But here’s the truth: being seen starts with allowing it. That means showing up as your whole self—the nerdy parts, the funny parts, the parts that snort when you laugh too hard. It also means recognizing when someone is ready to meet you where you are and leaving the ones who aren’t.

How They Changed My Trajectory

Dr. Singleton didn’t just nudge me toward seeing myself differently; she became my mirror when I couldn’t yet see who I was. After that semester, I stopped playing small—not just in writing but in life. When I wrote my first short story exploring Charleston’s Gullah history, it was her feedback I sought. When I decided to apply for grad school at Columbia, she wrote me the strongest recommendation letter I’ve ever read. And when, years later, I published my first novel, I mailed her a crisp hardcover copy with a note scribbled inside: “Thank you for seeing me before I saw myself.”

What That Means for You

So, what does all this have to do with your own journey? Here’s what I’ll say: Look for the people who see you. Not the shiny, curated, perfect version of you, but the version that’s messy and vulnerable and chasing a dream you barely dare to admit. Find the ones who hold up a mirror without trying to rewrite your story—and be that person for someone else.

And while we’re at it, stop hiding. Let someone see you, even when it feels risky. Because sometimes, trajectory-changing moments aren’t loud or obvious. They’re quiet but powerful, tucked into the words of a mentor, friend, or maybe even a stranger who simply tells you, “I see you. And there’s greatness in you.”

What are you going to do with that truth now? You’ve got this, baby. Don’t make us wait for your story.