There’s a particular flavor of lobster roll they serve down the road from my parents’ bed-and-breakfast. It’s light on mayo, heavy on butter, and nestled in a humble hot dog bun grilled just enough to crisp the edges. Tourists order it without hesitation, eyes wide with anticipation the moment they hear: “Caught off the docks this morning.” It’s everything you want a lobster roll to be: fresh, delicious, steeped in the place it comes from.
I’ve come to think of that lobster roll when I reflect on one of the most pivotal conversations of my life. Because like that lobster roll, the exchange was simple, direct, and left me feeling rooted in a truth I hadn’t fully seen before. And it all started with a question.
The Stranger on the Windswept Ridge
Picture this: I’m 22, freshly graduated and recently made into a human pretzel by student loans. My parents, thrilled to have me back home even temporarily, have happily folded me into our seasonal hustle. It’s peak summer in Bar Harbor, and I’ve swapped cap and gown for hiking boots and a uniform that stamps me as a park guide. My days are spent leading visitors through Acadia’s Coastal Trail, sharing trivia about granite cliffs, seabirds, and the peculiar smell of spruce in salt air.
One mid-August afternoon, I had an oddball in my group. You know the type—chinos that had clearly seen a different kind of life before being introduced to dirt trails, constant interruptions to ask questions tangential at best to our surroundings, and an air of “I know something you don’t.” I pegged him as an academic. Or a creative type. Those are the only two people brave (or oblivious) enough to wear loafers on a trail.
The group dissipated as we reached the end of the hike, and this oddball lingered, squinting out at Frenchman Bay as the sunlight fractured off the water in wide prisms. Then he turned to me and asked, “You enjoy this?”
It wasn’t the sort of question you could casually brush off with a polite “Yes, of course.” It felt deliberate, pointed, impossible to answer with anything other than complete honesty.
So I told him. I told him how much I loved it. How much I loved walking the land I practically grew up in, sharing its stories, myths, and thorn-bush truths with people who came searching for something—escape, peace, adventure, or maybe even clarity.
And then, without hesitation, he said, “You know, you have a way of saying things that stick. Ever thought about writing about it all?”
Just like that, he took something as ordinary and knotted as a passion, a skill, and an opportunity—and unwound it before my eyes.
When Someone Hands You the Mirror
Isn’t it strange how one comment can rearrange the equation you thought was rigged? Up until that point, my writing had felt more like a personal indulgence. I’d fill notebooks with sketches of places I’d visited, small stories about a trail dotted with blueberries or a sunset rolling like a slow wave over a distant peak. But I never thought it meant anything beyond those lined pages—until someone came along and gave those scraggly words meaning.
There’s something intoxicating about being truly seen. Especially when it’s someone who owes you nothing, who has no reason to hand you their attention, much less their insight. It’s not the usual puffed-up reassurance of friends who love you or family members who’d rather you not panic too loudly about grad school. It’s clarity, that rare clarity that says: “This is something. You are something.”
It wasn’t instant fireworks. Remember, I’m from Maine, where enthusiasm shows up disguised as a hearty nod and a single syllable of “Ayuh.” But it planted a seed. And weeks later, as I sat writing emails to national parks hoping someone would want to buy my thoughts on osprey migrations, I knew the right person had seen me.
How to Be the Person Who Sees
Maybe this article caught your eye because you’re longing for someone to recognize the spark you carry. Maybe you’ve felt like a rough draft lately, waiting for someone to confirm your edits make sense. That’s okay. All of us crave being seen; it’s as human as fumbling for Wi-Fi in the wilderness.
But here’s the twist: we can return the favor. We can be the ones who see, who offer those unvarnished words of insight that—if we’re lucky—might echo in someone’s life for years. So let me give you a rundown of how to be that person:
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Pay Attention to Patterns
Good mentors, friends, or even kind strangers notice what people naturally gravitate toward. What do they seem happiest doing? What topics make their face light up like a bonfire? Sometimes, all it takes is pointing out what someone has been showing the world all along. -
Speak Up, Even If It’s a Little Awkward
Everyone loves a selfie compliment, but a soul compliment? Way more valuable. Go ahead and tell your coworker their way with words is inspiring, or your hiking buddy that their problem-solving skills border on wizardry. Most people don’t hear these things enough. -
Ask the Questions That Matter
My mystery mentor picked six words: “You ever think about writing this?” And somehow, they cracked open a vault I didn’t even know was locked. Thoughtful questions like, “Why do you love this?” or “What makes you feel the most alive?” might sound lofty, but they’ll stick longer than asking if they caught the latest TikTok trend. -
Offer Encouragement with Specificity
Vague compliments are placeholders. Try this instead: “You’d be great at starting [Thing X] because I see how good you are at [Skill Y].” Or even, “I think you could really thrive doing [This].” Specificity turns a passing pat on the back into a real anchor of belief.
The Takeaway of Being (and Being Seen)
There are grip-your-heart moments that feel as rare as wild blueberries clustered on a chilly slope. Being seen for who you truly are—what makes you spark, what makes you come alive—is one of those. And just as often, it takes someone else reflecting that vision back to you to realize it was there all along.
For me, it was a stranger in loafers holding a mirror up to my words. For you, maybe it’s a teacher, a friend, or even some quiet voice in yourself that you’ve finally decided to trust. And if you don’t have that person yet? Be bold enough to be that for someone else. You never know when your words might be the ones they carry with them. Who knows—maybe six little words will change everything.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I’m feeling the sudden and overwhelming urge to order a lobster roll. Because as much as I’m grateful for my stranger-turned-mentor, there are some local treasures you can only fully understand when you enjoy them fresh.
