The first time I felt seen wasn’t some grand cinematic moment where someone gazed into my soul like they were auditioning for a Nicholas Sparks adaptation. No, it happened sitting on the tailgate of an old Ford truck, stars scattered above us like the freckles on my cousin Jess’s face—familiar, comforting, and endless.

Let me set the stage: I was eighteen, fresh out of high school, and already feeling like my hometown in West Virginia had drawn a box around who I could be. Don’t get me wrong—I love where I’m from. The mountains are home, and the people are proud, good-hearted, and resilient. But being “different” in a place where everyone knows not only your name but your dad’s CB handle felt like trying to sing harmony in a town where everyone’s stuck on the same melody.

That night, I’d just finished an absolutely disastrous first date. You know the type—awkward silences punctuated by my date nervously explaining her dog’s strict gluten-free diet (spoiler: she's the gluten-free one). I came home feeling like I’d failed some cosmic test. Maybe there was no room for someone with my big questions and bigger dreams in this small corner of the world. Maybe I was just destined to be the “odd” one.

This is where my cousin Jess comes in. She was the closest thing to an older sister I had growing up, part-time troublemaker and full-time protector. We ended up on her truck bed that night, splitting a pint of ice cream straight from the carton because she had no patience for bowls. Jess was always direct, and as I recounted my dating misfortune, complete with dramatic hand gestures and a spot-on impersonation of my date’s dog voice, she cut me off mid-story.

“You know, you can just be you, right?” she said, licking a spoon without even looking up.

I laughed nervously because what else do you do when someone reads the thing you’ve been trying to hide? “Yeah, well, me doesn’t seem to be everyone’s cup of tea.”

And then she looked at me—really looked at me—and said something so simple, it still knocks around in my head all these years later: “You’re not for everyone, but when you find your people, you’ll never have to try so hard.”

The Weight of Being “Seen”

It’s funny how a single moment can crack you open. Jess wasn’t trying to impart deep wisdom; she was trying to keep me from spiraling into self-pity. But that casual truth—spoken between bites of rocky road and beneath the West Virginia sky—was the first time I felt like someone truly understood the parts of myself that felt too big or complicated or messy. She saw me as I was: the storyteller, the hopeless romantic who thought too much and laughed too loud. And instead of asking me to be less, she handed me a carton of ice cream and told me to lean in.

Being seen is more than someone noticing your new haircut or complimenting your shoes. It’s messy, vulnerable, and deeply personal. It’s feeling known without explanations or caveats, resting in the certainty that someone sees past the surface to the authentic, unpolished you—and likes what they see anyway. It's rare. And when it happens, it has this quiet, transformative power.

The Fear of “Trying Too Hard”

Here’s the thing: We spend a lot of our lives trying to be someone else’s version of enough. Enough for the person we’re crushing on, enough for our boss, enough for that random guy on Instagram who somehow turned into our life benchmark while we weren’t paying attention. And dating? Oh, dating practically demands we become shapeshifters.

The date where I felt like I had to crack jokes about gluten-free dog diets wasn’t an isolated incident. There were plenty of times I tried to be more suave, more mysterious, or—even worse—less me because I didn’t trust the right person would come along. If this all sounds familiar, you’re not alone. I’d wager most of us have, at some point, dated like we were auditioning for a role we didn’t even want—the “perfect” boyfriend, girlfriend, or partner society told us we should aspire to be.

But, spoiler alert: Trying to be perfect doesn’t get you seen. It gets you tired.

Leaning into Your “You-ness”

The irony is that the very things we tend to hide—our quirks, our scars, our screw-ups—are often what make us magnetic to the right people. The things that make you laugh uncontrollably, cry unexpectedly, or rant about the Oxford comma over dinner (just me?) are the things that will make the right person stick around.

So how do you lean into being unapologetically, breathtakingly yourself? Here are a few lessons I’ve learned along the way, courtesy of advice dished out on truck beds and hard-earned wisdom:

  1. Stop Editing Your Story
    You’re not a social media feed. You don’t have to crop out the parts of your life that don’t feel “cool” enough. Own your nerdy hobbies, your weird food preferences, and your poorly hidden obsession with reality TV. Authenticity is magnetic in a world of filters.

  2. Let Go of Being Liked by Everyone
    Like Jess said, you’re not for everyone—and that’s okay. Trying to please everyone is like trying to butter bread with a spoon; you’ll only end up frustrated. Instead, focus on finding the people who cherish what makes you unique—the ones who laugh at your bad jokes and don’t roll their eyes when you belt out ‘90s country songs in the car.

  3. Ask for What You Need
    There’s vulnerability in telling someone, “Hey, this is what I need from you,” whether that’s more quality time or space to process your thoughts. But when you open that door, you give others permission to see the full picture of who you are—flaws, fears, and all.

  4. Find Your People
    Romantic relationships aren’t the only place where being seen matters. Friendships, family, chosen family—they all play a role in helping you feel understood. Build your community, and make sure it’s full of people who reflect your best self back to you, not the one they want you to be.

The Beauty of Being Seen

Eventually, I moved on from that small West Virginia town and found new places, new people, and even a few love stories worth writing about. But that moment with Jess on the tailgate stuck with me. It reminded me that being seen is less about being “enough” for someone else and more about being absolutely, unshakably at home in my own skin.

When you let people see the real you, flaws and all, you stop chasing connection and start building it. And trust me, that’s where the magic happens.

So, the next time you’re tempted to Photoshop yourself into the “perfect” partner—remember Jess’s words. You’re not for everyone. But for the right people, you’ll never have to try so hard. And that, my friend, is more freeing than any swipe, match, or perfectly planned first date ever will be.