The story starts, like many do, at a farmer’s market. Not in one of those perfectly curated, Instagram-ready farmers’ markets where everyone looks like they stepped out of an Anthropologie window display. This was Boise in late October. High school choirs sold pumpkin muffins next to a table of mismatched gourds. A guy in a flannel shirt was playing "Hey There Delilah" on a slightly out-of-tune guitar. It smelled like faint wood smoke and kettle corn, and everyone clutched steaming cups of coffee, their fingers red from the morning chill.
I was standing by my parents’ craft brewery booth, restocking crowlers, when someone pointed out the woman who would, by the end of the day, completely crack me open—no warning, no mercy.
She was a regular customer at these events, someone who always ordered the same thing—a porter named “Stout Like My Ex.” She was chatting with my mom, but, for reasons I couldn’t entirely explain, her stray glance in my direction felt like a read receipt on my soul.
At the time, I was 23 and lost in the fog of a post-college identity crisis. I had left Boise for Chicago on a fellowship, only to find myself rattling around the steel-and-glass beehive of the city, painfully out of sync with its precision. I’d returned home a year later, emotionally a bit more cracked, financially a bit more screwed, and unsure where I belonged. My hometown, filled with its rapidly sprouting vegan taco joints and ironic axe-throwing bars, didn’t feel as familiar anymore. I didn't, either.
But this woman—the one with cropped hair and boots just worn enough to suggest uncontrived cool—looked at me and said something simple to my mom: “She’s got your eyes.”
Which might not sound like a big deal, but here’s the kicker: People rarely commented on how I looked like my mom. My dad, sure. He and I shared the kind of red hair you could catch sight of in a snowstorm. But my mom’s side? Quiet, serious, all brown eyes and long-limbed pragmatism. My outgoing dad always overshadowed her in conversation. I loved my mom, but our similarities felt invisible to others—or at least unremarkable.
That day, it hit me differently. The stranger wasn’t focused on my loud hair or the fact that I talked a mile a minute like my dad. Instead, she saw something softer in me, something I hadn’t even realized I was hiding.
Seeing Beyond the Obvious
We don’t often stop to think about how exhausting it can be to be seen incompletely. To be flattened into a single version of ourselves—a version that other people think is the “main attraction.”
For me, it was always the loud, quick-witted stuff people noticed first. Maybe it was the years on debate team or the fact that I once live-tweeted my way through a wedding buffet catastrophe. Whatever the case, “funny and talkative” became my calling card. And honestly? Leaning into that identity had its perks. It's easier to lead with your big, bold features—red hair, snappy observations, a shiny surface—than risk diving deep and showing the quieter undercurrent of who you are.
But lately, I had grown weary of typecasting myself. Sometimes I wanted to just sit and listen. To notice, rather than narrate. Sometimes, I didn’t want to be “on.” And other times, let’s be real, I wanted someone to notice the parts of me I hadn’t yet figured out how to package neatly.
The brewery customer, whose name I later learned was Ellie (and who later became a short-lived but meaningful almost-romance), somehow did that without even trying. She said one thing—“She’s got your eyes”—and suddenly, I felt layers of myself shift into sharper relief. I didn’t just look like my mom; I was like my mom. Thoughtful with a streak of fierce loyalty. Subtle, steady, deeply observant when I wasn’t busy cracking one-liners.
It was disorienting in the best way, and it unlocked something.
How to Spot—and Celebrate—Someone’s “You Just Get Me” Moments
The beauty of moments like these? They aren’t always loud. They don’t arrive with flowers or fanfare. Instead, they’re punctuated by something so small—an offhand compliment, a thoughtful question—that you’d think they’d go unnoticed. Except they don’t.
If you’d like to be that kind of person—the one who helps others feel deeply seen—start with these small, powerful shifts:
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Practice the Art of Observation.
Look beyond the obvious. Maybe they’re the sarcastic one in the group, but they always remember how you take your tea when you’re stressed. See that detail and honor it—chances are, they’ll feel recognized in a way that goes far deeper than their wit. -
Ask Real Questions.
This goes beyond “What do you do?” and “Where are you from?” Try asking things like “What’s bringing you joy these days?” or “What small thing has you fired up lately?” It’ll invite an answer rooted in passion and authenticity—and let someone show up as they are. -
Echo Back What You Love.
When someone lights up about something—be it their weirdly niche hobby or the fact that their tomatoes finally grew this season—don’t move on too quickly. Mention it later. Acknowledging those specifics tells people, “I didn’t forget—because you matter.” -
Acknowledge Quiet Strengths.
It’s easy to celebrate obvious talents, like sharp humor or killer karaoke skills. But the person who stays late to clean up or writes the thank-you cards? Those qualities often go unsung. Take time to say, “I see what you did. It meant a lot.”
Why This Matters for Relationships of All Kinds
Being seen isn’t just about romance. It’s about family, friendships, even the way you interact with baristas at your go-to coffee shop. It builds a foundation of trust and connection that affects how you show up in the world. It’s like that scene in Good Will Hunting when Robin Williams tells Matt Damon, “It’s not your fault.” Those are words someone needs at the exact right time. They land differently, and they stay.
That day at the farmer’s market, Ellie unknowingly created a domino effect in my life. Her small but piercing comment made me reflect on the quieter parts of myself—the brown-eyed traits I’d inherited but never celebrated. It helped me embrace the parts of my identity that didn’t need to be loud to matter. It even made me show up differently in friendships, no longer wanting to fill every silence out of some misplaced fear of dullness.
Some Final Encouragement
If you’ve ever felt invisible—flattened into someone else’s one-dimensional expectations—you’re not alone. But here’s the empowering part: You can rewrite the story. You can surround yourself with people who see every complicated, messy, brilliant part of you. You can also be that person for others, which is often sweeter.
Because here’s the truth: The people who see us fully—the good, the awkward, the not-fully-figured-out—those are the ones that remind us we’re whole. Not just bold strokes, but the delicate details too. And, honestly? That matters more than anything a pumpkin-spiced October could possibly offer.
