The Person Who Saw Me
The Moment Someone Looks Past the Surface
I was twenty-two when someone first told me I wasn’t boring. Let me set the scene: I was sitting in a dimly lit coffee shop in Tokyo, nervously clutching a green tea latte that was rapidly cooling. My mentor—let’s call him Professor Nakamura—sat across from me, wearing his trademark double-breasted blazer that somehow made every encounter with him feel like I was auditioning for a role in a period drama.
“You’re not boring,” he said, without preamble, after I confessed I might abandon my Art History degree because, in my words, “No one cares about 18th-century brushstrokes except overly academic nerds.” He arched an eyebrow—a single gesture that cut through my insecurity like the opening notes of a Ryuichi Sakamoto piano piece. “But you care. And that makes it interesting. Maybe not to everyone, but to the ones who matter.”
Those two sentences landed like meteor strikes. Up until that moment, I’d been terrified of coming across as unremarkable, of blending into a beige wallpaper background in the eyes of the world. In my mind, I was the kind of girl you walked past in a bookstore without noticing—the human equivalent of a faded library card. But Nakamura saw something: someone earnest, someone passionate beneath the flat self-assessment I had painted for myself.
That five-minute conversation didn’t just change my academic trajectory—it reshaped how I saw relationships, love, and connection itself.
Seeing Potential Isn’t Romance, It’s Recognition
When we think about the “person who saw us,” it’s easy to exclusively envision romantic partners—the ones who notice our Sunday-morning bedhead and somehow find it endearing, or the ones who can tell when we’re hiding our real feelings behind an obviously fake laugh. But often, the people who see us first aren’t the ones we're dating at all. They’re mentors, friends, or even strangers who catch our essence before we’re brave enough to show it.
Think about it: A friend who tells you your laugh lights up a room. A manager who gives you a big project because they “just have a feeling” you’ll nail it. A stranger in a train station who compliments that scarf you almost didn’t wear because you thought it was “too out there.” None of these moments may rewrite your love life, but they all shake something loose—a kind of dormant confidence you didn’t know you had.
For me, ever since that coffee shop revelation, I started gravitating toward the kind of people who brought out my layers, not the ones who barely flipped through the pages. These are the ones we should hold close, whether romantically or otherwise. Because here’s the secret no one tells you: being seen is less about how you present yourself and more about whether someone’s willing to lean in and really look at you.
Are You Letting Yourself Be Seen?
Here’s the tricky part: People can’t see your potential if you’re actively working overtime to hide it. And most of us—whether we realize it or not—are experts at putting up blinds.
Think about it. Have you ever done one of these:
- Downplayed your passion for something because you worried it sounded “childish”? (“Sure, I watch anime sometimes.” When in reality, you’ve memorized the entire “Spirited Away” screenplay.)
- Told people you were “just okay” at something you secretly excel at?
- Avoided sharing personal stories because you figured no one would find them interesting?
The first step toward letting someone else see you is giving them the material to work with. Reveal your quirks. Brag about the thing you’re really good at. Bring up that obscure hobby that makes your face light up, even if it feels niche or dorky.
Here’s an actionable exercise I picked up from my own journey: Write down five things that are true about you but make you slightly uncomfortable to admit. It could be as big as “I want to live abroad” or as niche as “I think matcha-flavored anything is overrated.” Then, make a pact to casually drop one of them into a conversation this week. You’ll be surprised at how people react. The ones who matter will lean in.
The Second Act of Seeing Someone
The flipside of being seen is learning to see others—a skill many of us unwittingly fumble. When we meet someone new, we’re often too busy projecting onto them (Does this person like me? Are we vibing? What do they think of me?) to stop and actually notice who they are.
Pro-tip: Stop “reading between the lines.” Sometimes, the “lines” are already deeply fascinating if you look close enough.
For example, ask questions that go beyond the “Where are you from/What do you do?” script. Instead, try:
- “What’s a random memory that always sticks with you?”
- “What’s a weird hill you’d die on?”
- “Who’s someone who changed your perspective about life?”
These aren’t just icebreakers—they’re invitations for connection. And when you open the door for others to share themselves authentically, you’re also building a foundation for relationships that go beyond surface-level.
You’d be shocked how quickly people reveal themselves when they realize your interest in them is genuine. (Hint: This works in dating too, for anyone wondering.)
Remember: Not Everyone Will See You (And That’s Fine)
Here’s the bittersweet part of all of this: some people will still miss you. Even if you’re radiating authenticity and passion. Even if you’ve put all your cards on the table.
But the beauty lies in the people who don’t. And let me tell you from experience: those people will feel like rain after a drought, like sunlight hitting a city after days of fog.
The first time someone sees who you really are, it becomes addictive—you want to chase that feeling everywhere, in every connection you make. And you know what? That’s a good thing. It's a sign you’re done pretending, done shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s frame.
In the End, This Is What Matters
Years after that fateful coffee shop moment, I found myself in Paris. I was running late for a lecture I didn’t particularly want to attend, standing on a Seine-side bridge, when the realization hit: Professor Nakamura wasn’t the last person to ever truly see me—he was just the first.
Since then, I’ve sought out people who remind me who I am when insecurity clouds the glass. Friends who laugh at my worst jokes. Romantic partners who look at me like I’m a painting, full of deliberate brushstrokes even I hadn’t noticed.
And what I’ve come to know, after years of stumbling through life and love, is that finding these people isn’t about luck. It’s about making space for authenticity—yours and theirs. Because when you show up fully, unedited and unapologetic, your people can’t help but recognize you. The question is: Are you ready for them to?
So, to the person who saw me first: thank you for teaching me to look in the mirror, even when I wanted to turn away. And to the next person who gets the chance to see you: give them something unforgettable to look at.
