Growing up in Nashville, I thought being “seen” meant being on stage. My family was a musical one—Dad strummed his old guitar like it held the secrets of the universe, Mom taught music to fidgety second graders, and even our dog, Hank (yes, after Hank Williams), howled on-key if you played an F sharp. Music was everything.

So, when I auditioned for my high school’s performing arts program with a shaky rendition of “Jolene,” I imagined that moment of stepping into the spotlight would be when someone finally recognized my potential. Spoiler alert: that’s not quite what happened. My singing was fine—I could carry a tune well enough to pass—but something about performance never felt right. It was like wearing someone else’s boots: the right idea, just not the right fit.

The truth is, being seen had nothing to do with a stage, a mic, or applause—it came from someone who zeroed in on me when I wasn’t even looking.

More Than Just a Teacher

Her name was Mrs. Wright, and she ran junior year creative writing like it was the Pentagon. She was the kind of teacher who didn’t just assign reading; she assigned purpose. Her classroom smelled like chalk dust and ambition, and every student who walked in had to leave at least 10% braver—or so it seemed. The rumor mill said she'd given up writing for The New Yorker to come teach poor kids in Tennessee, but I’m 90% sure that story was cooked up by a daydreaming junior with a B-minus in grammar.

I wasn’t even supposed to be in that class. My guidance counselor, who fully believed my destiny was musical, scoffed at me signing up. “Isn’t choir enough creative for you?” she asked. And to be fair, she had a point—I didn’t know why I’d chosen it, either. In hindsight, maybe I just wanted a 50-minute break from sight-reading sheet music and singing scales.

Mrs. Wright didn’t care why I’d signed up. In fact, I’m pretty sure she barely registered my name for most of the semester. I was just another kid tapping out mediocre stories about family shenanigans and imagining myself the next great American lyricist. It wasn’t until mid-October—after she assigned us to write a personal essay—that she turned her full attention in my direction.

The Moment She Saw Me

I turned in a piece titled If These Walls Could Sing. It was about weekend jam sessions at my house, the odd magic of pizza boxes stacked high while Dad’s band rehearsed in the garage, the way music flowed through our life but somehow never paused for me. It was raw, awkward in spots, and honestly, kind of cheesy. I expected Mrs. Wright to slap a “B,” call it “too sentimental,” and move on.

Instead, she called me in after class. When I walked in, she had my essay on the desk and a red pen in her hand—not just squiggles of commentary but full-on paragraphs scrawled in the margins. As she skimmed through it, I braced myself for a polite but brutal critique. Instead, she looked up mid-sentence and said, “This doesn’t sound like someone looking for the spotlight. This sounds like someone who knows how to write.”

I blinked. Her words felt like hitting the sweet spot with a third-date compliment—unexpected, but oddly perfect.

“Have you ever considered writing something longer than lyrics?” she asked. “You have an ear for rhythm, but your real gift is telling the story.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer: No, I haven’t, I thought. But somewhere deep down, I knew she was right. I loved to sing, sure, but I loved weaving words together even more—and all of a sudden, I understood why stepping into a spotlight had always felt like borrowing shoes. I wasn’t meant to perform stories. I was meant to write them.

How Someone Seeing You Can Steer Your Path

When Mrs. Wright saw potential in me, it was like she rewired my brain. Someone who barely knew me pinpointed something I hadn’t even dared to name myself: my voice was not my voice; it was my words.

For weeks after that comment, I thought back to her question: “Have you ever considered writing something longer than lyrics?” To her, it was a gentle nudge. To me, it was like getting handed a topographic map I hadn’t even realized I needed. Here I was, writing half-hearted verses for songs I’d never sing, when whole chapters of untold stories were just waiting to stretch out.

I began writing more essays, experimenting with short stories, and, eventually, crafting my first novel. Anytime doubt crept in (and let’s be real, it crept in a lot), I’d replay Mrs. Wright’s words: “This sounds like someone who knows how to write.”

The experience taught me a few universal truths about being truly seen:

  • Seeing potential in someone can shift their entire trajectory. It doesn’t take a grand stage-whisper moment. A single, sincere observation can create a ripple.
  • Sometimes, the insight comes from someone outside your inner circle. Mrs. Wright didn’t know the ins and outs of my life—she simply saw my work.
  • Being seen doesn’t have to look like fireworks. Often, it’s quiet—someone putting a name to something you secretly hoped for but couldn’t verbalize.

Could You Be Someone’s Mrs. Wright?

Mrs. Wright’s gift wasn’t just seeing things in people—it was having the willingness to tell them. And that’s where being someone’s “person who saw them” takes courage. Because what if I hadn’t leaned into writing? What if she’d called it wrong?

But she took the risk anyway, and I think that’s what makes moments like hers life-changing. So, let me ask you: Is there someone in your life quietly excelling at something they maybe don’t fully recognize yet? Maybe it’s your coworker who always nails the brainstorming pitch, or your friend whose party-hosting skills could make Martha Stewart jealous. Either way, imagine what could happen if you pointed it out.

Here’s how to start:

  1. Be Specific: Don’t just say, “Good job.” Pinpoint what stands out. (“That essay sounds polished, like it could be a chapter in a book.”)
  2. Ask Questions: It’s not just about praise; it’s about curiosity. (“Have you ever thought about…?” opens up so many doors.)
  3. Keep It Casual: Life isn’t the movie Dead Poets Society. A life-shifting truth is just as effective over coffee as it is in some high-drama classroom moment.

You don’t have to be a mentor or even a close friend. You just have to look closely, listen wholly, and take a shot at saying something that feels raw and true. Mrs. Wright probably had no clue her words would snap me out of my mid-teen identity crisis, but here I am, years later, still carrying that moment like a badge of honor.

Conclusion: The Seen and the Seeing

There’s a beautiful song by John Prine (another Nashville great) where he sings, “You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder, throw your hands in the air, say ‘What does it matter?’” We all go through stretches of life believing that what we’re doing—or what we want to do—doesn’t matter. And sometimes, it takes one person seeing you to quiet that doubt.

Mrs. Wright handed me a flashlight when I didn’t even realize I was fumbling in the dark. She wasn’t loud about it—she was precise. And because of that, I got a little braver, a little clearer on who I was supposed to be.

To anyone reading this who’s waiting to be seen, I’ll leave you with this: your person will come. And if you're lucky, you’ll also get the chance to be that person for someone else. Sometimes, all it takes is one sentence to change everything.