The Person Who Saw Me

We all have that moment, don’t we? The one where someone looks at us—not in the thumbs-up-for-a-decent-Instagram-caption way, but in the deep, unnerving way that says, “I see you. The real you. And you’re not going to hide from it anymore.” For me, that moment came standing in the middle of a cramped archive room surrounded by dusty file boxes and a future I was positively sabotaging.

But let me back up.

A Southern Daydream Disrupted

I’d always been a dreamer. As a kid growing up in Montgomery, every summer afternoon had me sitting on my porch swing, watching the heat waves rise off the asphalt. I’d concoct elaborate scenarios in my head—usually historical dramas because, yes, I was that kid. I could weave these grand mental tapestries about who I wanted to be—someone educated, worldly, maybe the type of woman who wore sleek trench coats and confidently drank espresso (even though I gagged at the smell of coffee back then). But when it came to real-world decisions? I froze.

Fast forward to my early days as an archivist after college. I literally had the keys to history, pouring through records that screamed with the energy of lives lived fully. But instead of soaking up their lessons, I spent most days thinking, “What if I’m stuck filing other people’s accomplishments forever?” Yes, it was angsty. Bring me a mix tape and call me melodramatic. But that was where my brain lived back then.

Enter Dr. Carter. My boss, my unassuming mentor, and apparently the universe’s way of side-lining my procrastination.

Seeing the Hidden Potential

Dr. Carter wasn’t flashy. He wore the same cardigan-and-tweed combo every day, paired with loafers that looked like they belonged to King Arthur’s accountants. But the man was whip-smart and had this incredible way of making even the dullest work feel monumental. “Remember,” he'd say, tapping a folder like it contained the secrets of all humanity, “every person has a story worth telling. Even if they don’t see it themselves.”

One day, I was aimlessly cataloging a collection of oral histories when he casually leaned against the doorframe. “You know,” he said, his eyes twinkling with a mischievousness bordering on Dumbledore-level wisdom, “you should stop pretending you’re not a writer.”

I stopped mid-sentence like I’d just been accused of a crime.

“You’ve got it,” he said with a shrug, as though he was stating the weather. “That thing people can’t teach. You just have to decide to let everyone else see it.”

Let me just say—it’s one thing when your mom tells you you’re special. It’s quite another when someone who doesn’t have a biological obligation to lie to you says it. There was no pep talk, no rehearsed Do Great Things speech. Just eight casual words that lodged themselves deep in my brain like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth.

“Let Them See You”: A Pep Talk in Action

So, what was different after that declaration of my alleged potential? Well, not much… at first. I still went to work every day cataloging love letters and diary entries and secretly googling MFA programs during my lunch break. But his words clung to me like humidity on an Alabama morning, refusing to evaporate.

Eventually, and maybe because I couldn’t stand the nagging, I carved out time to write—stories swirling in my mind that had been hibernating too long. They weren’t perfect. Some were downright bad (shoutout to my experimental piece about a rebellious magnolia tree). But for the first time, I wasn’t paralyzed by my own doubts.

And then, something strange happened. People started reading them. First a few, then more. Feedback trickled in, and I realized what I wrote resonated far beyond my little Southern bubble. Apparently, stories about messy beginnings, complicated identities, and chasing grace are universal—who knew?

Why Mentorship (and Slightly Unnerving Eye Contact) Matters

So, what’s the lesson in all this? We’re better at hiding from ourselves than we like to admit. Sometimes, all it takes is someone stating the obvious—the thing you KNOW deep down but can’t fathom saying out loud.

What Dr. Carter did for me was simple and, honestly, a little genius. He didn’t hand me a checklist or force platitudes down my throat. He nudged. He shared the tiniest spark of possibility and trusted that I’d set it aflame on my own.

Here’s why this matters for you too:
- We All Have Blind Spots. Whether it’s your career, love life, or figuring out what makes you happy outside of streaming back-to-back episodes of "The Bear," someone else might see your magic before you do.
- Mentorship Isn’t Always Intentional. Sometimes, it’s an offhand comment from a stranger, a passing connection that shifts your mindset in ways they’ll never know.
- People Aren’t Projects. The point isn’t to “fix” someone but to hold up the mirror, letting them see themselves, flaws and all.

Your Turn to See (and Be Seen)

We’re all walking around with potential someone else might recognize before we do. But here’s the kicker: you don’t have to wait for someone to swoop in with perfectly timed life advice while you dramatically gaze into the middle distance. You can be the person who sees yourself clearly, today. (Yes, you. Flannel pajamas and all.)

Start simple:
1. Journal Through the Hard Questions. Think about the compliments or observations people have made about you that you brushed off. (“Oh, anyone can bake bread.” Girl, the Great British Bake Off says otherwise—own it!)
2. Ask for Input. Reach out to a mentor or friend who shoots straight and just ask, “What do you think I’m uniquely good at?” Sure, it’s kind of terrifying, but you’ll learn so much.
3. Do That Thing. You know. The thing you’ve put on hold because it’s scary or because perfectionism paralyzes you. Write the story. Take the art class. Sign up for karaoke even though your voice sounds like a sad trombone.

The truth is, we underestimate how much of an impact a passing word or an encouraging nudge can have—on ourselves and others. Maybe today, you’ll be someone’s Dr. Carter… or maybe, they’ll be yours.

So, go on. Let them see you.

And when you do, trust that what they see is as good—and as full of potential—as you’ve secretly hoped all along.