They say life changes in a single moment, but my pivotal moment didn’t play out on a grand stage under dramatic lighting. It was quiet, like the last note of a guzheng humming in the distance, the kind of shift that sneaks up on you and changes everything without asking permission—or even giving you an update. My story begins in a Beijing winter, where the air felt like an icy glass of baijiu—sharp enough to wake you up, but not in a particularly enjoyable way.

I was 22 years old, armed with a Creative Writing degree and the vague notion that I could, perhaps, wield words as both sword and shield. But, like many people fumbling their way into adulthood, I wasn’t entirely sure how to aim. That was when I met her: the person who, with startling clarity, saw me before I fully saw myself.

The Chance Encounter

Her name was Li Fangling, though everyone called her Professor Li. She was a Renaissance woman of sorts—a poet, novelist, editor, and expert at intimidating a lecture hall of undergrads with nothing more than her perfectly arched eyebrow. She wasn’t actually my professor, but Peking University has a habit of blending formal academia with informal inspiration, and so I found myself attending her rare public talk on modern interpretations of classical Chinese poetry.

At the Q&A session, I blurted out a poorly phrased question about the tension between modernity and tradition—something about how poets balance ancient ideals with Instagram captions demanding instant gratification. The others in the audience chuckled, but Professor Li’s gaze locked on me like a hawk who spotted an unspectacular mouse.

“What are you writing about these days?” she asked, so casually it felt like a trick.

“Nothing serious,” I mumbled, heat rushing to my ears. “Just... some fictional stuff. Maybe poetry.”

“Good. The worst writers are often the ones taking themselves too seriously.” She paused, then added with a faint smile, “Look closer. You’ll find what you need.”

It wasn’t until years later that I realized how powerful that moment was. Like someone laying down bricks for a bridge you didn’t realize you’d need to cross.

What It Means to Be Seen

In every relationship—romantic, platonic, or professional—there’s something arresting about being fully seen. I don’t mean the surface-level kind of acknowledgment, like, “Hey, I saw you left the tea bag in the mug again.” I mean the kind where someone looks at you and sees not just who you are, but also who you could be.

Being seen is like an accidental spotlight suddenly trained on all your quirks, fears, and untapped potential. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. And, let’s face it, it’s also occasionally uncomfortable—like someone scanning your deepest insecurities while whispering, “You know, you could really do something with all this mess.”

For me, Professor Li became that person. She didn’t just see that I loved stories; she saw the layers I wasn’t yet courageous enough to uncover myself—the mythic longing, the historical rhythm, the emotional tug-of-war that ran through my imagination like threads in an unfinished tapestry.

The "Not a Mentor, But Close Enough" Effect

Here’s the funny thing about mentors: sometimes you don’t realize they’re mentoring you. She didn’t give me a 12-point life plan or send me daily affirmations. Instead, there were a few well-timed conversations—always brief but sharp, like the striking of a match—each time nudging me closer to a realization long overdue.

For instance, when I confessed I was unsure of my writing voice, she said, “Stop looking for your voice. Write honestly, and it will find you.”

When I said my stories felt too “small” for the sweeping kinds of novels publishers loved, she leaned forward with an unexpected fierceness and said, “Small stories are large if they carry truth. Write it like it matters. If not to the world, then to yourself.”

She wasn’t trying to fix me, mold me, or push me in one direction. She simply reflected back to me some version of myself that was worth believing in.

Being Seen in Love vs. Life

This lesson—this idea of being seen—has shaped my relationships in ways I didn’t immediately recognize. After all, it’s one thing to talk about poetry with a professor; it’s another to negotiate how to load a dishwasher properly with someone you love.

In relationships, there’s often this unspoken hunger for validation. We want our partners to see our ambition, our dreams, and even that oddly specific skill of folding dumplings so precisely they could pass for restaurant-level. But being truly seen isn’t just about someone applauding you—it’s about them shining a light on the parts of you you’ve been too scared to show anyone else, including yourself.

It’s finding the friend who says, “Why haven’t you started that podcast yet? You’ve been talking about it for six months.” It’s a romantic partner who nudges you at 11 p.m. to send an email you’ve been procrastinating all week because they know your anxiety will be worse tomorrow. It’s the stranger who leaves a small compliment on your work presentation as if dropping a seed into soil they’ll never return to water.

Funny enough, it can even be the breakup that pushes you toward self-rediscovery—but that’s another article for another day.

Small Moments of Seeing

You don’t have to be someone’s Professor Li to change their life—or to let them change yours. Most transformational moments don’t come with neon signs saying, “Hey, this is huge!” They’re small acts of noticing. Sometimes it’s as simple as saying:

  • “You seem most alive when you talk about your baking experiments. Did you ever think about turning that into a business?”
  • “The way you tell stories… you need to write those down.”
  • “You know, you deserve better than the way your boss treats you.”

These moments aren’t always dramatic or life-changing in the moment. They’re subtle, like a quiet tap on your shoulder that says, "Hey. You’re capable of more."

The Takeaway: Own Your Spotlight

Professor Li didn’t see herself as some mystical guide in my life. She showed up when I needed her voice to amplify my own, then carried on with her own life, probably unaware of the impact she had.

You don’t need a mentor to see you. Sometimes, you can start by seeing yourself—unapologetically. It’s about breaking the surface, peeling back the layers of doubt, and letting someone—whether it’s a friend, a partner, or even yourself—catch a glimpse of where you’re going before you fully get there.

And then? Write. Build. Bake. Love. Show up. Own the crack in the mirror that lets the light in. Life is filled with moments where someone else’s words plant the seed—but at the end of the day, you’re the one holding the shovel.