There’s nothing quite like the moment someone sees past your surface and makes you feel like you matter. It’s a little like being chosen in a Netflix algorithm sea—finally, someone says, Yes, you. You’re binge-worthy. For me, that moment came under fluorescent lights in a high school newsroom, where a teacher named Ms. Alvarez changed the trajectory of my life.

I grew up in Houston’s East End, in a corner of the city where salsa was the background music to Saturday chores, and family gatherings were novelas of their own. My Cuban-Mexican universe was vibrant but, if I’m honest, predictable. My role? Get good grades, help my abuela press tamales during the holidays, and maybe—if I was lucky—follow my dad’s dream of becoming an engineer. But then came Ms. Alvarez, the woman who cracked me open like a cascarón, spilling out confetti I didn’t even know was there.

The Homework That Changed Everything

Ms. Alvarez oversaw the school newspaper, and I ended up in her class entirely by accident. I’d signed up for an elective I thought was easy—a break from my rigorous math and physics courses. Instead, I landed in Journalism 101 with a roomful of kids who took words as seriously as my mom takes La Virgen de Guadalupe.

“Your first assignment,” Ms. Alvarez said, scanning the room with the intensity of a reality show judge, “is to write a piece about something unique to you. Make me feel it, like I’m there.” The room groaned, but I stared blankly at my notebook. What was “unique” about me? I mean, sure, my family threw epic quinceañeras and made killer arroz con pollo, but what did that have to do with journalism?

That night, I agonized at my kitchen table. My abuela took pity on me, sliding over a plateful of pan dulce while gossiping about the neighbor who machete-trimmed his lawn on Sundays. And that was when it hit me—I’d grown up in a house overflowing with stories. What if I wrote about that?

My essay was called “The House That Never Sleeps,” a love letter to my family’s chaos, from backyard domino games to my cousins’ midnight telenovela marathons. When I handed it in, I half-expected Ms. Alvarez to roll her eyes and suggest I stick to math. Instead, her feedback was cryptic but exhilarating: “You’re a storyteller, Ileana.”

Seeing Yourself Through Someone Else’s Lens

Here’s the thing: sometimes you can't see what’s sparkling inside you because your internal mirror is scratched up by societal expectations, academic pressures, or that one time someone laughed when you said you wanted to be a poet. But when someone else lifts up the mirror for you, suddenly it’s less distorted. That’s what Ms. Alvarez did for me. She saw potential I was too busy downplaying.

The newspaper became my sanctuary. I learned that words had power—not only to inform but to connect in ways my introverted self never thought possible. Reporting on local events in our community, I felt a deep pride in capturing stories others might overlook. From quinceañeras to the tamale-making competitions held at church, these were my moments to remind people, Hey, your story matters.

Ms. Alvarez didn’t stop at inspiration; she was my coach, my editor, my loudest cheerleader. She taught me that words could shape a future not just for me, but for anyone reading them. When senior year came around, and I nervously confessed I wanted to study journalism instead of engineering, she said, “Good. We don’t need another engineer. We need you.” I cried in her classroom after that—a private ugly cry, not the cinematic kind—but I emerged empowered.

How to Spot Your Ms. Alvarez

Not everyone has a Ms. Alvarez sitting at the head of a classroom, which is a tragedy. But you can find people who’ll see you in ways you can’t see yourself yet. Here’s how to identify them:

  • They Nudge Without Pushing: The best people don’t force you to change. They gently hold up a brighter possibility and let you take the leap. Ms. Alvarez didn’t tell me my life was wrong; she simply pointed out a different path.

  • They Celebrate Your Wins (Loudly): Whether it’s a sixth-grade-level poem or a Pulitzer-worthy profile, they’ll make you feel like the most accomplished person in the room. Your worth isn’t conditional on their approval—it’s amplified by it.

  • They’re Unshakably Honest: Ms. Alvarez once scribbled, “This metaphor is a train-wreck,” on my draft. Sure, it stung, but her honesty sharpened me. She believed my work deserved no sugarcoating—and that kind of faith changes you.

  • They Make Themselves Available: One of the last things Ms. Alvarez wrote me before graduation was, “Let me know when you need me—because you will.” True to her word, she answered every email from my frantic college years, even when all I wanted was reassurance about a botched article for my campus paper.

Paying The Vision Forward

So, what happens when someone sees you? More importantly, what happens when they teach you to see yourself? For me, the answer has been to pass it on.

As a writer now, it’s my mission to spotlight stories that are often overlooked—stories about love, identity, culture, and finding your rhythm in chaos. For all the people who feel as invisible as I once felt, I want my words to hand them their own moment of confetti-spilled possibility. I want them to think, If she can write this, maybe my story is worth telling too.

And listen, dear reader: you don’t have to become a writer to honor the person who saw you. Celebrate them by becoming the mirror for someone else. Maybe it’s your sibling struggling with self-doubt, your best friend who downplays their talent, or a coworker shrinking in a corner when they’re full of brilliant ideas. Be the person who cracks their shell open, one comment, action, or encouragement at a time.

You’re Someone’s Bright Spot

As I look back now, I realize Ms. Alvarez didn’t just teach me about journalism or storytelling. She gave me permission to take up space in a world where willingness to dream often feels like rebellion. That’s a power we can all share with someone else, even in the tiniest exchanges.

Because seeing someone? Truly seeing them? That’s how you light the fire that makes them believe they deserve a seat at the table—or, heck, that they can build the table themselves. So, here’s your gentle nudge: Who’s the person you’ll see today? Maybe the next Ms. Alvarez—or Ileana—is waiting for you to notice them too.

Be brave enough to see them. Be bold enough to tell them. And don’t forget, your story matters too.