The first time I felt seen, really seen, I was sitting at my abuela’s plastic-covered kitchen table, the kind that sticks to your arms when it’s humid out—which in Houston means always. I was nine years old, my second-hand school uniform slightly too tight, and my hair frizzing into a halo of chaos thanks to the Gulf Coast air. My cousin Angie, who was older and cooler simply by existing, leaned across the table, looked at me with her almond-shaped eyes, and said: “Girl, you’re a writer.”
It stopped me mid-bite of my arroz con pollo. A writer? You could do that? My family was full of engineers, nurses, and mechanics—people who worked with their hands, not their imaginations. I didn’t know then how much her offhand comment would shape me. But isn’t that the thing about feeling seen? It doesn’t always come with fireworks; sometimes it’s more like the small flicker of a lighter in a dark room.
Fast forward to my twenties, and I’d lost that light for a while. Between newsroom deadlines, student loan payments, and the occasional existential crisis about whether or not my career was “practical” enough, I felt like I was fading into wallpaper. What’s worse, I was dating someone who preferred me as background décor—someone who quietly resented my stories and rolled his eyes when I brought up yet another idea for a short story collection. (Red flag? No, it was an entire red parade, and I was busy waving the baton.)
It wasn’t until I got serious about who I was—and how I wasn’t showing up as that person—that I started to rediscover the kind of visibility a good partner, or even a good moment, can give you.
Recognizing When You’re Faking It
If I’m honest, it took time to admit I’d become a watered-down version of myself. My ex, a man who thought passion was something reserved for medium salsa, didn’t outright ask me to shrink. But little by little, I found myself minimizing what made me me to keep the peace.
For example:
- I stopped talking about writing around him because he didn’t get it—once, he called my work “cute.” Cute! Like I was doodling in a Lisa Frank notebook.
- I apologized for how loud my family could be, a classic rookie move for anyone from a Latino household. (If your tío isn’t yelling about politics, is it even a get-together?)
- I even started downplaying my culture, tucking my Spanglish away like a secret, so he wouldn’t ask me for the fifth time why my abuela doesn’t just “learn some English.”
Cutting off parts of yourself to fit into someone else's narrative feels like holding your breath underwater. At first, it’s manageable, almost easy, but eventually, you’ll come up gasping.
The Random Road to Feeling Seen
Sometimes, the moment you’re waiting for sneaks up on you. Mine came during an argument about—you guessed it—my writing. My ex was flipping channels, not looking at me, while casually dismissing my idea for a collection of essays about growing up bicultural. “I mean,” he said, “who even cares about that stuff? It’s, like, so niche.”
Cue the record scratch in my brain. Niche? The stories of kids navigating two cultures at once, bouncing between Selena’s "Amor Prohibido" and Destiny’s Child on their CD players (because, yes, I’m dating myself here)? Those stories were my pulse. Dismissing them wasn’t just missing the point—it was missing me.
Later that week, I sat at a coffee shop with my best friend—to debrief, obviously—and spilled it all out between sips of cafecito. “I think I’m dating a beige wall,” I finally admitted, and she just nodded knowingly. It was time to move on.
The True Catalyst: Finding Myself
Here’s the thing people don’t tell you: to really feel seen, you have to see yourself first. After I broke it off with Mr. Beige, there was a gap between the moment I left him and the moment I started to feel visible again. And in that space, I realized how much of me had gone out with the recycling.
So, I wrote. I leaned into my messy, multi-hyphenate identity, from Cuban-Mexican to daughter of immigrants to Spanglish-speaking nerd. I attended open mic nights, even when my palms turned clammy and my voice cracked. I swapped reggaetón playlists with strangers at bookshops because I finally realized I didn’t have to pick between Bad Bunny and Gabriel García Márquez—I could be both.
And somewhere in the mix of saying yes to myself and no to anyone who couldn’t handle my fuego, I found community: people who got it, who got me.
Tips for Taking Up Space in Your Own Life
We’re all on this wild, tangled journey of self-discovery, but if you’re scrolling through this while eating Hot Cheetos in bed, here are a few truths I’ve learned along the way about finding that moment of feeling seen:
-
Embrace Your “Too Much”
Whatever part of you feels “too much” for someone else is probably the best part. Too loud? Too passionate? Too artsy? Those are the ingredients that make you unforgettable. -
Recognize the Mirrors
Good friends and good partners reflect back the best in you. Who makes you feel like the heroine of your own telenovela, not just someone playing a side character? Keep those people close. -
Stop Apologizing
Own where you come from, what you’ve been through, and what you’re reaching for. Whether it’s your culture, your accent, or your quirks—stop sanding down your edges for someone who only loves smooth. -
Try Stuff That Scares You
Sing the karaoke. Write the poem. Submit the idea. For me, pushing through fear in small ways—like standing in front of strangers and reading my work—created ripple effects I couldn’t have imagined.
The Power of Visibility
Sometimes I wonder if nine-year-old me, sitting at that sticky plastic table, could see me now. I think she’d be proud—not because I’ve got it all figured out (spoiler: I don’t), but because I learned that being seen is about showing up as your fullest, brightest self. It’s about finding the people who celebrate you and leaving behind the ones who don’t.
And if that means you’re “too much” for someone, then good. Settle for nothing less than what fills you up. Because when someone really sees you—not just what you bring but who you are—it changes everything. And trust me, you’ll never want to shrink again.
