The first time I truly felt seen wasn’t in some grand, cinematic moment where someone looked into my soul, declared me an enigma worth unraveling, and we rode off into the sunset. Nope. It was simpler, quieter—like a lone coyote yipping under a Wyoming moon, unbothered and unapologetically itself.

The moment happened on a bitterly cold Tuesday in late December at Star Valley Elementary’s Winter Open House. I was nine years old, sporting a hand-me-down puffy coat that made me look like an off-brand marshmallow mascot. My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Chambers, had hosted what she called a “Creative Showcase,” a night where kids displayed their best work from the year so far. For most kids, it was poster-board projects about volcanoes or drawings of lopsided stick figures. But for me? I had carefully laid out all my sketchbooks filled with pencil drawings of elk, hawks, and the occasional low-effort squirrel.

To my classmates, these weren’t a big deal—most of their nights were spent bouncing between Nickelodeon marathons and trying not to eat Play-Doh. But to me, those drawings were everything. They were hours of sitting out in the barn with mittens split at the fingertips so my pencil and thumb could find common ground and make art. They were my heart and my hands saying, “This is how I see the world.”

As the night dragged on, I sat by my little exhibit, shivering in that marshmallow jacket, waiting for any signs of interest. Parents passed by with distracted “Oh, that’s cute” comments, as if grazing through an art gallery of macaroni-glue disasters. Kids I knew from recess were more interested in showing off their snow boots than my careful shading of a bull moose.

And then came Mr. Leland.

There’s Always That Person: Meeting Your “Mr. Leland”

He wasn’t anyone special to most people in Star Valley—just an older rancher with a weathered Stetson, a cowboy gait, and boots that were probably older than my entire class combined. But to me, he was the local legend. It wasn’t just the decades he spent wrangling rowdy livestock or his hilarious habit of cursing under his breath when he thought no one noticed. He had a reputation for knowing these mountains—truly knowing them.

Mr. Leland made his way to my table that night amidst the hum of small talk and cider-drinking parents. I assumed he’d glance at my drawings out of obligation, mutter something polite, and move on. Instead, his leathery hand rested on the edge of my sketchbook as he leaned down to examine the image of a hawk mid-glide.

“You get this just watchin’ ‘em?” he asked, gesturing at the wingspan I’d penciled in careful detail.

I nodded, nerves knotting up faster than a tangled fishing line. “Yeah. Tried to catch them when they fly over the ridge.”

He raised a thick gray eyebrow and looked down at me—truly looked. His expression wasn’t one of humoring politeness or casual indifference. It was something warmer, more reverent, like he’d just discovered a song he didn’t know he loved.

“You got that bone-deep patience, kid,” he said after a moment. “Most people don’t bother to see how things move, let alone bother to put it to paper.”

And just like that, it hit me. This wasn’t some rehearsed grown-up praise. This was Mr. Leland—the crustiest, most no-nonsense man I knew—seeing me for the first time. Not just the quiet kid with palmed pencils, but someone capable of capturing the subtle arc of a hawk’s wing. For the first time, I felt recognized in a way that had nothing to do with grades, popularity, or whatever fourth-grade status symbols were trending. He saw me. And in a world that constantly told me to “just color inside the lines,” Mr. Leland quietly handed me permission to sketch beyond them.

What Feeling Seen Taught Me About Relationships

It took me years to appreciate how deeply that moment shaped me. Looking back, I realize it wasn’t just about the validation. Feeling seen goes beyond hearing “Good job” or having your talents acknowledged. It’s about being understood—not just for what you do—but for how you see and experience the world. And honestly? That’s the kind of magic we hope to find in relationships, whether romantic, platonic, or in the accidental friendship with the rancher who smells like pine tar.

Here’s why that insight matters—and what I’ve learned when it comes to relationships:

1. Everyone Wants to Be Seen, but Few Know How to Show Themselves

No one’s walking around with a neon sign announcing their innermost quirks and desires (though admittedly, that would make first dates a whole lot easier). Letting people see you means dropping the act—the one where you try to be more accomplished, funnier, or whatever you think the world expects. It’s terrifying but worth it.

  • Stop curating “highlight reels” in relationships, whether on social media or during deep conversations. Vulnerability is the clearest shortcut to being seen.

  • It’s okay if not everyone notices. After all, not everyone at my showcase stopped to look at those hawks. You don’t need attention from the crowd—just connection with the right person.

2. Recognition Isn’t About Flattery—It’s About Depth

A shallow compliment is like instant coffee—it scratches the surface, but it doesn’t warm your bones. What Mr. Leland gave me that night wasn’t a pat on the back for effort. It was a full-on acknowledgment that what I’d shown mattered. Truly seeing someone means digging deeper.

Questions to ask yourself in relationships: - Am I complimenting someone’s essence, or just their shiny exterior? - Do I take note of the smaller, quieter things about people—their favorite wildflowers, the songs they hum absentmindedly—or am I gliding at surface level?

3. Don’t Wait for the World to See You—Show Yourself

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned—from art, life, and, occasionally, dating—is that waiting quietly in the corner (or an ice-cold elementary gymnasium) hoping to be noticed isn’t a good strategy. No one can see you if you’re buried in your own nervousness or self-doubt. The first step to feeling seen is putting yourself out there.

Here’s the secret: If people reject the parts of you that feel authentic, they’re not your people.

4. Being Seen Feels Great. But Seeing Others? That’s the Real Gift

What if we all made it our mission to be someone else’s Mr. Leland? It’s easier than you think—asking someone questions about what they love, noticing why they light up when they talk about their weirdly specific hobbies, and recognizing the effort in their smallest gestures.

Practicing this has changed how I show up in relationships. It’s not rocket science; it’s asking your partner, “What’s one thing this week that you wish someone noticed?” and then actually noticing.

The Takeaway: Go Be Someone’s “Mr. Leland”

That night at the elementary open house ends in my memory with Mr. Leland patting me on the back and saying, “Keep at it, kid.” I went home that night, climbed into bed, and for the first time, I dreamed not about hawks or bison, but of belonging. That’s the feeling being seen gives you—the sense that you, like everyone else, occupy your special place in this otherwise chaotic world.

As I’ve waded through seasons of relationships since then, I’ve learned this: The best connections aren’t built on grand gestures or glittering profiles—they’re built on seeing each other in the small, quiet ways. Whether it’s a trail ride into the Wyoming wilderness or navigating a grocery store aisle with a partner, there’s magic in saying, “Hey—I see you.”

So, go see someone today. Or let someone see you. Either way, it’s worth it.