The first time I felt truly seen wasn’t during what you’d call a grand, cinematic moment. No one was slow-clapping for me in a crowded auditorium. Instead, the moment crept up quietly, like a Lowcountry tide swelling under the marsh grass. And when it arrived, it changed me as profoundly as an ocean reshaping the shore.

I was 24, fresh out of grad school, and still clutching my dreams (and several unpaid parking tickets) like they were mere breaths away from slipping through my fingers. New York City—at least, the version I lived in—was more late-night bodega runs and subway delays than glittering skylines. I was working as an assistant at a small publishing house by day, bartending by night, and trying to conjure my voice as a writer whenever I had two brain cells to rub together. I wasn’t pretending to have it all together, but I’ll admit I was spending a concerning amount of my free time Googling phrases like “quarter-life existential crisis symptoms.”

Back then, I was dating a guy named Marcus. Marcus and I met at a spoken word event in Brooklyn, the kind where candles flicker dangerously close to secondhand scarves. He gestured for me to go ahead of him in the wine line, and before I knew it, we were exchanging numbers. It turned out we had plenty in common: a love of Baldwin, opinions about cornbread recipes, and a mutual disdain for anyone who tried to abbreviate Charleston as “Chucktown.” Marcus was charming, with a voice like velvety darkness, and he had this confident way of tossing around big ideas—except, in hindsight, those big ideas were usually about himself.

The Struggle to Be Recognized

Dating Marcus was like being in an ongoing interview where you’re the candidate and he’s the CEO of all things interesting. I’d nod along as he expounded on the feasibility of his hypothetical documentary or theorized about whether Beyoncé or Solange had the better creative journey. I’d agree and listen and laugh at all the right intervals. But my stories? They floated somewhere in the space between his last point and the next—that is, if I told them at all.

It wasn’t that Marcus wasn’t kind—he certainly could be. But to Marcus, kindness and attention were commodities traded for their return on investment. He’d listen if it could bring him closer to a goal, an idea, or maybe, at best, a better version of himself. I began to feel like an extra in my own life, reduced to faint nods and polite “mmhmms” while I silently wished for just one moment where the spotlight wasn’t so singularly fixed.

One night, a particularly stormy one with raindrops slamming Broadway windows like they had something to prove, Marcus invited me out to dinner to meet his friends. I pulled on my best thrifted trench coat, dragged my tired feet out the door, and braced myself for an evening of nodding, smiling, and probably defending Charleston against someone’s Charleston-lite vacation stories.

The Moment Everything Shifted

Dinner began predictably—Marcus commanding attention, artfully balancing a fork in one hand and a conversation on Kierkegaard in the other. But then, the subject of Charleston came up.

One of his friends, a playful guy with a quick wit, asked, “What’s it really like down there? Not the tourist spiel, the actual scene.”

I paused, caught off guard. Usually, Marcus would jump in here, an “I’ve visited before—it’s beautiful” slight-of-hand that swiftly pivoted the spotlight. But for once, he didn’t. They were waiting. They were waiting… for me.

And so, I began to speak.

I told them about the cobblestones that poke through the streets like stubborn memories, the mornings when the air feels heavy with magnolia blooms and past lives, and my grandparents’ front porch against golden-hour skies. I described the Gullah Geechee melodies that wove through my childhood and the way my grandmother called it “soundtrack music for the soul.” I even mentioned the time I skipped school to watch shrimp boats come in—a tiny rebellion that somehow taught me more about the weight of responsibility than my textbooks ever could.

As I spoke, something shifted in the air. They weren’t just listening—they were absorbing me. They asked questions, laughed at my humor, and even pushed their bowls of gumbo aside to dive deeper into my stories. Their curiosity felt real, like the gentle tug of a tide, and for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t an “also.” I wasn’t the person in the margins of my own life. I was at the center.

Marcus muttered something about Charleston being on his “bucket list,” as if attempting a reclaim. But it didn’t matter. In that moment, he could have been a passing car horn blaring down the street while I was under a canopy of stars.

Recognizing the Difference

That dinner cracked something open in me. For the first time, it clicked: I didn't need to yell to be heard, but I deserved to be valued. I deserved to sit at tables with people who cared about more than how well I could affirm them. And I deserved to love—and be loved by—someone curious enough to lean into my existence, not just paw at its edges.

It took a bit longer for Marcus and me to drift apart. Relationships rarely end in the same flash-bang energy of their climactic realizations. But when it was finally over, I walked away knowing who I was, and more importantly, knowing what it felt like to be truly seen.

Because there’s a difference: Being seen isn’t about doling out acceptance for the curated parts of yourself. It’s about someone taking a closer look, turning over your stories like treasures and inspecting the mismatched pieces with reverence instead of dismissal.

Takeaways for the Journey

If you’re still searching for someone who sees you for your full self, here’s what I’ve learned along the way:

  • Hold Space for Yourself First: Before asking someone else to see you, make sure you’re seeing yourself. Lean into your quirks, your passions, and those stories only you can tell. Confidence begins where comparison ends.
  • Read the Room: If someone is perpetually more interested in themselves than you, that’s not “intellectual depth”—that’s emotional shallowness. You shouldn’t need to wrestle for airtime in your own relationship.
  • Measure the Effort: Being seen is reciprocal. The best connections mirror effort like a dance: both people meeting in the middle, exchanging leads, and growing in sync.
  • Never Fear Your Spotlight: Your voice, your stories, and your legacy? They’re worth sharing. Don’t dim your light to make anyone else shine brighter.

The Empowering Conclusion

We spend so much of our lives wondering if we’re enough for someone else. But the real question is—are they enough for you?

When you find the people who see you—not just the Instagram-highlighted or buttoned-up versions of you but the messy, beautiful intricacies—you’ll know. And from that moment on, you’ll never settle for less.