I was 26 when I first felt truly understood, truly seen, and it wasn’t on a windswept cliff in Acadia or beside an old lobster shack with the Atlantic at my back. No, it happened in the most mundane place imaginable: during a potluck dinner in someone’s living room, the kind of living room with a slightly lopsided bookshelf, mismatched throw pillows, and five coats piled onto a single chair. But isn’t that always the way? The big, life-changing moments like to sneak up on you in the least cinematic of settings.

We’d been asked to bring something “representative of ourselves” to the potluck. A pretty presumptuous ask for a group of people who barely knew each other—but, hey, this was Portland, Maine, a place where strangers bond over things like fermented sourdough starters and whether oat milk foam qualifies as pretentious.

I made pie. Specifically, a wild blueberry pie, buttery and imperfectly latticed, the way my mom taught me when I was eight and trying to help her feed a particularly forthright set of Belgian tourists staying at our bed-and-breakfast. Wild blueberries are smaller than your average store-bought ones, a bit tart, and they tend to stain your fingers as you sort through them. They were local, scrappy, and unapologetically Maine—qualities I’ve always hoped described me, too.

When I set the pie down on the table, surrounded by serious contenders like homemade ramen and vegan charcuterie, that’s when it happened. There was this guy, Matt, who up until then had been half-heartedly sipping kombucha and fiddling with the sleeves of his Patagonia jacket. He looked at the pie like it was the most extraordinary thing in the world. “Wait, is that wild blueberry?” he asked with the excitement of someone who’d just discovered his favorite obscure band was playing a secret show.

And then, with a grin that could probably power a lighthouse, he said: “This is Maine in a pie.”

The Moment It Clicked

Before Matt’s blueberry epiphany, I’d always felt like there was a certain… translation issue when it came to how I presented myself to the world. I wasn’t flashy. I wasn’t the type to dazzle at parties by quoting Pablo Neruda or listing my favorite Wes Anderson films. I didn’t have a curated Instagram aesthetic unless you counted pictures of foggy harbors and the occasional incriminating shot of me devouring a lobster roll. I’m more low tide than high glamor, more sea salt than sparkle.

Growing up in Bar Harbor instilled this soft-spoken practicality in me. As a kid, I was the one who tied up muddy hiking boots and built driftwood forts, not someone to command attention in a crowded room. So when Matt made that small but perfect comment about my blueberry pie, it was the first time I felt someone truly saw all the messy little pieces of me—the Maine-girl sides, the everything-from-scratch philosophy, the stubborn love for things that grow wild and free—and just… got it.

It wasn’t a poetic confession of love or a fireworks-in-the-sky moment. It was a sentence, casually tossed out like a pebble into a quiet pond. But the ripples lingered. I realized it wasn’t about him seeing just my pie-making skills or my connection to Maine’s terrain; it was about him recognizing something essential in me. He saw where I came from, and by extension, who I really was. That kind of clarity feels like sunlight breaking through a foggy harbor morning.

Why Feeling “Seen” Matters

Feeling seen is about more than a one-off moment of validation or a superficial compliment. It’s the recognition of your true self—the raw, unsanitized version you sometimes think is too quirky, too quiet, or too "out there" to fit in. It’s what transforms relationships from surface-level niceties to something authentic and grounding.

Here’s the thing: building connections where you feel genuinely seen takes work. You have to put yourself out there, latticed pie crusts (or their equivalent) and all. And it goes the other way, too. Seeing others for who they truly are means looking beyond curated selves, Instagram filters, or tidy categories like “coffee enthusiast” or “dog mom.” It’s about digging deeper, paying attention, and asking questions that crack the surface.

Some mini-lessons I’ve picked up along the way:

  • Lead with what matters to you. I could’ve just brought a Generic Grocery Store Cheesecake to that potluck, but sharing something homemade—something that reflected my roots—was a way of saying, “This is me, take it or leave it.” Vulnerability can be scary, but it’s also the magnetic force that draws like-minded souls closer.

  • Look for the human fingerprints. Whether it’s paying attention to how someone decorates their space, what music lights up their face, or what memories they share with you, the people who feel seen are the ones who know you’re paying attention. Sometimes “I see you” is as simple as noticing their favorite concert tee or asking why they chose to tattoo a specific constellation on their ankle.

  • Resist performing. There’s a lot of pressure to present a polished, “best-self” version to the world. But staying true to yourself—even when it feels lo-fi or unremarkable—is the only way to build relationships that matter. You don’t have to be a showstopper to be appreciated.

The Aftermath: Connection Built on a Crust

Spoiler: Matt and I didn’t end up walking off into the lobster-brushed Maine sunset together. That night, we shared pie slices and swapped stories about hiking trails gone wrong (he once got lost in Baxter State Park; I told him about the time I slipped off a wet boulder and ended up soaking wet and covered in moss). Ultimately, he was less a forever person and more a fleeting lesson about what it feels like to shine under someone else’s kind gaze.

And that’s okay. Not every connection is meant to last a lifetime. What matters is how those moments, however short, can shift something inside of you. Like how Matt’s one simple, genuine reaction led me to walk through the world with more confidence in myself—not just in what I offer but in who I am.

Why Every Pie Deserves a Place on the Table

Whether you’re sharing pie, playlist suggestions, or deeply nerdy facts about ancient tree rings (a personal favorite of mine), being seen starts with showing up as you are, unvarnished and unpolished. And if, along the way, someone recognizes that, it’s one of the greatest affirmations this life has to offer.

So bring your version of the wild blueberry pie to life’s potluck, metaphorically or literally. Because the world needs more connections that honor the small, specific truths of who we are—and fewer that leave us feeling like we need to fit a mold that was never ours to begin with.