To Be Seen

For much of my life, I craved being seen-not just noticed, not admired, not even loved in the ways that make for pretty pictures or whispered promises. I longed to be truly seen. To be understood without translation. Held without having to earn it. Chosen, yes, but more than that-recognized. Like someone could look at the full mess of me, the ache and the edge and the tenderness too, and say, “I still see you. I still choose you.” I married twice trying to find that feeling. I poured myself into love like an offering, hoping that my devotion would be enough to anchor me in someone’s gaze. I gave, I served, I stayed - until there was nothing left but the outline of a woman who had forgotten how to hold herself.

But something began to shift this year. Not all at once, and not in a way that would make headlines. It was quieter than that. Slower. Like the soft unraveling of a knot you didn’t know was around your chest. It showed up in unexpected places- in the thick fog of PMDD, when my brain was heavy and my limbs moved like I was underwater. I remember texting H. before we ever had our first coffee date, telling him that I wasn’t quite myself that week, that I was tired and slow and a little raw. And instead of pulling away, he simply said, “Thank you.” Just two words. But I felt the warmth in them. The stillness. The way they didn’t try to fix me, or rescue me, or ask me to perform. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t a fairytale. But it was something better: presence.

That same presence showed up again, months later, on a long walk with my sister. We didn’t talk about milestones or memories that had been edited down to family lore. We talked like women- about our lives, our choices, the versions of ourselves we had become. For the first time, I didn’t lead with advice. I didn’t try to protect her or teach her anything. I just listened. And when I spoke, it was from the softest part of me. The part that has learned that love doesn’t always sound like answers-it often sounds like silence, like space, like saying, “I see you now.”

I’ve always taken pride in being an empath. I’ve always tried to love others deeply, to hold space, to show up with a full heart. But I realize now that for years, I did that while bypassing myself. I wanted to love others into healing, but I hadn’t sat with my own wounds long enough to offer anything but performance. I gave so much-not just out of love, but out of a quiet desperation to be worthy. I didn’t understand that giving without self-acceptance is just another form of hiding. Another mask. Another way to say, “If I make you feel loved, maybe I’ll finally feel seen.”

But healing, it turns out, doesn’t arrive in grand gestures. It sneaks in during the smallest cracks- when we dare to sit with our own discomfort, when we face the parts of ourselves, we’ve tried to edit or erase. It’s only now, after peeling back so many layers in the quiet, that I understand: to truly see others, I must first be willing to see myself. Not just the bright, giving parts. But the tired parts. The angry ones. The lonely ones. The girl who gave too much. The woman who’s still learning to stay.

And strangely, since I began doing that, the world has softened around me.

My conversations feel more real. My connections feel less performative. That lunch with a colleague I barely knew-where we sat across from each other as women, not titles- felt more sacred than most friendships I’ve carried for years. We should have talked about metrics, but instead our sentences unbuttoned themselves: grief, motherhood, the specific journey of becoming at the age of 40. We passed vulnerability back and forth like salt across the table- ordinary, necessary, grounding. When I looked at her, really looked, I realized true seeing is a mirror that reflects both ways: the clearer I am with myself, the clearer you become to me. There was no pretense. Just breath. Just the truth. And somehow, in the absence of needing to be understood, I felt understood.

These days, I feel grateful in ways I never used to notice. Not just for the people who love me, but for the ways I now love myself. For the quiet mornings. For the way my body still wakes up, even after everything. For the fact that I can sit with a hard feeling and not run from it. For the fact that I can cry without shame. Laugh without apology. That I no longer wait for someone else to mirror back my worth-I know it already. Not in a loud, performative way. But in a way that sits in my bones.

I used to think that being seen meant being chosen by someone else. But I know now that the most important gaze is the one I turn inward. Before I can offer true presence to others, I must learn how to stay present with myself. And that is the work. That is the invitation. Not to become perfect- but to become real. To stop abandoning yourself. To look into the mirror, scars and all, and say, “I’m still here. I’m still worthy.”

And maybe that’s what it means to love. Not the kind that performs or proves, but the kind that stays. The kind that sees, without needing to fix. The kind that begins with yourself and radiates outward like light from a quiet fire.

Because once you see yourself clearly, you no longer need someone else’s eyes to tell you who you are.

You already know. Note of Thanks!

To my sister Emie - thank you for walking with me, not just through that quiet neighborhood, but through years of becoming. You saw me not as who I was trying to be, but as I am, and loved me there.

To H, your presence reminds me what real friendship feels like: ease, honesty, and a safe place to land.

To Karthika, thank you for meeting me over lunch not as a title or a role, but as a woman, human to human.

And to everyone who has ever shown up as their full self and made space for mine, your presence has been a mirror and a gift. Thank you for helping me see that I never needed to become anyone else to be loved. I only needed to be me.