Open Tabs

It’s one of those quotes that I keep coming back to because I think about it differently every time I hear it. The older I get, the more I think that being seen and being loved aren’t actually separate things.

Anyone can say they love you. Your parents can love you. Your friends can love you. Someone can love you and still not really know you.

I don’t know why, but that thought has always bothered me.

Because if you don’t know me, do you really love me? Or do you love the version of me you’ve created in your head?

I’ve noticed that a lot of people use “love you” or “love ya” almost as another way of saying thank you or I appreciate you. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’ve never been able to do it.

For me, those words have always felt heavier than that.

Other than family, I’ve probably said “I love you” to fewer than five people in my entire life.

I think that’s because I’ve always associated love with truly knowing someone. Not just liking them. Not just appreciating them. Knowing them.

When I think about being seen, I don’t mean being noticed. I think people confuse those two things all the time. Being noticed is someone remembering your name. Being seen is someone remembering your coffee order. Being noticed is someone knowing your birthday. Being seen is someone remembering that birthdays secretly matter to you even though you pretend they don’t.

Being noticed is easy. Being seen requires paying attention. It requires caring enough to remember.

For me, I’ve never really felt truly seen.

Of course my family loves me. I’ve never doubted that. But do they know me? Truly know me? Or do they only know what I tell them instead of what they actually see and observe?

That’s where a lot of this comes from.

Growing up, it often felt like people had already decided who I was before I had the chance to explain myself. I wasn’t the easiest kid. I argued. I pushed back. I made mistakes. But sometimes it felt like every mistake became part of my identity. Like once people decided you were difficult, that’s all they could see.

Being misunderstood for long enough makes being understood feel like the most valuable thing in the world.

That’s probably why I pay so much attention to little things.

My coworker Toby likes Skittles, but specifically the tropical ones. She doesn’t like the orange flavor. Caroline, who I now call Clover, has a clover tattoo on her right arm. Her favorite color is green. Her name starts with a C.

None of these things are particularly important, but I remember them anyway.

On people’s birthdays, I put them in my calendar and schedule a text message for midnight. Part of it is because I want to be the first person to wish them a happy birthday. But another part of it is because I want them to know somebody remembered.

Sometimes I wish someone would do that for me.

I think that’s why I’ve spent so much of my life looking for my person.

Not necessarily a boyfriend. Not necessarily a best friend. Just someone.

Someone who gets it.

Someone who understands me without me having to explain every little thing.

Someone who sees me.

I’ve had school friends, sports friends, work friends, and people I spent hours with every day because life happened to put us in the same place. But I’ve never really had someone who felt like my person.

I’ve never really had a best friend.

The kind of person you call first.

The kind of person who knows all the little things.

The kind of person who chooses you.

At this point in my 21 years of life, I will literally take anyone.

That sounds pathetic. Maybe it is. But it’s true.

And yes, being single bothers me too.

I hate being alone.

I hate feeling like everyone else has found their person while I’m still looking for mine.

Some days it doesn’t bother me at all. Other days it feels like the only thing I can think about.

I don’t think what I’m jealous of is romance. I think I’m jealous of connection.

The feeling that somewhere in the world there is someone who sees you and chooses you anyway.

I’ve always been jealous of people who seem to make friends so effortlessly. Not acquaintances. Actual friends. The kind who remember birthdays without being reminded. The kind who knows exactly what to say when something goes wrong. The kind who choose each other over and over again.

I find myself wondering the same thing every time.

How do people find that?

Not the gift.

Not the gesture.

The person.

How do they find the person?

That’s why I’ve never been able to stop thinking about that quote.

To be loved is to be seen.

I don’t think what I’ve been looking for all these years is perfection, popularity, or even romance. I think I’ve just been looking for someone who knows the little things. Someone who notices. Someone who remembers. Someone who sees me the way I try to see everyone else.