I was the third child in a bustling Italian-American household of six — “three boys and three girls!” my parents would declare with pride, as if symmetry itself ensured stability. Ours was a world of routines and responsibilities. Chores were shared like a birthright, and our family life pulsed with a rhythm of constant motion. And yet, within all that commotion, I found myself longing for stillness — for a space to be, not just to do.
It was in those quiet, stolen moments that I first discovered something vital: the human need to be seen, truly seen. Not in the spotlight or as part of a lineup, but in the quiet recognition of our individuality — the sense that we matter.
A Child’s Closet, A Sanctuary
One of my earliest memories of solitude was hiding in the closet of my childhood bedroom. Clothes draped around me like curtains on a stage I didn’t want to perform on. With my knees hugged to my chest, I’d peer through the wooden slats, listening to the muffled sounds of family life. I wasn’t running away — I was retreating into myself, carving out space where I could simply exist.
That closet became both sanctuary and mirror. In its silence, I could listen to the questions my young self didn’t yet have words for: “Do they know I’m gone? Do I matter if no one sees me?”
Eventually, I’d slip out and rejoin the world, unnoticed — as though I’d never left. But the imprint of that solitude stayed with me. It was my first lesson in the paradox of presence: how one can feel completely alone in a crowd, and yet be so vibrantly alive when alone with oneself.
Belonging Begins Within
As I grew older, I began to understand that the yearning to be seen wasn’t unique to me — it’s a thread that weaves through all of us. We crave acknowledgement, not out of ego, but out of the deep human desire to connect.
Br. David Steindl-Rast once said, “To live means to be in relationship, and that requires love in action.” But how do we show up for others when we haven’t yet shown up for ourselves?
The work of belonging starts internally. It’s not just about fitting in, but about standing in our truth, even when — especially when — that truth feels fragile. We must first see ourselves before we can ask others to do the same.
The Caregiver’s Burden
My childhood inclination toward nurturing evolved into an emotional caregiving role during adolescence, particularly when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was barely a teenager, yet already carrying more than my share of emotional weight.
It was during these years that I developed an eating disorder — not as a choice, but as a coping mechanism. I didn’t know how to reconcile the enormity of caring for someone I loved so deeply, while neglecting myself in the process. That imbalance between external caretaking and internal depletion would become a silent thread running through much of my early adulthood.
Finding the Courage to Be Seen
The turning point came quietly, with the gentle urging of a college friend who suggested I try therapy. I was skeptical and scared — weighed down by the stigma surrounding mental health. But something in me said yes.
That first session was the beginning of a decades-long journey through self-exploration, vulnerability, and ultimately, healing. With the guidance of a compassionate therapist, I began to peel away layers of performance and perfectionism. I discovered that true healing doesn’t mean eliminating pain — it means learning to live in its presence with honesty, grace, and compassion.
Therapy taught me to let myself be seen — not the version of me that had it all together, but the raw, uncertain, beautiful mess beneath. And in doing so, I finally understood: I mattered, not because of what I did for others, but because I existed.
The Seal at the Shoreline
Years later, while walking along the beach, I saw a seal rise from the water, resting proud and still on the shore. We locked eyes, and for a fleeting moment, something passed between us. Recognition. Presence. Mutual witnessing. It felt like the seal was saying, “I’m here. Do you see me?”
Yes, I did. And maybe it saw me, too.
That moment, like so many others, reminded me that the need to be seen is universal — not just for people, but for all living things. To be seen is to be acknowledged. To be acknowledged is to belong. And to belong is to heal.
Surfacing Again and Again
Life has not been a straight path — it rarely is. There have been moments of heartbreak and of elation, of falling down and rising again. But through it all, I’ve learned that visibility is not a one-time achievement. It’s a practice — a daily invitation to matter, to show up for ourselves with courage and kindness.
As I continue this journey, I hold fast to the idea that seeing and being seen is a sacred exchange. Whether it’s in the eyes of a loved one, a therapist, or a seal on a beach — those moments of connection stitch us back together when we feel frayed.
And so, I walk forward, one step at a time, continually accepting the invitation to matter.