The People Who Know You

In the last issue, we talked about the versions of ourselves we learn to become. The strong one. The responsible one. The achiever. The one who holds it together.

But those versions don't only shape how we see ourselves.

They shape how other people learn to see us too.

If you've spent years showing everybody, I've got it, eventually people believe you.

If you solve your own problems before anybody even knows there was a problem, people stop asking if you need help.

If every "How are you?" gets an "I'm good," people assume you're good.

If you're always the person everyone calls when something goes wrong, people get used to thinking of you as the person who has the answers, not the person who might need someone too.

Not necessarily because they don't care.

They've simply learned how to know you based on what you've shown them.

And after enough time, that version of you can become so familiar that nobody thinks to question it. Sometimes not even you.

You become the friend who always has it together. The daughter who can handle herself. The partner who doesn't need much. The sibling everybody calls. The coworker who will figure it out.

Meanwhile, there may be an entire internal life happening underneath all of that.

Things you're unsure about.

Things you're afraid to say out loud.

Needs you haven't expressed.

Questions you don't have answers to yet.

Parts of yourself that don't fit quite as neatly into the version everyone expects.

That doesn't mean the people in your life don't know you at all.

They know the version of you that keeps showing up.

And if you're changing, growing, and giving yourself permission to be more than that version, eventually something else has to change too.

You have to give the people you trust something new to know.

Here's where things get a little uncomfortable.

Most of us would love to be known without having to explain ourselves.

We want the friend who hears something different in our voice and says, "No for real, how are you really doing?"

The partner who notices we've been quiet all evening.

The person who remembers the thing we mentioned three weeks ago and texts, "How did that go?"

We want somebody to notice.

And honestly, it feels really good when they do.

There's something special about not having to explain every single thing to someone who knows you well.

But we can take that expectation too far.

Sometimes we say "I'm fine" and secretly hope somebody knows that's the furthest thing from the truth.

We get quiet and wait for somebody to ask what's wrong.

We have a terrible week, don't tell anybody, and then feel some type of way when nobody checks on us.

Meanwhile, everybody thinks we're fine.

At some point, being known requires us to participate in being known.

Sometimes you have to say the thing.

Shit has been pretty fucked up lately.

I know I usually handle this stuff myself, but I need some help this time.

That hurt my feelings.

I'm scared AF.

I literally have no clue what I'm doing.

Those aren't dramatic statements.

But when you're used to being the person who handles things, they can feel enormous.

Because "I'll figure it out" is familiar.

"I need you" is not.

And letting someone see you before you've figured everything out means giving up a little control over how they experience you.

They might see you cry.

They might not know exactly what to say.

You might have to explain what you need.

It might even feel awkward.

That's part of it.

Being known isn't something another person can do to you.

You have to let them in.

Here's the strange thing about changing.

Sometimes you change before your relationships do.

You've gotten better at saying no, but your family still calls you first when something needs to be handled.

You've realized you don't actually want to be the strong one all the time, but your friends still describe you as the one who "always has it together."

You've started wanting more honesty and depth in your relationships, but you're still giving everybody the same "I'm good" you've been giving them for years.

People can love you deeply and still be relating to an older version of you.

And sometimes that's because they haven't caught up.

But sometimes it's because you keep introducing yourself as the person you've always been.

You don't need to sit everybody down and announce that you're entering a new era.

You can let people meet you differently in much smaller ways.

Answer the question honestly instead of automatically saying you're fine.

Call the friend before you've already solved the problem.

Say what you want instead of hoping somebody figures it out.

Admit that you don't know.

Let somebody do something for you without immediately taking over because they're not doing it the way you would.

Tell someone, "Actually, I could use some help."

These aren't huge declarations.

They're small opportunities for the people you trust to know more of you.

In the last issue, we talked about giving yourself permission to keep becoming.

Maybe this is part of it too.

Not just becoming someone different in private.

But allowing the people who love you to meet you.

You might be surprised by who has been waiting for the introduction.