Feeling Seen and Being Seen
For my birthday this year, my husband, our toddler, and I took a trip to Japantown in San Francisco. It was a last-minute plan, but it fulfilled two crucial things:
We decided not to go to Japan this year, like we thought we would. So, at least I’d get a glimpse of the culture through Japantown.
One of the biggest things I was excited about with Japan would have been the stationery. Japantown has two floors of shops that specialize in Japanese books and supplies.
I love stationery.
It might be the Virgo in me, but it’s so satisfying to have certain notebooks designated to different roles depending on their size and layout. Thirty-two was all about starting my journal ecosystem. Thirty-three is going to be about evolving it. Improving it. Adapting it to fit my writing needs and goals.
I’ve spent months watching videos, researching, and geeking out over different planners, fountain pens, writing accessories, stamps, inks, etc. I daydreamed, checked prices, and added items to wishlists.
I’m not the kind of girl who drops a bunch of money on things and uses her birthday as an excuse. Normally.
Enter: Maido & Kinokuniya.
Or, more like—
Entering the store: Me. Big-eyed, kid-in-a-candystore, me.
I spotted brands and items that I had only ever seen online. They’d always existed for me behind a screen, so they almost felt like myths. Unattainable somethings that I could only dream of and aspire to. The tools of a more successful, more worthy version of myself.
My restrained excitement must have been apparent because, as I practically used my toddler as a tiny human shield to keep me from the temptation to buy everything, my husband reminded me of the reasons we came here. No, not the ones I mentioned before. His were:
This is an opportunity to indulge in something I love and am passionate about on a special day—my birthday.
We came all this way. So make it worthwhile.
That was all I needed to hear.
Every time I walked out with a bag full of goodies, I braced myself for buyer’s remorse. Just as it would start to rear its head, I’d meet up with my husband, who waited patiently outside each store with the stroller, and he’d see my bag and smile proudly.
That night, as I pulled everything out of my shopping bags, he wanted to hear about each one. He doesn’t quite share my passion for stationery, but there he sat, happily listening to me geek out over each item and my very-Virgo plans for them.
Then came the time each evening when I get a moment alone. It’s brief, and I have to be judicious in how I use it, but tonight I would be placing all my new goodies in their homes. As I did so, the idea popped into my head to post a video on social media about all the things I bought. Maybe I’d do product reviews or an unboxing or swatching or whatever people may want to see.
But something about that didn’t feel right to me.
My cup was already full.
Not because I was being seen by an audience, gaining followers, or getting likes.
But because I already felt seen.
My husband sees the small things in our day-to-day that bring me joy. He listens to what I gravitate toward time and time again. He may not understand or share my adoration of stationery, but he supports and fosters it because it means supporting and nurturing me.
I felt seen because I am loved.
This made me reflect on my motives for social media. The stats, likes, comments, and followers feel good, sure. Someone is giving me (hopefully positive) attention, which isn’t inherently bad.
It just isn’t the same thing as being known.
There’s a difference.
To feel seen is to have someone see us for who we are, past our curated appearances, in even the smallest ways that have grand meaning to us.
It’s the moments in which we realize that pieces of who we are have found their way into the world beyond ourselves, beyond our bodies, and have been embraced by the people who love us most.
It’s the way carnations remind me of my grandmother.
The way the color navy makes me think of my dad.
The way succulents bring to mind my mom.
The way apples make me think of my son.
The way wooden benches remind me of my husband.
The way a fountain pen reminded him of me.
To be seen is, well, to be looked at.
To feel seen is to know that someone loves you.
