One of the healthiest relationships I’ve ever had with a man wasn’t romantic.
He was my boss.
I’ve written about him. I’ve praised him many times to others. Not because he’s perfect, but because he has consistently done something that has changed my life.
He’s seen me.
He’s seen leadership when I saw intensity.
He’s seen potential when I saw problems.
He’s seen gifts when I saw liabilities.
He’s seen value when I struggled to see it myself.
Looking back, I think that relationship has shaped me more than I realized.
Because once you’ve experienced being truly seen, it’s difficult to settle for anything less.
And perhaps that’s why I’ve spent so much of my life feeling disappointed.
Not because men didn’t notice me.
Because many of them did.
The problem was that being noticed and being seen are not the same thing.
Several years ago, I had a blowout with a friend.
The argument started over sexual humor.
Or at least that’s what it looked like on the surface.
The truth is that years of frustration came pouring out of me all at once.
I was tired of being talked over.
Tired of being dismissed.
Tired of feeling like what I was actually trying to say wasn’t being heard.
Later, I wrote in my Notes app that I had unleashed a torrent of anger toward every man who had looked at me but not seen me, heard me but not listened to me.
At the time, I thought I was angry.
Now I think I was grieving.
Because what I wanted wasn’t attention.
It was understanding.
There was another man we’ll call Tom.
Tom was old enough to be my father.
We met through AA.
After one meeting where I shared vulnerably about the pain I was experiencing in some of my closest relationships, Tom sought me out.
He encouraged me.
He hugged me.
He called to check on me.
He seemed to genuinely care.
When he helped me with some work on my property, I invited him to lunch to thank him.
I showed up as Leah the friend.
Leah who appreciated his help.
Leah who appreciated his encouragement.
Leah who believed this older man was simply in her corner.
Then he mentioned that our lunch was a secret.
From his wife.
From his sponsor.
The explanation that followed left me stunned.
AA is a program built on rigorous honesty.
Tom quoted the Big Book and the Twelve and Twelve with ease. He sponsored other men. He was someone people looked to for wisdom.
And yet there he sat, proposing the possibility of an affair.
What hurt wasn’t the proposition.
What hurt was the realization that we weren’t standing in the same relationship.
I thought he saw a friend.
He saw a possibility.
I thought he saw a person.
He saw an opportunity.
I thought he saw my heart.
And suddenly I wasn’t sure what he saw at all.
Years earlier, my first husband and I reconnected briefly and talked about our lives since our divorce.
At one point he told me I was the only woman he had never cheated on.
I think he genuinely meant it as a compliment.
I think he expected me to feel honored.
Instead, I felt sad.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Sad.
Because what a lonely thing it is when faithfulness feels exceptional.
What a lonely thing it is when the bar sits so low.
The older I get, the more I realize that what I have always wanted is not admiration.
Not attention.
Not even loyalty alone.
I want presence.
I want integrity.
I want someone who sees the whole person standing in front of them.
And to be fair, I have experienced that too.
A friend once told me he saw me as a queen.
A plumber I had known for less than an hour looked at me and said, “You’re a Christian, aren’t you?”
A few minutes later he asked if I had dreams and visions.
Then he called me a prophet.
Whether he was right is beside the point.
What struck me was that he was trying to see beneath the surface.
Around the same time, another man compared me to the treasure hidden in a field from one of Jesus’ parables.
Later, I told him it was one of the most meaningful compliments I had ever received.
Not because it flattered me.
Because it touched the deepest part of my heart.
He saw treasure.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why some hugs make me exhale while others make me brace.
Why some conversations leave me feeling nourished while others leave me exhausted.
Why some people feel safe and others don’t.
I think it comes down to this:
Some people are interested in what they can get from you.
Others are interested in who you are.
One feels transactional.
The other feels sacred.
One notices.
The other sees.
And after years of confusing the two, I’m finally learning the difference.
I no longer want to be someone’s fantasy.
I don’t want to be someone’s secret.
I don’t want to be someone’s opportunity.
I want to be known.
The whole of me.
And I suspect that’s what most of us are looking for.
Not someone who notices the field.
Someone who recognizes the treasure hidden there.