Was I Finally Seen, or Did I Finally See Myself?

There is a particular kind of intimacy that feels like recognition.

Not attraction.

Not attention.

Recognition.

The strange sensation of sitting across from another person and thinking:

There you are.

Or maybe,

There I am.

I have been thinking about that distinction lately.

Because for a long time, I believed one of the most powerful parts of the story behind Wildfire was that I felt seen.

Truly seen.

Not the version of me that could handle things.

Not the woman who could move countries, rebuild lives, make decisions, solve problems, laugh loudly, create something beautiful out of whatever had just burned.

Something underneath all of that.

And perhaps that is why the connection mattered so much.

There is something intoxicating about believing another human being has found the hidden room in you.

Especially when you have spent years arranging the furniture so no one would notice the door.

But time has a way of changing the questions we ask about our own stories.

And now I wonder:

Was I finally seen by someone else?

Or had I finally become willing to see myself?

Maybe those two experiences are easier to confuse than we realize.

Sometimes another person arrives during a particular season of our lives and becomes associated with everything awakening inside us.

We think:

They made me feel alive.

They made me vulnerable.

They made me softer.

They showed me who I was.

But what if they didn’t create any of it?

What if they simply arrived while the locks were already beginning to loosen?

Maybe the door was always mine.