See And Be Seen

When it turns out I’ve been visible the whole time.

The metaphor:

Yesterday afternoon, my sister and I were out with our family. She’d brought a supply of toys and snacks for her kids, ages ~3.5 and ~1.5. They were playing on the floor when a kid wandered over from another table. My younger nephew was entranced by the newcomer, following her around and offering to share his dump truck. My older nephew kept coloring diligently. I don’t think he even looked up.

Someone pointed out the kids’ different reactions. “Oh yeah, they’re so different,” said my sister’s husband. “They always have been, since birth!” my sister added.

So many things about kids strike me as both mundane and mind-blowing, and here’s another one: we each have unique personalities, right from the start. Our mannerisms and idiosyncrasies register to other people in ways that we can’t necessarily describe or even realize about ourselves.

If I want to know what it’s like to be with me, I have to reverse engineer it, based on what people say. Or at least, that’s what I find myself doing: studying other people’s reactions to me like a detective, working to figure out what I’m like.

The story:

At my last job, I made up an appreciation exercise where we spent four minutes praising the skills and achievements of each staff member on our small team. I had worried that it might start to feel redundant after we did the first few people. Instead, specific themes kept emerging in each round of comments: who was thorough and thoughtful, or curious and reliable, or scrappy and driven; who was a clear communicator or a resourceful problem-solver.

It was surprising to realize how much of my experience with each person was shared by others, even though we all worked together in different ways. Then, when it was my turn, it was striking how the themes that emerged didn’t necessarily equate to how I thought of myself, or how it feels to be me. For example, one of my themes was joyfulness. I do try to find joy, even at work, but I think of it as something we build together, not something I personally bring. Plus, I am all too aware that my thoughts are not always joyful.

For example, one Monday a few years back, I was deep in the pandemic doldrums and annoyed to have to stop clearing my inbox and join our weekly org-wide meeting. I logged in begrudgingly, but my bad mood instantly melted as my coworkers answered that day’s icebreaker question. This happens to me often, because it’s honestly so endlessly heartwarming to work for a mission I care about with people who share my values. By the time I gave my answer, I was brimming with gratitude and good humor. My coworker Larry commented, “Seriously, is anyone happier than Gwen to be at work?” I decided not to reply that probably everyone was happier than me just five minutes earlier. Now that we were together, I felt radiant.

I’ve been thinking about how others perceive me lately because I’m three months into my new job, and my coworkers are starting to make offhand comments about my traits and habits. In other words, they’re dropping fascinating clues about what it’s like to be near me. A team member just quipped in a meeting, “Well, I’ll channel Gwen and say this absolutely delights me.” My boss described something as “compliance-y,” which didn’t give me pause at all until she explained she was “adding on a ‘Y’ like Gwen would.” And a colleague on another team paused an agenda to ask if I was okay. “Your speech is halting, when usually it’s so fast and smooth. What’s up?”

Feeling seen is a funny phenomenon! Each of these comments made me feel both protected and exposed, both comfortably accepted and confusingly excepted. It’s odd to learn that I do something so differently than other people that it’s immediately noticeable, especially when I hadn’t yet realized that I do it at all. I’m grateful to have caring, perceptive colleagues, yet it’s slightly haunting to realize that people can see me.

I certainly want to be seen – at work and in general – but I tend to forget how much of me is visible. I am focused on the import of the words I say, not the mannerisms I use to say them, which is what all those comments are about. It’s as though I think I can point to ideas and people will only look where I’m pointing, not at my extended finger. Then, because that’s not where I’ve been looking, their observations surprise me.

Early in my career, I had a boss who called me “the professor.” She said it with love but also a bit of an eye roll. I was perplexed by this nickname. I was in DC, a couple years out of college: an English major out off step in a section of the social sector steeped in graduate degrees. I did not think of myself as an academic in any sense. My confusion only grew when I saw my coworkers did not seem to need any explanation, laughing along right away. As I tried to sort out the meaning in my mind, I caught myself thinking, they should really define their terms. That voice did sound kind of stodgy, like it might be wearing glasses and a blazer with reinforced elbows. Oh. I see.

Though it’s four jobs later, I get the sense I’m still coming off a bit professorial: credible yet long winded. On the upside, my boss told me she didn’t need to review the draft of a sensitive document. “I know how you write, I trust how you’ll say it.” On the downside, my decade-long pursuit of succinctness continues. My boss also just joked about a different draft, “Of course it’s a bit long! It’s by Gwen!”

Sometimes, this kind of comment reveals just as much about the observer as it reveals about me. Like a comment from a four-jobs-ago coworker from my job in LA. I had resigned for a job that would move me back East, and it was a bittersweet transition, leaving an office where humor had been highly prized. She gave me a sendoff card that referenced a specific way I laugh, when I’m caught off guard and let out one loud, surprised exclamation. “I hope you have a great team,” she wrote, “but don’t give away the single-ha laugh too easily. Make them work for it.”

I was amazed and touched that she knew my laughs so well, but also amused at the idea that I’d ever try to gatekeep joy. I may not always be joyful, but I’m always trying to find my way there.

The experiment:

You guys, what about you?

• What do people say about what it’s like to be with you?

• Does it ever surprise you?

Consider commenting below, replying to the email, sending me a text or voice note…I’d love to hear!

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