I was lying on my couch on a weekend afternoon when the question hit me. Nothing dramatic had happened. No crisis. No breakup. No bad news. It was just a Sunday. The kind of Sunday where the whole afternoon is in front of you and you realize you haven’t spoken to anyone in hours. Days, maybe. Not really spoken. Not about anything that mattered.
I picked up my phone. Scrolled through my contacts. Dozens of names. People I loved. People who loved me. People I’d known for years.
And I asked myself: who actually knows what’s going on in my life right now?
Not the surface version. Not the “work is busy, kids are fine, I’m tired” update. The real version. The one where I’m not sure I’m okay. The one where I’ve been feeling something I can’t name. The one where I’m scared that if I keep going like this, I’m going to run out of whatever it is that keeps me going.
I scrolled again. Slower this time. I couldn’t think of a single name.
Not because no one would listen. Because I’d never let anyone in. I’d gotten so good at being the one who holds it together that I’d forgotten how to let anyone see what I was holding. And the people who are like me, well, they’re that way for a reason.
Most people aren’t alone—they’re over-vetted
The problem isn’t that people don’t have others in their lives. They have plenty of people. The problem is the filter.
Before they speak, they run everything through a mental checklist. Will this make me look like I’m failing? Will this make the other person uncomfortable? Will they try to fix me instead of just hearing me? Will they think I’m complaining? Will they think I’m weak?
By the time the thought gets through the filter, there’s nothing left. “How are you?” “Fine.” “What’s going on?” “Nothing much.”
They’re not hiding. They’re vetting. And they’ve gotten so good at it that they don’t even notice they’re doing it anymore.
There’s a metaphor that captures this perfectly. Friends take turns being the “shore”—the place where the other person can dump their emotional garbage. The hard stuff. The messy stuff. The stuff that doesn’t fit anywhere else. You listen. You hold. You absorb. And then you’re the shore for someone else.
But if someone is always the shore for everyone else, who is the shore for them? Who do they call when their own emotional garbage gets too heavy to carry alone?
They’ve been the shore for so many people. They’ve listened to others’ fears, held their friends’ tears, absorbed their panic. But when they look around for someone to be their shore, they see only empty space.
They’re giving updates, not experiences
There’s a difference between telling someone what’s happening and telling them how it feels.
Most people have mastered the first. They can give a status update on autopilot. Job is fine. Kids are fine. Health is fine. Marriage is fine. They can recite the headlines of their lives without ever opening the article.
But being known isn’t about facts. It’s about resonance. It’s about letting someone feel what you’re feeling, not just know what you’re doing.
According to Charles Feltman, author of The Thin Book of Trust, trust has two key components: reliability and sincerity. As summarized by MASA News, sincerity means your words align with your actions, while reliability means keeping your promises. Strong people are great at reliability. They show up. They follow through. They do what they promised. But sincerity—being real, being vulnerable, meaning what they say—that’s harder.
So they stick to the facts. The facts are safe. The facts don’t require them to be seen.
They’ve learned to talk about their lives the way a news anchor reads a teleprompter. Clear. Concise. Emotionally neutral. The promotion happened. The kid got sick. The car broke down. The words are accurate, but they carry no weight. They’re reporting the facts of their existence without ever letting anyone feel what it’s like to live inside them. And after years of this, they’re not even sure they remember how to do anything else.
They’re ghostwriting their own existence
Here’s what happens when no one knows what’s going on in their lives. Their experiences start to feel less real. Not because they aren’t happening. Because no one is witnessing them.
Humans have a biological need for a witness. Someone to say “I see you.” Someone to say “that happened.” Someone to say “you’re not alone in this.”
Without a witness, experiences can feel like they’re happening in a vacuum. The joy is quieter. The grief is heavier. The fear is louder. Because no one is there to hold it with them.
According to psychiatrist Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, healing requires “being seen and heard by those we love.” Without that witness, even the most significant events can start to feel unreal. They’re not living their life. They’re ghostwriting it.
The difference between a 3 a.m. call and a 3 p.m. call
Most people have a few people they could call at 3 a.m. if their car broke down or they ended up in the hospital. They have a list of names for a crisis.
But that’s not the test. The test is the 3 p.m. call.
Who could they call on a random Tuesday afternoon—not in an emergency, not in a crisis—and say, “I feel like I’m disappearing”? Who could they call and say, “I’m not okay, and I don’t know why”? Who could they call and say, “I need someone to just be here,” without having to explain why or apologize for the interruption?
That’s a different list. For most people, that list is empty.
They have people who would show up for a crisis. They don’t have people who will show up for a Tuesday.
They’ve trained everyone to believe they’re fine
The cruelest part is that they did this to themselves. Every time someone asked how they were and they said “fine,” they added a brick to the wall. Every time someone offered to help, and they said, “I’ve got it,” they taught them not to offer again. Every time they handled something alone and didn’t tell anyone, they reinforced the message: I don’t need anyone.
They were training people to leave them alone. And people learned their lesson well.
Now, when they’re struggling, no one notices. When they’re exhausted, no one offers to help. When they’re lonely, no one calls.
Not because people don’t care. Because they taught them not to. And they don’t know how to undo the training.
What it takes to let someone in
People who learn to be known don’t transform overnight. They make small shifts.
They stop saying “fine” when someone asks how they are. They share one real thing. Just one. Not the whole story. Just a crack.
They stop waiting for someone to notice and start telling someone what they need. “I’m struggling.” “I could use a hand.” “Can you just listen?”
They stop treating vulnerability like a weakness and start treating it like an invitation. An invitation for someone to show up. An invitation for someone to get to know them. An invitation for someone to be their witness.
They start small. A text that says “I’m having a rough day” instead of “I’m fine.” A phone call where they don’t have a problem to solve—they just need to hear someone’s voice. A conversation where they say “I’m scared” instead of “I’ve got it.” Each small risk is terrifying. Each small risk is also a marble in the jar. And over time, the jar starts to fill. Not because they found the perfect person. Because they finally let someone in.
It’s terrifying. Every time. But they’re starting to realize that being known is worth the risk. Because the alternative—being surrounded by people who don’t really know you—isn’t connection. It’s just a crowded kind of alone.
The question that’s worth asking
Here’s the question that changed things for me. Not “who would answer if I called?” But “who have I actually let in?”
The answer wasn’t about other people. It was about me. I hadn’t let anyone in. I’d been so busy being strong that I’d forgotten how to be real.
I’m still learning. Still practicing. Still getting it wrong sometimes. But I’ve started letting people see the cracks. Not all at once. Just a little. Just enough to feel a little less like a ghost in my own life.
Because I’ve spent so many years being the one who holds everything together. And I’m tired. Not of being strong. Of being strong alone.
I don’t want to be the shore for everyone else anymore. I want someone to be the shore for me. And that means letting someone see the water. Not just the shore. The water.
