The Stranger With My Name
I’ve heard people describe me in ways I barely recognize. At first, it felt like they were talking about someone else. But now I’m wondering—what if they’re seeing something I haven’t figured out how to see in myself?
Lately I’ve been sitting with something I didn’t expect.
It started with a phrase I’ve heard more than once—usually said offhand, like an obvious truth:
“But… you’re YOU.”
It always comes up in the same kind of moment—when someone’s explaining why they believe I’ll figure it out, why I can handle it, why something that seems hard to them feels automatic to me.
But every time I hear it, I get a strange feeling.
Like they’re talking about someone else.
Like they see something I don’t—or maybe can’t.
I Don’t See It
I’ve never seen myself as exceptional.
Not in a false humility kind of way. Just… I only know what it’s like to be in my head.
And from this side of the glass, everything still feels messy.
Thoughtful, sure. Intentional, when I can be.
But exceptional? That feels like someone else’s label. Someone with a cleaner story arc.
I’m just me. Still working things out.
Still figuring out how to say what I mean.
Still missing the exit sometimes.
So when people reflect something back—some version of “you’re built different,” “you’ve always had this,” or “you see things others don’t”—my first instinct is to shrug it off.
But lately, I’ve stopped shrugging. I’ve started listening.
The Outside Lens
What if that reflection isn’t about praise?
What if it’s just a different camera angle?
Other people don’t carry your internal doubt.
They don’t see the half-finished drafts or the false starts.
They only see the results—how you move, how you react, how you show up when it matters.
And that means they might be picking up on something real—something consistent—long before you’ve consciously named it.
I’m starting to think there’s value in that.
Not as validation.
But as data.
Not Recognition—Direction
I’m not writing this to pat myself on the back.
I’m writing it to figure out how to use the signals I’ve been ignoring.
Because if people I trust keep saying the same thing—if they keep seeing the same pattern—I should probably stop dismissing it.
Not because I need the compliment.
But because I might be under-utilizing what they’re already responding to.
Maybe this isn’t about identity at all.
Maybe it’s about leverage.
The Mirror I Don’t Own
This writing practice has helped me see the drift from others.
It’s helped me trace how clarity creates distance.
(See: The Cost of Sophistication)
But now I’m trying to go the other way—to use how others see me as a mirror I don’t naturally own.
To ask:
What do I look like from the outside?
What do people consistently say I carry, that I keep overlooking?
And most importantly:
What would change if I finally believed them?
