Everyone You Meet is Surviving Something

How Curiosity Can Soften Us

A few years ago, I sat in my therapist’s office talking about (what else?) relationships—how hard they are, how weird people can be, how much I wish everyone came with a little decoder ring so I could understand what they actually mean instead of what they’re saying.

I said something like, “I just have a hard time liking people when I first meet them. Especially when it feels like they’re performing or posturing or trying too hard.” I meant it flippantly, but there was something sharp in it. A frustration. A judgment. A defense.

My therapist, in his annoyingly grounded way, paused and said,

"Keep in mind when you first meet people that everyone is showing you exactly who they had to become in order to survive."

That line landed in my gut like a small, quiet stone. It didn’t ask anything of me. It just was. But it cracked something open. A little bit of softness, a little more curiosity.

Now, when I meet someone new, especially someone who seems like a lot, I try to remember: this is their best trick. This is what worked. This is the performance that got applause—or at least kept them safe. This is who they had to become.

And when I hold that lens up to myself? Oh, man. Suddenly I’m not just “quick-witted” or “driven” or “independent.” I’m a kid who thought she had to be clever to be liked. Who figured out that being self-sufficient kept her from being disappointed. Who decided that if she could preemptively notice every need in the room, she might avoid being a burden.

I still wear those traits like armor. And they are useful—don’t get me wrong. Independence has bought me freedom. That sensitivity to the room? It’s made me good at what I do. But I can also see now that those strengths are covering something softer, more tender, and more easily bruised.

And the same is true for the people around me.

I have a male friend who is perfectionistic and exacting, sometimes to the point where I want to gently (or not so gently) tell him to chill. But now, instead of only being annoyed, I find myself wondering: What kind of chaos taught you that precision is the only safe place?

I have another friend—fiercely independent, witty as hell, almost allergic to asking for help. I love her. And for a long time, I thought I loved her because she made me laugh and we could sit in our mutual sarcasm and talk about real things. She so easily dazzles friends and strangers with her sharp, elegant way of moving through the world. But over the years, I’ve learned to love the person beyond the persona— the part that’s afraid of needing too much. The part that doesn’t want to be disappointed. The part she doesn’t show on stage.

So here’s what I want to offer you:

What if your most presentable traits—your reliability, your ambition, your charm, your strength—are all evidence of who you had to become to survive? What if they’re not you, exactly? What if they got you here, but don’t show the full picture?

What are those traits protecting?
What part of you doesn’t want to be seen?
What would happen if you stopped performing?
Which facets of you would arise to fill that new space?

And when you look at the people around you—especially the ones you find a little hard to love—can you wonder, instead of judge? Can you ask yourself: What does this presentation tell me about what was necessary for this person to survive?

I’m trying to live that way. With more curiosity, less certainty. With more room for the little kid in me—and in others—who just wants to be liked, or safe, or impressive, or okay.

So if you ever meet me and I seem a little guarded, a little sharp, or too on top of things—please know:

That’s just who I had to become. But if you stick around, I might let you meet the messy, curious, creative and (slightly) vulnerable person underneath.