I am the opposite of a minority in every way imaginable. I’m a straight, cis, white man from the suburbs, a member of the most populous and prosperous demographic in the United States.

I will never know the pain of having every loved one tell me I’m broken because I marry a man and not a woman. I will never know what it is to look in the mirror and see a person I know, from the bottom of my heart, that I am not. I will never know what it’s like to walk the street with my head bowed, terrified to meet the wrong pair of eyes, lest they see my skin and decide that I’m a threat.

I will never know any of those things, but I do know, at the very, very least, what it is to just want to be seen. Not to be famous, not to be popular, not to be adored, but to just be. To have someone look at you and know that you aren’t the mask you wear; you aren’t the armor you don. You’re just a person, trying their best, probably not thinking about anything bigger than what the hell you’re going to make for dinner later. To know that it’s okay that we get cold, that we cry, that we really just have to fucking pee.

And the rare someone who sees past even that? Who can reach up, pull off the mask, look in your eyes, and know that what you really need is a hug or a blanket or a beer? That is something astounding and wonderful and absolutely terrifying.

It’s scary as hell, being seen, because that mask is just as much for you as it is for everyone else. It’s scary to realize that you can’t hide anymore. But so much more than that, it’s everything to know that you don’t have to.