I truly enjoyed reading this, and it resonates so well. I may not require, expect, measure, opinionate, or judge. But the moment I question something, even what I believe can be good, I am starting to put myself in the way. Me needs to be out. And so, this is the beginning of letters. A project I’m beginning soon. With love…

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It hit me during a quiet morning last week. The sun was barely up, painting the sky in those gentle colors that make everything look softer, more forgiving. I was thinking about my recent interactions—with you, my colleagues, even my neice—when that thought surfaced: how much of my responses to them were genuinely about them, and how much were just echoes of my own preconceptions, fears, and desires?

You see, I’ve always prided myself on being a good listener, an empathetic friend, a caring partner. But lately, I’ve begun to notice something unsettling. In conversations, while others are speaking, I’m often not really hearing them—I’m hearing my interpretation of them. I’m hearing the story I’ve already written about who they are, what they think, what they need.

“Let me put a little bit more of you, where there is still only me.”

The phrase came to me like a gentle awakening. It made me realize how often I fill spaces that should be reserved for understanding others with my own narratives, assumptions, and projections. When my friend tells me about their struggles, how quickly do I jump to comparing it to my own experiences? When my partner shares their dreams, how soon do I start reshaping them to fit into my vision of our future?

It’s not that sharing our own experiences or having personal reactions is wrong—it’s human, natural even. But there’s a difference between relating to someone and overwriting their reality with our own. It’s like I’ve been painting over other people’s canvases with my own colors, all while believing I was appreciating their art.

The most challenging part? Recognizing that this isn’t just about my relationships with others—it’s about my relationship with myself too. How much of who I think I am is actually me, and how much is a collection of responses to what I think others expect me to be? Sometimes I wonder if I’ve filled myself so completely with performances of who I should be that I’ve left little room for who I am.

This morning, I tried something different. When my neighbor stopped to chat about their garden, instead of immediately sharing my own gardening stories or offering advice, I just… listened. Really listened. Tried to understand their experience as uniquely theirs, not as a reflection or extension of my own. It felt strange at first, like learning to use a muscle I didn’t know I had. But in that space—that conscious, intentional space of truly hearing another person—something shifted.

The irony doesn’t escape me: that in trying to put more of others where there was only me, I might actually be discovering more of my authentic self. Because maybe the real me isn’t the collection of stories, reactions, and preconceptions I’ve built up over the years. Maybe the real me is the awareness that can observe all of that and choose, moment by moment, to make space for something new.

It’s a practice now, this gentle reminder: “Let me put a little bit more of you, where there is still only me.” In conversations, in relationships, in quiet moments alone. It’s about creating space—in my mind, in my heart, in my understanding of both myself and others. It’s about recognizing that every interaction is an opportunity to either reinforce the walls of my existing perspective or to open a window to something new.

This journey feels both unsettling and liberating. Unsettling because it means acknowledging how much of my perception of others has been filtered through my own needs and fears. Liberating because in making space for others to be truly themselves, I’m also making space for myself to be more authentic, more present, more real.

So here’s to the practice of making space. To catching ourselves in those moments when we’re about to fill the silence with our own noise. To the courage it takes to let others be fully themselves, even when—especially when—their truth doesn’t match our expectations. To putting a little bit more of you, where there has been only me.