The Power of Being Seen
Maya Angelou, through Oprah, once said that when a child walks into the room, they’re looking to see if your face lights up—because that’s how they know they’re loved.
With Uncle Todd, it wasn’t his whole face. It was his eyes.
They lit up and focused.
Like he was instantly interested.
Like whatever we had to say—whatever age we were, whatever small thing we’d done that day—mattered to him.
He wouldn’t have known how impactful that was. But we did.
And we still do.
I was eating lunch alone when a former coworker walked by, and we started talking. We hadn’t seen each other in years. Conversation moved easily—until it didn’t. She told me she lost three people in the last two years: her brother to COVID, her aunt to cancer, and her dad, she said, died of a broken heart.
I nodded and said, “I’ve lost a lot of people too.” No details. No stories. Just a quiet knowing between us.
Uncle Todd didn’t know what we were going through at home. He didn’t know the weight we were already carrying, the way we were learning to read a room before we could fully read a book. But still—he offered us ease. He offered joy.
Not through lectures or life lessons, but in the way his eyes lit up when he saw us. He made us feel interesting. Safe. Like we were wanted in the room. That kind of presence doesn’t require knowing everything.
Just noticing. Just being there.
Sometimes we gossiped—not the cruel kind, but the kind that made us laugh. We talked about people we all knew, the ones who talked down to us or made us feel small. Todd didn’t dismiss what we felt. He made it funny. He made it lighter.
And in doing that, he helped us process what we couldn’t say out loud yet. We weren’t just venting. We were being seen. And it made us feel like we weren’t imagining the way we were treated.
It was his way of saying, you’re right, that wasn’t okay—and also, here’s a way to survive it with a little humor. That was his gift: never too heavy, never too sweet. Just enough to make us feel safe and seen.
He didn’t lead with big emotions. He didn’t lead with his diagnosis either. Uncle Todd was HIV positive for most of our childhood—but he and Uncle John hid that from us. We didn’t know. They carried that weight quietly, so we wouldn’t have to.
And somehow, even while holding all of that, Uncle Todd still made space for us. He didn’t just see us—he lit up for us.
That kind of love doesn’t always come with declarations.
Sometimes it’s just in the way someone’s eyes land on you.
The kind that says: I’m glad you’re here.
He didn’t need to defend us out loud or make big declarations.
He just had this way of letting us know—through a glance, a smirk, a quiet laugh at the exact right time—that he was on our side.
And when you grow up feeling like you’re constantly being evaluated, constantly trying to stay out of the way or not say the wrong thing, someone being on your side without condition?
That changes you.
It stays with you.
It becomes the bar for what love should feel like.
Now, when I’m with my niece, I follow her lead. I let her take up space, ask her questions, explain her world to me in her own language. Because that’s what tells her she’s valid.
She handles things the best when she knows what’s coming. So before she flew to visit her grandmother, I reminded her what the airport would feel like, how it might be loud or fast, and how it would be kind of like the flight I took to come see her. I said it lightly, like Uncle Todd would have. Just enough to make her feel safe.
I think about him in those moments—not as a headline or a tragedy, but as someone who carried a weight we couldn’t see and still made us feel light in his presence.
He would not have known how impactful that was.
But we did.
And we still do.
It’s stayed with me—twenty-seven years after he died.
That’s how impactful it was.
Not because he gave big speeches or taught us grand lessons.
But because his eyes lit up when he saw us.
Because he made us laugh about people who made us feel small.
Because he was on our side. Always. He didn’t know how much we needed that kind of love. But he gave it anyway.
And I carry it now.
In how I speak to my niece and in how I follow her lead.
In how I light up when she walks into the room—because I want her to feel what he made us feel. That kind of love doesn’t disappear.
It lives. Even twenty-seven years later.
Who made you feel seen when you needed it most?
If you would like to check out more panels on the AIDS Memorial Quilt, here is the link: Interactive AIDS Quilt
