Between Name and Truth
What does it mean to know someone?
Is it knowing their name? Their favorite color or food? The music they listen to? Is it knowing about their family, where they grew up, or what they do for a living? Perhaps it is knowing their hopes, dreams, and desires.
And what happens when part of that knowing is fabricated?
I once heard—probably in one of the many TED Talks I have watched—that we do not know ourselves as well as we think we do. Many of us are striving to become versions of who we wish to be, mistaking that imagined self for genuine self-awareness. We begin to exist within that version of ourselves.
I think it is incredibly challenging to truly know oneself—to clearly recognize and understand our character, feelings, motives, and desires, as well as the ways our actions affect others.
Perhaps some of us can reach this understanding in hindsight. Perhaps others never do. But what about in the moment, while life is unfolding in front of us?
Can we recognize our thoughts, feelings, and actions as they are taking shape? Can we see the connections among them and understand what is influencing our behavior? Can we remain aware enough to choose whether to continue forward or shift direction?
I would like to think that I practice self-awareness.
I say practice because claiming to possess self-awareness suggests that it exists within us constantly. But the practice itself is a form of awareness. It is the conscious effort to understand ourselves as we continually grow and evolve—as life is happening.
You may recall that a few months ago, in my blog Between Longing and Trust, I wrote about a significant moment in my life—one that changed my perspective on love. It brought the realization that I had fallen in love for the first time.
More importantly, I had fallen in love with myself.
Well…
I recently discovered that the person who helped shape that significant moment in my life had lied about something fundamental to his identity: his name.
I will not share how I learned this, nor will I go further into the details of the fabrication. I will say that I experienced grief—grief for what I thought I knew, held against what I know now.
Perhaps he did see me, even while refusing to let himself be fully seen. His deception complicates the experience, but it does not erase the honesty with which I entered it.
Nor did I allow the discovery to diminish the significance of that experience or change the person I have continued to become because of it.
Yes, I went through my usual emotional shock. I had a sleepless night. I confided in my friends. Eventually, I even laughed about it.
Yet, as I write this, I can still remember the gift the experience gave me: the gift of feeling truly seen. The gift of vulnerability.
To quote my own words from Between Longing and Trust:
“The one thing I did not abandon was myself. I stayed true to my boundaries and values while remaining open and vulnerable, without expectations of what might follow. I showed up fully. I allowed myself to be met, and to meet someone else in return.”
Those words remain true.
Learning that I did not fully know him does not mean I must unknow myself. It does not erase how I showed up, what I discovered, or the love I found within me.
Perhaps knowing someone is not simply the collection of facts they give us. And perhaps being known is not dependent upon how honestly another person allows themselves to be seen.
I may not have truly known him. But throughout the experience, I practiced knowing myself—in my willingness to yield to the moment, in reflection, and in solitude.
That is what I will continue to carry with me.
Now That I Know You
a distance was revealed—
between what was—
and truth,
rewiring pathways in my being
where fond memories tickled my soul
now to sit with this dissonance—
in indignation,
compassion
and sorrow,
might be the most revealing
truth to hold
two hearts—
once merged at a threshold
of deep reverence,
one clear—
the other,
obscured
yet one truth remained,
the freedom with which
I allowed my heart
to love purely.
— James Allen, 2026