When You’re Not The Protagonist You Thought You Were

Have you ever thought ‘I don’t know this person at all’?

I have always considering myself to be fairly intuitive about people — some are kind and carry a warm energy, some don’t feel comfortable and I just want to stay away, and some seem confused and I feel that only time will tell the impact (if at all) they will have in my life.

I met someone. Someone who had an incredibly warm energy. I felt safe and comfortable and heard. I felt like myself. I felt like I could be my true self. When I look back, those years, that person — probably the best time of my life. I really think that I was the best version of myself. I was kind and warm and present. I wasn’t consciously making an effort to be there — I just wanted to be there. I wanted the person to say that she is “my person”. I wanted to be that person’s person.

I assumed that I was. I assumed that the warm energy that I am feeling was mutual. I assumed that the comfort that I felt was a two sided experience. I assumed that if I felt like myself and that I could be my true self, that person felt exactly the same way. I assumed that since all that I was sharing was everything that I had to share, that person was also sharing their everything with me — their life story, feelings, thoughts, experiences, who they are.

I read something today. Something that that person wrote. A difficult time, a confused space, a struggle that that person had faced. I read it like a story, except that I was waiting for me to enter the narrative. I felt like I was a part of it because I technically was a part of this person’s life at the time. As I read it though, I discovered that I actually wasn’t a part of the story. I told myself that that’s okay. Not every story is going to have me in it. And that’s completely okay — ‘don’t be selfish busy looking for your own name.’ I told myself that it’s not a big deal. It’s their story and it’s not about me.

I read some more and I was stunning by the writing — it’s almost like I wanted to be a part of the story just because it was so beautifully written.

And when I stepped away from ‘reading’, it hit me that this wasn’t just a story — it was the person’s life. A life that I thought I was a part of but a story that I didn’t recognize. A story that made me feel like I wasn’t there. A story that made me question if I really knew this person — not in terms of favourite food or colour but if I really knew what the person was going through at the time. Maybe if someone else was in my shoes, they would at this stage think that maybe they didn’t make enough of an effort or didn’t make the other person feel comfortable enough to share this part of their life with them. I on the other hand just felt hurt. I felt that I did everything to be there. I shared. I asked. I gave. I listened. I spoke. I waited. I expressed. I communicated. I was there. I felt hurt because I made this person the protagonist of my story but even at the end of theirs, I was left searching for my name.

I learned that some stories shape your life and sometimes the people who are around you aren’t necessarily a part of that. I guess it just sucks to be the person who was around but not important enough to even be a tertiary character in the story that changed your protagonist’s life.