The intimacy of being understood

A response to Carina's "to be loved is to be known"

I think about Carina’s piece often. It’s such a beautiful way of expressing love.

To really know someone.

I've spent a lifetime collecting details about the people I love.

Like the way my granddad loves apple pie, and how I instinctively brace before he sneezes, after years of jumping at the sound. Or the way I always remember to turn the fan on when my best friend sleeps over, knowing she can’t fall asleep without the gentle hum of white noise.

Knowing the ins and outs of those you love is incredibly special.

It’s the quiet observation of someone over time – learning their quirks, preferences, and stories. The smallest habits to the greatest life-defining moments.

But Carina’s piece has opened up a new question in my mind, one I keep coming back to: what’s the difference between being known and being understood?

As an introvert, I've spent so much of my life guarding my inner world. I often feel like the people who know me best don’t really know me. They know the pieces I let them see. The fragments I’m willing to share. And because of that, I’ve often felt misunderstood.

I think it comes down to a fear of being seen.

I tend to ask too many questions and change the topic in conversation, trying so hard to keep the focus off me. I’m the active listener. The trusted confidant who rarely confides. The one who always tries to make others feel seen, while I safely hide in the shadows. Trying to create for others the very experience I both crave and fear for myself.

But the comfort of staying hidden – of not allowing myself to be truly seen – comes at the cost of true understanding.

Sometimes, I’ll try to break through this fear with someone I love and trust – with someone who knows me. I’ll share something deeply personal, something I usually keep hidden – a thought, a fear, a dream I hold close.

They’ll say “I get it,” but a subtle vacancy behind their eyes tells me they don’t. It’s a clear disconnect that tells me they’ve already moved on. Physically present, but mentally elsewhere.

And so, mid-sentence, I feel myself retreating.

My guard comes up swiftly, almost instinctively. I redirect the conversation. Ask another question. Dilute what I was saying into something more palatable, more surface-level. In these moments, I feel the chasm between being known and being understood at its widest.

To not feel understood by those you love – by those who know you – is a contradictory feeling.

There is a safety in being misunderstood, in never letting anyone close enough to really see you. I cling to this version of myself that feels so sacred, treating it like fragile glass. Holding onto it tightly so it doesn't fall into the wrong hands.

But along with the safety, there’s also a craving for deeper connection. There is a part of me that wishes I would just let myself be seen. A part of me that wishes I would open up more and trust people to get it.

To get me.

How is it, then, that you can know someone so well – know their history, heartbreaks, all the places they've travelled to – yet still fundamentally misunderstand them at their core?

I think knowing and understanding are fundamentally different experiences.

Knowing someone comes from longevity.

It’s a catalogue of facts and history gathered over time. The more time you spend with someone, the more data you collect about them. Their go-to coffee order, their favourite comfort TV show, what makes them nervous, what makes them smile, their morning routines, their usual bedtime. Years of love and memories build a detailed composition of who someone is in your mind.

Understanding, however, comes in glimpses.

It’s fleeting moments of raw vulnerability and intimacy. Rather than duration, understanding is about depth. It’s in the quiet moments of recognition. It's when someone articulates a feeling or experience you thought you were the 'only one' to have. A shared grief or pain that suddenly makes you feel less alone in the world.

Understanding doesn't require history.

Sometimes a stranger's words online can make you feel more seen and understood than from those you hold closest. A person you've known for years might miss the essence of your story, while someone you've just met might instantly grasp its deeper meaning.

Understanding transcends time and familiarity – it's about resonance.

It’s when someone not only grasps what you're saying but feels the weight and texture of your experience. It's that look that tells you "I see you. I get it."

It’s below the surface.

It’s deeper than knowing someone’s favourite pizza toppings or what they’re scared of – it’s seeing the essence of who they truly are.

When someone resonates with the parts of you that you try to keep hidden, it creates a powerful sense of connection. One that almost feels transcendent. It’s both validating and exposing. It’s as if someone has briefly glimpsed your soul.

It is deeply human.

Moments of true understanding are rare. But the scarcity of being deeply understood is what makes it so precious.

To be loved is to be known, but to be known is not always to be understood. And, perhaps, the rarest form of love is one where both exist together.

Where someone not only collects the details of your life, but truly comprehends the landscape of your inner world. Seeing not just the facts of who you are, but the truth of your soul.