People can only meet you as deeply as they’ve met themselves

There’s a quote I’ve carried around for years- pinned to journals, saved in phone notes, tucked into the back of my mind like a compass I didn’t always know how to read:

“People can only meet you as deeply as they’ve met themselves.”

I used to think it was beautiful language.
Now I think it’s a warning.
And a kind of soft permission.
And maybe, most of all, a truth you don’t fully understand until life hands you the lesson wrapped in someone else’s silence.

Recently, I opened my heart in a way I hadn’t in a long time- not recklessly, but honestly. I spoke from that place inside me that most people never get to see, the place beyond performance and composure and pretending to have it all together. The place where my truth lives.

I didn’t embellish it.
I didn’t soften it.
I didn’t edit myself into something safer.

I simply let myself feel what I felt…
and I let it be seen.

There is a particular courage in that- in offering someone the unarmored version of who you are. Not the curated version, not the careful version, not the “don’t scare them off” version. Just the real one. The one with trembling hands and steady conviction. The one that hopes, quietly, that someone else will meet you at that depth with steady hands of their own.

And sometimes… they don’t.

Not because your truth is too much.
Not because your feelings are wrong.
Not because you misread the moment.

But because they simply can’t go there.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.

There is a very specific ache that comes from realizing someone felt the connection too- you can sense that- but they don’t have the capacity to sit in it. They feel the spark, but the spark terrifies them. Their heart flinches. Their instincts retreat. And suddenly you’re standing there with all your honesty, watching them gather up their walls like armor they can’t quite live without.

That kind of withdrawal isn’t loud.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s a shift so subtle it feels almost like a ghost walking out of the room.

And you tell yourself you’re fine.
And maybe you are.
But there’s a sting in knowing you showed up fully…
while they stepped back into themselves, unable to match the moment they helped create.

Authenticity is beautiful.
But it’s not painless.

No one tells you that.

They tell you to “be yourself,” as if that comes with guaranteed safety. As if honesty is always rewarded. As if vulnerability always leads to closeness, to clarity, to connection.

The truth is, being real can hurt in the short term.
But being unreal will devastate you in the long term.

And I’m choosing the short-term sting over the lifelong ache of self-abandonment.

Because here’s what I’ve learned:

When someone can’t meet you deeply, it says nothing about the depth you offered.
It speaks only to the depth they’re able- or ready- to navigate within themselves.

Some people are afraid of still water.
Some people can’t look into their own reflection without turning away.
Some people feel so much that feeling anything at all overwhelms them.
And connection- true connection- isn’t built at the surface.

I don’t blame them.
But I won’t shrink for them either.

I’m learning to honor myself even when someone else can’t honor me in return.
I’m learning that my depth isn’t a liability- it’s a filter.
I’m learning that not everyone is meant to join you in the places you’re willing to go.

And just because someone can’t meet you there doesn’t mean the depth isn’t real.
It just means they haven’t met themselves there yet.

One day, someone will.

Someone who isn’t intimidated by emotional honesty.
Someone who doesn’t retreat from intimacy that feels like possibility.
Someone who recognizes your openness not as a threat, but as a rare and sacred offering.

Until then, I’ll keep showing up as myself- imperfect, growing, brave in ways that still surprise me. Because authenticity is not about being understood. It’s about being whole.

And I would rather be whole alone than half-loved by someone afraid of their own heart.