The Gentle Kind

How we learn to read what’s not said.

This isn’t technically a post about publishing, romance, or writing—but in a roundabout way, I guess it kind of is. Because as writers, part of our job is digging into the human element. We create characters that feel real by layering on the emotional complexity—flaws, past hurts, triumphs, fears. Whether we’re using detailed character profiles or just scribbling notes in the margins, we’re always building people, not just plot points. The goal? To make sure they bleed a little on the page. That they feel lived-in, a little messy, and worth rooting for. Because that’s what makes a story stick.

So, we, as builders of these worlds learn to be more observant in our own. Yesterday, my mind gravitated deep into this topic. It started the way it always does for me, with a glance, someone at the store, looking fine on the surface, but something in their eyes told me a very different story. And that split second look made me wonder: How would our lives, our society, be different if we could see the emotional scars people carry?

We all have our tells, those little habits or quirks that give us away. A flicker in the eyes. A pause that lingers just a second too long. A gaze that hovers around chest level, never quite making eye contact, not because of neurodivergence or other diagnosed conditions, but because life’s left its mark. The way someone fidgets with a sleeve or checks for the nearest exit before they even sit down. Small things. Subtle things. But if you’re paying attention, they whisper, something happened here. Maybe once. Maybe more times than anyone realizes.

I’ll admit it—this kind of thing fascinates me. When I see people, yeah, I notice the usual stuff—their clothes, eye color, how they carry themselves. But my mind always drifts to their story. What was their childhood like? What secrets are they still holding onto? Are they married? Divorced? In love? Do they have kids? Siblings? What’s shaped them into who they are?

Most people don’t notice those things. Or maybe they do, but they’re too polite—or too uneasy—to ask. We’re taught to look away when someone else’s pain doesn’t belong to us. Smile. Nod. Keep going.

For me, it goes deeper. It’s rooted in my own childhood. Growing up, things weren’t exactly safe or stable, and I was always on high alert—constantly scanning the room, reading the mood, making sure my sister and I stayed out of harm’s way. That kind of hyper-awareness doesn’t just vanish. Even after years of healing, some of it still lingers—like muscle memory wired into my system.

I’ve made peace with a lot of it. Grown past it in many ways. But that instinct—to really see people, to wonder about what’s underneath—is still with me. And honestly, I’m not sure I’d want to lose it. It’s made me a better author.

But what if we didn’t get to hide our pain? Not the physical stuff, though that has its own weight. I’m talking about the silent wounds, the broken trust, the anxiety that punches you awake at 2 a.m., the shame that rides in your back pocket like loose change. The fear that started with someone’s careless words and still echoes in the back of your mind.

What if those wounds showed up on the outside? Wore themselves like a second skin. Visible. Unmistakable. Right there for the world to see.

Would we treat each other differently?

Would the woman snapping at the cashier get less judgment and more grace if people saw the years she spent walking on eggshells in an abusive marriage and how even now, raised voices send her straight back to that place?

Would we rethink the man who never opens up at work, not as cold or arrogant, but as someone who grew up in a home where emotions were dangerous, and vulnerability was used against him?

Would the mom who seems overly protective of her kids be seen differently if we knew she was neglected as a child, left to fend for herself, and she’s still learning what healthy love looks like?

Would we soften toward the woman who keeps choosing the wrong partner, if we saw the version of love she was shown growing up—conditional, manipulative, sometimes cruel?

Would we stop dismissing the quiet coworker if we knew she was still healing from a childhood where affection came with strings attached, and trust was something she learned not to give?

These aren’t rare stories. They’re happening around us every day, beneath steady voices, polite smiles, and people just trying to make it through the day without falling apart.

We’re raised to keep the mess tidy. Filter the photo. Rehearse the lines. Say I’m fine and hope no one pushes too hard. Some days, we keep moving not because we’re strong—but because stopping might crack us wide open in the middle of the canned goods aisle. And honestly, who has time to fall apart in aisle six?

But imagine if emotional scars lit up like constellations. If they shimmered faintly, old memories leaving deep lines like weathered skin. Or glowed red and raw when touched, like a warning: Careful. Tender here.

The man at the post office? Maybe he’d carry a hollow place where a child used to be. The PTA mom? She might wear exhaustion like bruises , not from harm, but from the daily grind of giving everything and still feeling like it’s not enough. The woman standing at the front of the meeting, polished and prepared, but maybe her heart is faintly tender where someone once told her she’d never be more than mediocre.

If we could see those scars, would we slow down? Would we soften? Would we stop rushing to fix and start learning to simply sit with someone in their hurt?

People carry a lot. More than they show. More than they say.

We run into them at work, in line for coffee, at the dinner table, and too often, we only get the highlight reel. It’s easy to assume the woman who laughs the loudest has never cried on the floor. Or that the guy who cancels plans just doesn’t care, instead of being too anxious to breathe. Or that the put-together woman with perfect eyeliner isn’t still haunted by a voice that told her she wasn’t enough.

We assume too much. We ask too little.

The truth is, every person you pass has a scar. Maybe more than one. And just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.

The strange part? Most of us want to be seen. Not just glanced at, but seen. Known. Loved in the messy middle where our strength and our stories live together.

But we’re scared. Scared that showing our bruises and emotional scars makes us less lovable. Less worthy. Scared someone might flinch, or worse, walk away. As if being broken isn’t just another way of saying we survived something we weren’t sure we could.

We are vulnerable and that vulnerability can be terrifying.

And when someone does see us? Really sees us? It feels like a door opening. Like exhaling after holding your breath too long. Like maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to hold it all together every minute of every day.

If we saw each other’s pain, I think we’d speak slower. Ask better questions. Listen harder. We’d stop grading pain like a contest and just let it be. Because if you can see the wound, you don’t need to hear a speech. You already know. It hurts.

There’s something beautiful and so complexity human in being soft. In leading with compassion instead of critique. In choosing to meet people where they are, not where we think they should be.

Maybe we’ll get better at this someday. Maybe someday we’ll notice what’s beneath the surface, the hard stuff, at staying when it would be easier to walk.

Until then, let’s try. Let’s start assuming the scars are there. Let’s speak in words that soothe, not cut. Let’s remember that silence doesn’t always mean healing and laughter doesn’t always mean joy.

Let’s be the kind of people who believe in scars they can’t see.

Because at the end of the day, we’re all stitched together by hope and hurt and healing. Whether our scars are loud or hidden, they’re proof we’ve lived. We’ve loved. We’ve gotten back up when we didn’t think we could.

And that kind of survival? That’s worth seeing.

These are the things I wonder about when I see people. These are the things that sit heavy on my heart. Honestly, sometimes they threaten to consume me because some folks bury those scars so deep, they don’t even know they’re there. But they are. And they matter. They shape us, whether we like it or not.

And maybe, just maybe, they're the most honest part of who we are.