To be Known and Loved; Lessons from Sonja and Sophia and Sharratt

“It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not.” Andre Gide, French writer and Nobel Prize winner who explored authenticity, freedom, and the dangers of living according to others’ expectations

Though the Gide’s words land starkly for me, they point toward a tender truth: much of human flourishing depends on being known. That thought sits at the heart of psychologist Sonja Lyubomirsky’s beautiful work, especially in her recent book with Harry Reis, How to Feel Loved.  I have written about it earlier. Their research suggests something almost countercultural in an age of image management: we do not feel deeply loved because we appear polished, accomplished, or endlessly agreeable. We feel loved when we are seen more fully for who we are.

That truth came alive for me recently through my granddaughter, Sophia.

We had just gotten out of the car on a side street in Leavenworth when she gave a sudden exuberant scream—pure delight, really. The kind of sound that startles adults but seems perfectly natural to children. I had the fleeting thought that grandparents often have: Should I say something about how to act in public? But before I could, she laughed and said, “I just felt free.”

Later she told me that some people think she is a little weird when she is fully herself, but then she added something wise beyond her years. She said she had learned it was better to have one friend who knew all sides of her than to have “fake friends.”

I applauded her inwardly.

And I thought, she has stumbled onto something many of us spend a lifetime trying to learn.

Lyubomirsky tells a story of a friend who once said, “I think I’m showing off myself more than I’m showing myself.” What a piercing distinction!

Many of us know how to show off ourselves—to present our strength, our beauty - the capable self, the composed self, the edited self. We learn to highlight strengths and hide eccentricities, soften uncertainties, and conceal wounds. We become practiced at impression management. But in doing so, we can create a gap between our inner life and what others are actually invited to love.

That gap can feel lonely.

The paradox, Lyubomirsky says, is that the route to feeling more loved is often not through appearing more impressive but through becoming a little less defended. Through revealing, carefully and appropriately, more of what matters to us—our quirks, hopes, doubts, enthusiasms, and imperfections. Not oversharing, not emotional spilling, but honest self-revelation in trusted relationships.

Sonja's point is deeply supported by research, but it also feels like old wisdom. Real intimacy has rarely grown in the soil of performance.

There is a reason why some friendships nourish us while others leave us oddly empty. In some relationships, we are admired but not known. In others, we are recognized. There is a difference. Admiration can feel flattering, but recognition feels like home.

And perhaps that is why my granddaughter’s comment struck me so deeply. She would rather have one friend who knows “all sides” of her than a crowd who only likes a curated version. That is emotional maturity. Maybe spiritual maturity too.

I think of Brené Brown’s observation that vulnerability is not weakness but the birthplace of connection. When we let ourselves be a little more visible, something softens. We stop spending so much energy managing perception. We can actually attend to the other person. We become more present, more curious, more available.

And presence, I suspect, may be one of love’s quietest forms.

Lyubomirsky offers wonderfully practical counsel. Be slightly less polished in ordinary conversation. Say one thing honestly that you might usually soften. Let a moment of uncertainty stand without rushing to correct it. Mention something you genuinely care about, even if it seems quirky or unpopular. Notice when you are performing, then gently return attention to the person before you.

These sound like small things, but many transformations begin in small things.

There is also freedom in realizing you do not have to edit every rough edge. Sometimes we rush to explain ourselves, repair awkwardness, or rephrase a sentence just to sound better. But often the conversation carries on just fine. The feared rejection never comes. And each such moment loosens the grip of perfectionism.

Of course discernment matters. Not every relationship is a place for vulnerability. Trust is earned. Authenticity does not mean indiscriminate exposure. It means allowing the right people access to what is real.

Still, many of us may need to ask: where in my relationships am I presenting a polished version of myself when what I long for is to be known?

That question may be more important than it first appears, because flourishing is relational. Again and again, well-being research points back to belonging, trust, and authentic connection. We become ourselves with others.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to my granddaughter’s scream of joy. “I felt free,” she said.

What if feeling loved and feeling free are more connected than we realize?

What if some of our loneliness comes not only from others failing to know us, but from our own reluctance to be seen?

And what if one path toward the good life is simply becoming a little truer?

Three seeds for me to metaphorically plant this week (and maybe you). First, notice where I may be “showing off” rather than showing myself, and experiment with one small act of greater honesty. Second, cherish the friends who knows many sides of me—and be that kind of friend for someone else. Third, honor one quirky, vivid, deeply personal part of myself that I have been tempted to mute.

Sophia reminded me that authenticity may sometimes look a little offbeat, a little loud, a little unconventional. But perhaps that is where aliveness lives.

And perhaps the people who matter most will not be put off by that aliveness.

They may love us there.

How might we move up to the Good Life by showing a bit more of ourselves even if it’s a little quirky.

(BTW, John and I were once walking around a graveyard in Tennessee years ago.  I asked John what he thought he might want on his headstone. He something like, “Here was a quirky guy.” At the time I didn’t fully appreciate it.  I’m getting it, John. My dad was also a little quirky. When my mother and I were doing his family genealogy, it said they were known to be a bit quirky. I'm beginning to appreciate that a bit more.)

When you read this, John and I may have returned from his 60^th college reunion. He went to Pomona college in Claremont.  It will be a time of reminiscing I wager. Maybe we will feel free enough at this age to expose a bit more of our quirkiness to each other. I have no doubts about John. We may have some stories. 

But here’s another good story of a wonderful life lesson for you to chew on until I have a moment to get back into blogging.  It’s from my good friend and wonderful mentor to the world, Dr. Gene Sharratt.  He wrote to be included in a book by a friend and has given me permission to print it here. So good.

Gene Sharratt - Looking to the Horizon: Sergeant Gonzalez

and the Lesson That Shaped My Life

Learnings in discipline, resilience, and leadership from Army basic training—still guiding me today.

On my first day of Army basic training in January 1967, I was a hesitant young man convinced I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. My Drill Sergeant, Sergeant Gonzalez—a man who seemed carved out of granite—spent the first weeks dismantling every excuse and shaky bit of confidence I carried onto the field. At the time, I assumed he disliked me (and maybe every trainee in the platoon).

One cold, rainy morning, I was struggling through a land-navigation exercise—wet, chilled to the bone, and ready to quit. Sergeant Gonzalez found me sitting in the brush, slumping over my map. Instead of the scolding I expected, he sat down beside me and said, “You’re looking at the ground because you’re afraid of the distance. Look at the horizon, and you’ll see the path.”

In that moment, he didn’t just teach me how to read a map—he taught me that my potential was a mile past where my fear told me to stop. He saw something in me before I saw it in myself. That change in perspective—focusing on the destination instead of the discomfort—has stayed with me ever since. I learned there is real growth in discomfort, if you keep moving.

That Drill Sergeant changed my life by looking past my early stumbles and insisting I could become more disciplined, more dependable, and more useful to the team. In Vietnam, serving as a paratrooper with the 173^rd Airborne, those basic-training lessons echoed in real moments: embrace the grind, lean on the person next to you, stay calm under pressure, and keep your standards high when it would be easier to let them slide.

These are the lessons my Drill Sergeant drilled into me—principles I still try to practice every day:

• Battle Buddy mindset: Never operate alone—trust, teamwork, and accountability keep people alive and missions on track.

• Resilience and mental toughness: Pushing through fatigue, cold, and stress builds the capacity to function when it matters most.

• Attention to detail: Small things are never “small”—unchecked gear, sloppy preparation, or ignored maintenance can become catastrophic.

• Lead by example: Discipline and integrity are modeled, not announced—hold yourself to the standard before expecting it from others.

• Adaptability under pressure: Learn to think clearly, adjust quickly, and keep moving even when the plan changes.

• “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast”: Rushing creates mistakes; steady execution produces speed you can trust.

• Comfort in discomfort: Being uncomfortable isn’t a signal to stop—it’s often proof you’re growing.

• Humility over ego: Learn from mistakes, stay teachable, and remember the mission is bigger than any one person.

• Live the values: Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage aren’t slogans—they’re choices made daily.

  
  

Today, when life gets hard and the distance feels too far, I still hear Sergeant Gonzalez telling me to lift my eyes and find the horizon. He trained my body in basic training, but he also trained my thinking: to stay steady, to do the small things right, and to keep faith with the people beside me.

 If there’s any good, I’ve carried forward—as a soldier, a teammate, and a leader traces back to that rainy morning and a Drill Sergeant who demanded my best until I believed I had it.