We like to be known, in ways small and large. Some of us spend great effort to “make a name for ourselves,” while others are pleased if the neighbors know their names. Even if we don’t actively strive for recognition, we get satisfaction from being acknowledged and delight in being understood.
In an earlier post I wrote about so-called “weak ties”: the guy at the deli, the woman at the yoga class. Small encounters help enmesh one in community. Most of us prefer not to be anonymous. We may decorate our cars to be distinctive. We are pleased to be acknowledged at the store, at the post office—hey, we’re even glad when the neighbor’s dog seems to recognize us. We’re happy when our habits are remembered, pleased with the bartender or the barista who knows just what we drink.
Our good friends know us on a deeper level. They know our history and our moods. They know our aspirations and our setbacks. They know our family dynamics. They know the types of books and music we love. We can relax with our friends; we don’t have to explain things. Because we have talked so much in the past, we can be quiet and content in the present. They accept us. They know who we are.
So when they give us a present we don’t want (say, a fifth water bottle), we feel affronted, almost insulted. How could someone who knows me well think I’d want this? Maybe they don’t know me well, after all. Well-intended presents from our spouses can be especially unnerving. On the other hand, when the gift is perfect, perhaps something we didn’t even know we wanted, we are as thrilled with the giver as the gift. They know what we like, they know us.
When people are falling in love, they sometimes feel like they’ve known each other forever. They feel deeply connected and perfectly understood. Whether or not it's illusory, they enjoy the profound and intimate thrill of feeling fully known.