The Other as key
An essay on self-becoming through encounter

 

 

 

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Introduction – Am I truly born as a human being, if no one sees me?

My mother often called me a strange creature. Sometimes in anger, sometimes harshly — but always with a tone of surprise. As if she genuinely couldn’t grasp how I had ended up in her life, with my sensitivity, my deep thoughts, and my different way of being. She didn’t intend it as rejection, yet that’s how it felt.

 

As if I were a mistake. A misunderstanding. As if I did not fit.

 

It wasn’t only her words that left me feeling rejected. It ran deeper — in the absence of recognition. Of attunement. Of that gaze which says: I see you and you are allowed to be.

 

Instead, I was compared, corrected, adjusted and misunderstood. My inner world collided with my mother’s template of what a daughter should be. And somewhere along the way, I lost something: the trust that my experience was allowed to exist.

 

The pain of not being seen is not only relational. It is existential. It touches the question: Who am I, if no one confirms my being? Does the Self even exist, if it is never mirrored? If there is no Other who says: I see you. You are truly here.

 

Philosophers such as Martin Buber and Emmanuel Levinas argue that the Self does not come into being in isolation, but in relation. For Buber, the I arises only in encounter with the Thou — a true Other who is not reduced to means, function or mirror. For Levinas, the Other is even more fundamental than the I: it is the gaze of the Other that calls me, that makes me responsible, before I’ve even chosen to respond.

 

But what if that gaze never comes?
What if you are looked at, but not truly seen?
What if the Other does not acknowledge you as a subject, but as deviation, projection or background?

 

In this essay, I want to explore how the Self emerges — and what it needs in order to flourish. Not as an autonomous individual, but as a being-in-relation. I will bring together thinkers who, each in their own way, make the Other into a key: Buber, Levinas, Fromm, Sartre, Weil, Merleau-Ponty, Heidegger, Benjamin — placing them in dialogue with my own experience. Not as a theoretical exercise, but as a search for what it means to become human in the presence of another who truly receives you.

 

For perhaps becoming human begins right there: In the recognition of what is vulnerable, strange, misunderstood — and yet allowed to be.

 

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The Self is not a solo project

The modern image of humanity is built on autonomy — the illusion of an I that emerges in isolation. But anyone who looks honestly knows: we are born into dependence, into closeness and into the longing for attunement.

 

The philosopher Martin Buber radically claimed that the I exists only in encounter with the Thou. Only where there is reciprocity — a gaze that receives, a word that responds — does the Self unfold as a living subject. Outside of that encounter, the I shrivels into the instrumental: an I–It, in which the other becomes nothing more than a means or a role.

 

Emmanuel Levinas sharpened this insight. Where Buber emphasizes dialogue, Levinas highlights asymmetry: the Other is always more than I can grasp. Precisely for that reason, their gaze lays an ethical claim upon me, even before I can choose or respond. The Other precedes me.

 

Heidegger opens yet another window. For him, the Self is not a core in isolation but always already thrown into the world, together with others. He calls this Mitsein: we are always-in-relation. Even our solitude bears the traces of connectedness.

 

Jean-Paul Sartre shows how that connectedness can also derail. For if we come to know ourselves through the gaze of the other, that gaze can also distort and reduce us to objects. Encounter can affirm, but it can also estrange.

 

Erich Fromm places love in this field of tension. For him, love is not a feeling but an act: to see the other in their uniqueness, without wanting to control or reduce them. In this way, he shows that recognition is not merely a philosophical concept but also a way of living.

 

Jessica Benjamin brings this closer still, speaking of mutual recognition. It is not enough that you see me; I must also see you as a subject. Encounter is not fusion, but a ground in which both of us can exist.

 

Simone Weil raises this to a spiritual height. To love, she writes, means to say to another: “You, at this moment, shall not die.”

 

True love lets the other exist — not as an extension of myself, but as other.

 

And finally, Merleau-Ponty reminds us that encounter is always embodied. The Self is not an abstract idea but felt in the space between bodies. We know when something resonates, not only with our minds but with our whole being.

 

Together, these voices form a many-voiced chorus. Buber teaches us the importance of dialogue, Levinas the inescapable responsibility, Heidegger the thrownness of our being-with, Sartre the dangers of distorted gazes, Fromm and Benjamin the necessity of love and recognition, Weil the sacredness of the other, and Merleau-Ponty the tangible reality of encounter.

 

Their accents differ, but they all point in the same direction: the Self is relational. It is born, mirrored and felt in the presence of the Other.

 

 

 

The Hunger for Recognition

There is a hunger that has no words. Not a hunger for food or knowledge, but for something more fundamental: see me. Not my role, not my behavior, but me — exactly as I am.

 

Erich Fromm calls love an act: to see the other in their uniqueness, without trying to mold or control them. But just as essential is the capacity to be loved. That requires having once felt: I am allowed to exist, even without achievements, even if I do not fit.

 

This hunger is born in childhood. The small child seeks the gaze of the parent and comes to know itself through what it sees reflected there. But if that mirror is absent or distorted, a wound remains. Then an emptiness arises that later gets filled with compliance, perfectionism or rebellion. An emptiness that never truly disappears, but changes shape throughout the years.

 

Psychoanalyst Jessica Benjamin speaks here of mutual recognition. Encounter requires not only that you see me, but also that I can see you as a subject. In that attunement, space opens up — not fusion, but a ground in which both can exist in their difference.

 

Where recognition fails, distortion arises. You give and give, hoping the other will give you back. Schema Focused Therapy describes this as the Vulnerable Child and the Compliant Surrenderer — old voices whispering: if I make myself small, if I am sweet, then maybe…

 

I have known that hunger. In relationships where I lost myself in endless waiting for recognition that never came. I kept searching for a gaze that would give me back to myself. But true encounter does not grow from craving. It requires presence. On both sides.

 

 

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The Absence of the Other

There is a loneliness that cuts deeper than simply being alone. It is the loneliness in the presence of the Other — when you look, reach out, feel, but the other remains closed. When your subjectivity finds no ground, because the other approaches you as mirror, as projection or as instrument — but not as human being.

 

That experience is fundamentally disruptive. There is no overt violence — but there is a lack of recognition. No touch from within. Only silence or words that pass you by. Masks. Roles and defenses.

 

And so, encounter becomes exhausting. A struggle for the right to exist.

 

Sometimes such relationships take subtle but destructive forms. Think of gaslighting: a form of psychological violence in which your perception is systematically denied. You learn to distrust yourself. You become estranged from your intuition. Your reality becomes uncertain ground — dependent on the confirmation that is deliberately withheld.

 

And that is what makes this emptiness so painful. Not the absence of someone — but the illusion of closeness. You think you are together, but in truth you are alone. You try to make contact, but are met with confusion, denial or distance. Slowly your inner space shrinks, until you can hardly recognize yourself anymore.

 

The French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre argued that we truly come to know ourselves in the gaze of the Other. But when that gaze is distorted, our self-image becomes distorted as well. The gaze that does not confirm, but twists, turns you into an object. And when that happens structurally — in a family, a relationship, a system — the Self becomes uprooted.

 

For me personally, that emptiness was tangible in my relationship with my mother — and later again, in sharper form, in a destructive love relationship. In both cases I was not seen as who I truly am, but as projection: too much, too deep, too sensitive, too intense, not (good) enough. The message was clear, even if never spoken: adapt or disappear.

 

That does something to a human being. You learn to adapt, to split and to twist yourself. You become estranged from your core. And the tragedy is: you keep longing for that recognition. As if, deep inside, you still hope that one day it will come. That the Other will finally say: I see you — and you may exist.

 

But sometimes that recognition does not come. And then another path begins: learning to carry that emptiness. Without losing yourself. Without hardening. Without killing the longing, but also without letting it rule your life.

 

 

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Encounter as Mirror and Boundary

The Other is a mirror. Not so much in the sense of recognition, but precisely in the moments when something jars. When your movement finds no resonance. When your gaze collides with that of the other — and does not attune, but breaks. There, the boundary emerges. And it is precisely there that the Self begins.

 

For being truly seen does not mean being fully understood. It means being acknowledged as a separate existence. With your own rhythm, your desires and your language. And also: recognizing that the other is not you. Encounter is not fusion, but attunement. It is being able to stand side by side in difference.

 

Psychoanalyst Jessica Benjamin describes this dynamic as mutual subjectivity. You see me as subject and I see you as subject. Only then can genuine encounter arise. But this requires recognizing boundaries — that you do not have to feel everything I feel and I do not have to understand everything you experience.

 

In relationships where boundaries are missing — where the other engulfs you or you lose yourself — there is no real encounter, but symbiotic distortion. You become entangled in the other or deny your own needs in order to preserve the connection.

It looks like closeness, but in truth it is self-betrayal.

 

True love allows the other to exist. Not as an extension of the self, but as other.

 

That also means: not saving, not controlling, not changing the other. But likewise not allowing your Self to be undermined in the longing for recognition.

 

In my own life I long searched for that balance. In relationships where I was not allowed to be myself, I only learned my boundaries after the break. Only when the pain became too great, the mirror too empty, did I dare to say: this is not who I am and not who I want to be.

 

But perhaps self-love begins exactly there — in recognizing the boundary. In saying: here you end and my being begins.

 

The French phenomenologist Merleau-Ponty emphasized that our Self is always embodied — and thus felt in the space between bodies. Encounter is tangible, not abstract. We feel when something resonates and when something jars. That felt dimension guides us, if we dare to listen.

 

Encounter does not ask for disappearance, but for appearance. In your own contours. With gentle clarity. So that you and the other can both remain standing — not against each other, but with each other.

 

 

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Conclusion – Self-becoming as a relational process

It is often said that we must “find ourselves.” As if the Self were a fixed core, lying somewhere deep inside, waiting to be unearthed. But perhaps that is a misconception. Perhaps the Self is not something we find, but something that unfolds — in time, in encounter and in attunement.

 

The thinkers who have appeared along the way — Buber, Levinas, Fromm, Sartre, Weil, Heidegger, Benjamin, Merleau-Ponty — each contribute, in their own way, to a fundamental insight:

 

We become human through the Other.

 

Not as a figure of dependency, but as an existential condition.
Not to give ourselves up, but to become ourselves.

 

Self-becoming is a relational process. It is being born in the gaze of someone who sees you — and continuing to exist in the space you learn to allow yourself. It is knowing: I exist in relation, but I do not disappear in that relation. It is daring to feel: I long for recognition, but I am not that hunger.

 

In a world that glorifies autonomy, this is not a self-evident path. It takes courage to acknowledge dependence without being crushed by it. It takes vulnerability to appear, even when you are unsure if you will be seen. And it takes truth to refrain from idealizing the relationship with the other — but to dare to feel where it is lacking.

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Yet it is precisely in that vulnerability that something new can arise. A Self that is not hardened, but rooted. Not solitary and trapped in craving, but bounded and open — grounded in presence.

 

Within me still lives that girl once called a strange creature. But she is no longer alone. She has learned to speak in her own voice. She has met others who did see her. And she has discovered that sometimes you must first lose yourself in the gaze of another, to finally find yourself again in the silence that remains.

 

Self-becoming is no endpoint. It is a continuous process of appearing, disappearing, rediscovering — in relation to the Other. And sometimes that Other is a mother. Sometimes a lover. Sometimes a friend.

 

And sometimes — perhaps at the most decisive moments — it is you yourself: finally able to see yourself.

 

And therein lies the invitation to you, reader: to appear, to seek out eyes that truly see and to dare to be that gaze for another. For there, in that reciprocity, becoming human begins — again and again.