I was twelve when the ground shifted beneath my feet. Not a child anymore, not quite a teen. That murky in-between where nothing fits right.

Remember middle school? Awkward growth spurts and acne constellations. 

For most, a rite of passage. For me? The moment I realized I was playing a game everyone else seemed to know the rules for.

The breaks between lessons were the worst. That ten-minute eternity when the hallways erupted into a chaotic social dance. Everyone seemed to know the steps but me.

I’d linger inside the classroom, pretending to organize my pencils and books. 

My fingers would trace the edges of my notebook, arranging and rearranging pens with meticulous precision. Anything to look busy, to have a reason to stay put.

Once, my language teacher, asked if everything was okay. 

“You don’t have to stay in here, you know,” she said, kindness in her eyes. 

But she didn’t understand. Out there was a battlefield. In here, at least I could breathe.

Why couldn’t I crack the code? What invisible signal was I missing?

We’re fed this lie that growing up is natural, that we’ll all find our way. But what if you can’t even find the path?

I tried to adapt. Copied clothes, mimicked slang. 

But it was like wearing a costume that never quite fit. Every laugh felt forced, every conversation a minefield of potential missteps.

Do you know the exhaustion of constantly second-guessing yourself? 

Of feeling like an anthropologist studying your own peers, desperately trying to decipher their strange customs?

It changes you, feeling out of step at that age. 

You’re old enough to know something’s wrong, but too young to understand it’s not your fault. You become a watcher, an outsider in your own life.

Slowly, like ice thawing in spring, a realization took shape:I wasn’t failing to follow their path.

I was unconsciously carving my own.

Maybe the world needs those who see things differently.

The lesson life took years to teach me: true belonging isn’t about fitting in—it’s about having the courage to stand out.

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