The room buzzed with easy laughter, the kind that comes from people who know exactly where they fit. Someone told a story—something about a weekend trip, an inside joke, a shared memory—but I only caught pieces of it. I nodded, smiled at the right moments, held my drink just like everyone else. On the outside, I blended in. But in my head, I was somewhere else, replaying the same thought over and over: I don’t fit in.

I contribute just enough to pass as present, but beneath the surface, I feel like a misplaced piece—recognizable yet never quite belonging. The more I engage, the more I feel the gap between myself and everyone else. It’s not that I don’t want to belong. I do. I just don’t know how to do so without feeling like I’m forcing something that isn’t there. So, I retreat; it’s easier than the ache of trying and failing to connect. Maybe that’s why I prefer the quiet. Not because I don’t crave connection, but because isolation is predictable.

Predictability is a comfort zone—a safe place. It’s a box that’s easy to get trapped inside. I want to know what’s going to happen, what to expect in every circumstance. I want to remain in control. I want to refrain from any activity or conversation that will result in negative reactions, judgement…failure.

I escape the need for validation through isolation, but I’ve realized that although I shut out the noise of our socialized era, I still wonder what the people are saying; what they think. I wander into a room of self-criticism, where my views on myself are directly impacted by what’s valid on the outside. Avoidant coping can only help so much before the impact of the unknown spins me around in circles.

As I’m sure we all know by now, cycles will remain in motion until they are forcefully broken. This cycle has been a very destructive one over time in my life. I have been so yielded by the discomfort of the unknown that connections meant to be had are slowly fading. The comfort in loneliness slowly creeps in until it is no longer comfortable, and I am forced to uncomfortably find an out. I’ve recently been reminded of the cliché to “step out of your comfort zone” in order to progress (which is something I always used to preach). I guess teenage me was preparing my older self in a way.

Solitude feels safe—until my own thoughts turn against me, questioning whether I belong anywhere at all. But maybe that’s just part of being human; to think deeply, to feel differently, to wrestle with the push and pull of connection and solitude. I may not fit neatly into every space, but that’s no cause for concern. Maybe the beauty isn’t in blending in, but in existing as I am—thoughts, contradictions, and all. Maybe it’s time to embrace that for a change.