It’s too loud in here.
Everything feels magnified—the hum of voices, the sharp clang of dishes, the smell of strong coffee. It presses in, fills all the empty space around me, as if trying to push me out. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself, forcing myself into places where I’m supposed to feel connected, only to end up feeling even more alone.
But then, that’s the strange part, isn’t it? The wanting. There’s something inside me that keeps hoping if I just try hard enough, maybe I’ll finally understand how to be a part of things.
Why can’t I be like everyone else?
Look at them. They’re sitting so close, leaning in, laughing without a hint of hesitation. The way they look at each other, listen to each other, like they’re part of something, sharing something important. It’s like they’ve mastered this unspoken code of belonging. And here I am, stuck in my own head, wondering how they do it.
Do they ever feel like this, too?
Or is it just me? I can’t help but wonder. Am I missing some crucial part that everyone else was just born with? Maybe it’s something simple, something everyone takes for granted that just didn’t stick with me. Like how to let go. How to be okay with not overthinking every word, every glance, every interaction. But I can’t stop myself. Every time I speak, my mind is already rewriting it, dissecting it, wondering how it sounded or if it came out wrong.
It’s exhausting. The truth is, even the smallest interactions drain me. Talking to people feels like trying to hold onto sand—it slips through my fingers no matter how carefully I try to keep it together. And then, when it’s over, I’m left standing there, feeling emptier than before. It’s like I’m giving away pieces of myself every time, but I’m never getting anything back to fill the spaces I lose.
Why can’t I just be comfortable with who I am?
Maybe that’s what bothers me the most. That constant feeling of not being enough, or of being too much of the wrong thing. People tell me, “You’re just shy,” or “You’ll grow out of it.” As if it’s a temporary condition, something I can shed, like a coat. But I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. This quiet place inside me, it’s not a phase; it’s my home. And yet, I’m always being told I need to leave it, to find something better, more “normal.”
But what if normal doesn’t exist for me? What if my silence is my strength, even if no one else sees it that way?
Then there’s this fear, too. A deep, aching worry that if I don’t push myself out there, if I don’t somehow figure out how to belong, then I’ll miss out on life entirely. I’ll grow old watching others live, forever an observer but never truly participating. It’s like there’s this invisible wall, one I can see through but can’t break, and on the other side is everything I want but can’t reach. Love, friendship, belonging. All just out of reach.
Maybe I’m just being too hard on myself.
Sometimes, I wonder if it’s okay to just be the way I am, even if it doesn’t look like everyone else’s version of “okay.” There’s a beauty in solitude, in noticing the things others miss because they’re too busy talking or rushing around. The way the light catches the edge of a coffee cup, the pattern of raindrops streaking down a window, the sound of pages turning in a quiet room. Those moments don’t ask anything of me. They don’t judge me or demand that I speak. They’re just there, waiting, offering a kind of companionship that doesn’t feel overwhelming or intrusive.
And in a way, I find peace in those moments. In those small, quiet pockets of time, I feel like I belong—not to anyone, but to myself.
But it’s hard, isn’t it?
Because at the end of the day, people are the ones who make the world feel whole. No matter how much I enjoy my own company, there’s still that aching need for connection. It’s strange, this contradiction. To be so afraid of letting people in, yet to yearn for it with every part of me. It’s like reaching out while holding myself back at the same time. And that tension… it hurts.
I’ve thought about what it would be like to have someone who understood, who wouldn’t expect me to be more or less than I am. Someone who could sit with me in silence without feeling the need to fill it. They wouldn’t look at me with pity or think I’m broken because I’m quiet. Maybe they’d even understand that my silence is a language of its own, one that doesn’t need words to say what’s real and true.
But that’s just a dream, isn’t it?
In reality, people don’t have the patience to wait for someone to open up on their own terms. They want immediate connections, easy conversations. They don’t have time to unravel someone like me, someone who moves slowly and carefully, afraid of getting hurt. I can’t blame them, really. Who would choose to wait for a person like me, when there are so many others who can love openly, easily?
Yet, maybe there’s still hope. Maybe it’s not about finding someone to break through my walls, but about finding someone who respects the space I need, who doesn’t try to change me but simply sits beside me, quietly enough to make me feel that I don’t have to hide.
And maybe, slowly, I can learn to feel like enough. Not perfect, not what the world wants me to be, but simply…enough.
Maybe that’s what I really need—just to know that I’m enough as I am.
As I take a sip of my coffee, I let the warmth settle in me. It’s a small comfort, but it’s real. And maybe that’s all I need to hold onto for now. The journey isn’t about becoming someone else, but about learning to be at peace with who I already am.
It’s okay to be quiet. It’s okay to take my time.
And with that thought, I finally start to feel a little less alone.
