Loneliness

I never wanted to be the loudest mind in a quiet room. It just kept happening — truth slipping out like breath, not prophecy... and people watched as if revelation were some secret I was chosen to carry, when really, I’ve just grown tired of pretending the obvious is complicated. There is a strange punishment in clarity: the clearer I speak, the more they insist it must be wisdom. They praise what they cannot imitate — not realizing I never meant to teach, only to meet... and I pay for it in solitude; I do not seek pedestals — as pedestals are prisons disguised as altars.

the truth leaves my mouth

the quiet room now stares back

just lost, not profound

Sometimes I wonder: if someone else finally said what I see so clearly, would I feel relief or wounded, as if deprived of my special individuality? Or would it maybe just feel like peace in the resound — proof that I am not the last of my kind in this quiet world full of loud people who say nothing.

empty lecture hall

my words still echo louder

than the mere applause

​​​​​​​There’s a particular kind of loneliness reserved for the ones who think in layers... for those who speak in truths before others manage metaphors. They call it depth, but it feels more like exile. A mind sharpened by solitude learns too early that brilliance is not applause — it’s the ache of standing where no one else stands yet. I wanted company — not a crown.

pedestal is glass

they see the light, not the height

I long for flat ground

On World Poetry Day, they celebrate voices like mine — voices that bleed neat and beautiful on paper. They see the poem, but not the person whispering lines into a void that rarely whispers back. They say poets change the world, but I know the truth: poets survive it. We do not write because we wish to be revered— we write because silence feels like drowning. Some search for fame — I search for reflection. The rare soul who arrives not to admire or follow — but to answer... someone whose silence carries thought, and whose voice arrives not as an emulation, but presence.

late revelations

I write to not disappear,

not to be profound

Poets do not break by screaming; poets break by going quiet. Until then, I keep writing — not for the audience, but for the possibility... and if no one arrives to speak in my cadence, I will not dim my voice... I'm not sure if I even know how. I will build a language they must learn or lose; not chosen — just unwilling to disappear.

the dialogue fades

only sequins and applause

I wait for the thought

#MightyPoets

Being neurodivergent comes with its own trials and tribulations. To truly feel that sense of belonging is something we chase after, day in and day out. I always thought that if I act “normal,” and hid my “flaws,” then I would be accepted and feel less different. But the thing is, I want to be accepted and recognized for being my true, authentic self.

Trying to belong in that way honestly left me feeling lonelier. My goal ultimately was to just blend in with the crowd, and I did, but it didn’t feel natural, and I felt like each time I masked, I’d lose a little piece of myself.

I’ve learned that belonging doesn’t come from making yourself shrink or being easier to understand. It comes from being seen for who you really are, quirks and all. I want to be accepted because of my differences, not in spite of them.

When you’re neurodivergent, you spend so much time trying to decipher the world. For me, I study people’s reactions, mirror their tone, and their energy. I masked so well that sometimes I even forget what my unmasked self feels like.

Growing up, I didn’t understand why I felt so different. I just assumed that I was a very shy person who had some difficulties with communication and connecting with others. I definitely made friends, but not exposing who I really was on the inside. My entire goal was just to blend in and not be noticed for my “oddities.” But that made me feel so incredibly lonely and isolated that I lost my sense of self.

Belonging feels exhausting after essentially holding your breath for years. It’s sitting with someone who doesn’t flinch when you need some quiet time, someone who doesn’t judge your pacing and fidgeting, and someone who doesn’t take things personally when you cancel plans because your brain is just too tired for people that day.

The real belonging that lasts, starts with finding yourself. I know that when I stopped trying to keep up with neurotypical expectations and started honoring what actually worked for me, felt liberating.

I’ve realized that the more I accept myself, the more I attract people who do too. I want to be around people who reach out with understanding, not judgment. People who don’t need me to explain myself on why I am the way that I am. They just know. With people like that, I don’t feel broken, I feel whole.

Belonging, I’ve learned, doesn’t happen when the world finally makes space for you.

It happens when you stop trying to squeeze yourself into spaces that were never meant to hold you.

“Belonging starts with self-acceptance. Your level of belonging, in fact, can never be greater than your level of self-acceptance.” - Brené Brown

#Neurodiversity #MentalHealth #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder

If there were a gold medal for overthinking, my Generalized Anxiety Disorder would’ve framed it and hung it right above my bed just to remind me I’m never off-duty. My GAD doesn’t live in my head rent-free; it pays rent in criticism, always on time, and always in my own voice.

If anxiety had a desk, mine would have spreadsheets, caffeine stains, and a few bunch of boxes labeled URGENT all over my desk. My GAD doesn’t rest, it runs a 24-hour news channel in my head, sponsored by panic and powered by “what ifs.”

The Argument:
Picture this: me, trying to relax. Maybe a cup of tea, maybe a quiet evening. Then GAD kicks open the mental door like an uninvited lawyer.

Me: “Everything’s fine.”
GAD: “Define fine.”
Me: “No one’s mad at me.”
GAD: “You sure? That text with the period instead of the exclamation point begs to differ.”
Me: “They were probably just tired.”
GAD: “Or plotting your emotional downfall. Flip a coin.”

By this point, my mind joins the courtroom drama. The Mind tries to play mediator, but it’s like watching a referee with no whistle.

Mind: “Okay, both of you calm down.”
GAD: “You calm down, Brain-boy. You’re the one who scheduled five backup plans for one conversation.”
Mind: “That was you!”
Me: “Can I get a moment of peace?”
GAD: “You could… if you planned it better.”

Then they went into a heated debate.

Me: “Okay, deep breath. It’s fine. The government shutdown will end eventually.”
GAD: “Oh? You mean that thing holding your paycheck hostage? Yeah, sure. ‘Eventually.’ Maybe by the time your grandkids can vote.”
Mind: “We’ve been through this before, remember? Budget cuts, furloughs, you adapted.”
GAD: “Adapted? You call late-night ramen and existential dread adapting?”

Me: “Let’s just focus on budgeting better this time.”
GAD: “Oh perfect, let’s play financial Tetris with your dignity again.”
Mind: “You’re fine. You’ve got savings.”
GAD: “Savings? You mean that lonely twenty-dollar bill with separation anxiety?”

Me: “At least I’m doing all this for my kids’ future.”
GAD: “Their what? The one you can’t control because the world’s on fire, tuition’s absurd, and apparently AI is taking everyone’s job?”
Mind: “Calm down. They’ll be okay. You’re teaching them resilience.”
GAD: “Resilience? They’re learning from you! The human stress ball!”

The Twist:
Sometimes I swear my GAD and my Mind have a secret group chat where they roast me. The Mind brings logic; GAD brings fireworks. Together, they form the world’s most exhausting improv duo.

And just when I think I’ve won when the breathing exercises and herbal tea are working, GAD smirks.

“Congrats on relaxing. You’re doing it wrong.”

At this point, I’ve accepted we’re an eternal trio. Me, my Mind, and my GAD, like a dysfunctional family sitcom where no one ever moves out. I don’t always win the arguments, but I’ve learned one thing: if you can’t shut anxiety up, at least make it laugh.

I’ve realized my head isn’t a conversation held in small cafe table, it’s a massive knights’ roundtable. My GAD runs the fear campaign, my Mind moderates with fake neutrality, and I’m just trying to sip tea without crying into it.

There’s no winner here, only reruns. But maybe that’s the trick, acknowledge the chaos, laugh at it, and keep going. Because even if my brain’s a battlefield, at least I’ve learned to fight with humor instead of surrender.

Final Thought: “My anxiety doesn’t ruin conversations. It just holds a mandatory post-meeting analysis that lasts six hours.”

My GAD doesn’t argue to win, it argues to remind me the apocalypse might be on sale, and I forgot my coupon.