please understand me

When someone I don’t know greets me whether it’s in a store, a hallway, or just a random encounter on the street I know they mean well. I get it. They’re trying to be friendly. But instead of feeling welcomed, I feel like I’ve just been handed an impromptu social quiz that I didn’t study for.

“Hi! How’s your day going?” they say with a big, beaming smile, expecting an enthusiastic response. But here’s the thing: I don’t know you. I don’t have a script for this interaction, and I definitely wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz on human connection while I’m just trying to buy some bread.

Instead of feeling like I’m part of a warm, fuzzy community, it feels like someone has just placed me on stage in a play I didn’t audition for. Suddenly, I have to perform. Should I smile? Nod? Do I make small talk? How much small talk is appropriate before I sound like a robot? These are the questions that flood my mind, and honestly, it’s like trying to solve a Rubik's cube while blindfolded.

What makes these greetings even more difficult is that I have no idea what the person is expecting from me. Are they looking for a heartwarming response? A joke? A deeply profound thought? It’s like social guessing games, and I’m always one wrong answer away from becoming the awkward person in the room. You know, the one who mumbles something about the weather and then quickly shuffles away like they’ve just solved a crime.

But here’s the kicker, the more I try to explain this, the more I sound like I’m rejecting their kindness, which is not the case! I’m not anti-social or allergic to people; I just need a moment to process before I can respond without feeling like I’m about to faint from anxiety.

It’s like the world has this unspoken rulebook that everyone else seems to have memorized, while I’m still stuck on the first chapter, trying to figure out why "How’s your day?" feels like the hardest question on Earth.

You know, if someone just greeted me with, “Hey, I get it if you’re not ready for a chat right now, but I hope you’re having a great day!” I’d be over the moon. Instead, I’m left in a social maze where every greeting feels like a trap I can’t escape.

What I wish for more than anything is a world that gets it. A world where people don’t assume that all of us have the same social energy, where it’s okay to need a little space, and where a simple "hello" doesn’t come with an emotional 10K run attached.

I’m not asking for world domination or for everyone to stop saying “hi,” but a little understanding goes a long way. Maybe we can treat each other like we all have different operating systems, some of us run on Windows, others on macOS, and some of us are still trying to figure out dial-up.

So, if you see me out there, just remember, I’m not avoiding you. I’m just trying to figure out if I’m supposed to engage, or pretend to be a social butterfly. A little empathy, a little space, and maybe a smile that says, “I get it” would be the best greeting of all.

Because, let’s face it, the world would be a much nicer place if we all had the option to press "skip intro" on these social exchanges.

What if everything you think you know about life, about reality, about yourself is just a fleeting reflection on the surface of a far deeper current? And what if the truth isn’t something you can hold onto, but something you have to surrender to, like a river that carries you whether you resist it or not?

It’s one thing to feel misunderstood, it’s another to know that no matter how hard you try to explain, the words just don’t seem to land the way you want them to. There’s an emotional weight that comes with this constant cycle of miscommunication. When I try to explain my feelings, my needs, or my struggles, I can see the confusion in the eyes of others. They hear the words, but they don’t understand the meaning behind them. It’s like trying to communicate through a fog that no one else sees, and suddenly I’m questioning if I’m speaking in an ancient dialect that only I understand.

This misalignment isn’t just frustrating it’s exhausting! After trying to explain something over and over again, and not having anyone truly get it, I start to feel like there’s no point in trying anymore. The emotional energy it takes to express myself in a world that doesn’t understand can sometimes feel like it drains the very core of who I am. I become tired of being misunderstood, tired of trying to explain myself in ways that no one can relate to. It’s like trying to do algebra with a chalkboard that keeps erasing itself mid equation.

The worst part Is when the misunderstanding leads to judgment or dismissal. When people tell me that my experience is “not that big of a deal,” or “it’s not so hard,” it invalidates my feelings. It’s as if my struggles are invisible, like they don’t deserve to be taken seriously because they don’t fit within the accepted framework of what’s considered “normal.” Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to convince everyone that yes, I’m genuinely experiencing this! It’s like being told that you’re not actually tired, you’re just “overreacting” after you’ve been awake for three days straight just chill out, right?

Universe, one turning, one change. That’s what it means, doesn’t it? This has been occupying my thoughts lately with increasing frequency. The way everything is just flowing. Moving. Transforming.

Even as I sit here trying to pin down these thoughts, countless cells in my body are dying and being reborn in an endless dance of renewal. Nothing in this vast cosmos stays still for even a moment.

The word universe has fascinating origins. It comes from the Latin word universum, which is a combination of uni meaning one or single and versus, meaning to turn or to rotate. Together, universum roughly means all turned into one or everything combined into one whole.

This reflects ancient philosophical ideas about the cosmos being a unified entity a single system that encompasses everything.

The term found its way into Middle English, where it became universe, carrying its sense of the totality of existence.

One single turning. One eternal moment of transformation. It’s like everything we perceive is just this one continuous change, and we’re all inseparable parts of this grand cosmic dance.

Social interactions are often framed as something simple, a casual conversation here, a quick greeting there, maybe a brief chat about the weather. But for people like me, these interactions come with an unseen cost. While others may glide through social encounters with ease, I have to expend mental energy to ensure I’m saying the right thing, responding in the right way, and understanding the cues that everyone else seems to pick up without thinking. It’s like running a marathon while everyone else is riding in a golf cart.

It’s like playing a game where everyone else knows the rules, but you’re still trying to figure them out. Even something as small as answering a question can turn into a puzzle. Is the person asking to be polite, or do they actually want to know the answer? Do I need to make small talk to be friendly, or is it okay to just focus on the task at hand? There’s no way to know for sure, and that uncertainty leads to anxiety. It’s like trying to figure out whether the person in front of you is holding a Hug Me sign or an Exit Only sign and the only option is to guess and pray you’re not escorted out.

What others might perceive as “just being social” feels like a performance. The pressure to fit in, to be understood, and to follow social expectations is a constant, invisible weight that I carry around. This makes every interaction feel like a chore. I often find myself drained afterward, not because I didn’t enjoy the interaction, but because it took so much effort just to keep up. It’s like I’m supposed to be starring in a play where the script keeps changing, but I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo.

Sometimes, it feels like there’s an invisible wall between me and everyone else. This wall is made of unspoken social rules, norms, and expectations that I don’t fully understand, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to break through it. It’s like I’m standing in the middle of an invisible moat that no one else can see—except I’m the only one trying to swim across it, and no one’s throwing me a lifeline. So, I’m left treading water in this sea of awkwardness, hoping that I don’t drown in confusion.

Even though I can hear the conversations happening around me, I’m often too anxious or unsure to join in. I don’t always know the right moment to speak or how to connect with others in a way that feels natural. The pressure to fit in, to act like everyone else, feels suffocating, and every time I try to cross the invisible barrier, I find myself stumbling or saying something that doesn’t quite land right. It’s like being the kid who accidentally opens the wrong door at a party and walks into the bathroom, only to realize everyone is staring at you while you awkwardly try to back out without tripping over your own feet.

The Isolation of being on the other side of that wall is profound. It’s not that I don’t want to connect with people—I do. But the effort to bridge that gap is exhausting, and often I end up retreating further into myself, feeling more alone than ever. I’m like the last person to realize there’s a “No Entry” sign at the social party, but no one has the decency to point it out until I’m halfway through the buffet table.

Every morning, as the world awakens around me, I sit in stillness and let these questions rise like steam from my coffee cup. In these quiet hours, before the noise of the day takes over, I feel the pull of something vast and unknowable. The more I try to grasp it, the more it slips through my fingers.

But what if the slipping is the point? What if life was never meant to be held or controlled, but experienced, moment by moment, as it unfolds? I like to get up early so I can slowly start my day and have time to reflect on my thoughts. No one else in the house is up early so the house is still and quiet. I spend this time thinking, meditating, or just trying to get my mind ready for the day. I’m always seeking to understand the world around me. My perspective is unique, shaped by experiences and ways of thinking that differ from what others might expect or comprehend. My mind constantly wanders and drifts toward the big questions that have puzzled humanity since the dawn of consciousness. What is the nature of reality? What is the meaning of life? What is time? I don’t claim to have the answers, but I find deep joy in exploring these eternal mysteries. The question of life’s meaning is one that I revisit often.

Some philosophers, like Camus, argue that life is inherently absurd, but it is through the acceptance of this absurdity that we can find freedom. For me, the meaning of life lies not in seeking permanence but in embracing change. By letting go of the need for certainty, we open ourselves to the richness of the unknown.

Small talk is often seen as an easy way to break the ice or start a conversation. For many people, it’s a natural part of social interaction a way to fill the space with something light and neutral. But for me, small talk is complicated and draining. I often find myself unable to stop replaying conversations in my head for days after they take place. Like, when someone asked me about the weather, did I give too much detail? Did they actually care about the wind chill, or was I just talking for no reason? I’ll never know, because now it’s a haunting loop that plays in my mind for eternity or until I can distract myself with something shiny.

When people ask me about the weather, or how my day is going, I can’t help but wonder what they really want to know. Are they asking to be polite, or are they genuinely curious? What do they expect me to say? How much detail should I give? As someone who knows a lot about everything, I find myself boring people with a thousand times more detail than they asked for. I’m the person who will go on an impromptu TED Talk about cloud types if you mention that it’s cloudy outside. But hey, you asked, right?

I’ve found that these small exchanges often leave me feeling drained because they are so full of nuance and hidden meaning. What seems like a simple, inconsequential question to others feels loaded to me. I constantly try to gauge how much information I should give, how to make my response sound natural, and how to keep the conversation from feeling awkward. It’s like walking a tightrope with no clear way to know if I’m off balance until I either fall or make it across. Either way, I’m usually sweating buckets by the end of it.

Social interactions aren’t just emotionally taxing, they’re physically draining, also. For many, a day spent talking to others is an easy, routine part of life. For me, it’s like running a marathon. After a few hours of socializing, I find myself completely exhausted, physically and mentally. I’ve used up all my energy just trying to keep up, to follow the conversation, and to engage in the expected ways. It’s a constant balancing act, and when the energy runs out, it feels like I’ve hit a wall. A really, really tall wall, and there’s no ladder in sight.

This exhaustion doesn’t always show on the outside. I may look like I’m fine, but inside I’m completely spent. It’s like being asked to climb a mountain with every interaction, and by the end of the day, I’ve reached my limit. But there’s no way to explain this exhaustion to others, because they can’t see it. They don’t know how much energy it takes just to keep up. So, when someone asks, “Are you okay?” I just smile, hoping my internal battery low warning doesn’t flash too brightly across my face.

It’s the moments when I finally get home, that the full weight of it all crashes down on me. The adrenaline that’s been propelling me through the social marathon begins to fade, and I can feel it the heavy, bone deep exhaustion. My mind is like a computer that’s been running too many programs at once, overheating and starting to shut down. I need to recharge, but it’s not as simple as just sitting down for a few minutes. It’s like trying to reboot a system that’s been running for hours without a break. Sometimes, it takes hours of silence and solitude before I can even begin to feel like myself again. Do you have any idea how difficult it can be to get multiple hours in a row of silence?

I’ve found myself researching physics, cosmology, philosophy, etymology, spirituality, ancient cultures, and psychology in my attempt to understand things. I am not an expert in any of these, but I think I understand them a little.

I truly enjoy exploring these topics and letting my thoughts wonder through these subjects.

I’ve found that the more I sit with these thoughts, the more I realize how little control we actually have over the grand tapestry of existence and how incredibly freeing that realization can be.

Life is perpetual movement, constant change, and endless transformation. It’s like a river that keeps flowing, whether we choose to fight against its current or learn to swim harmoniously with it.

So, this is me, thinking out loud, letting the thoughts take shape as they naturally emerge from the depths of consciousness. I’m not seeking grand conclusions or absolute certainty, just embracing curiosity, cultivating presence, and maintaining a willingness to see where the mysterious flow of existence leads.

Then comes the replay oh, the replay! Every little thing I said, every pause, every facial expression, every word that might’ve been slightly out of place. I relive it over and over, like a bad sitcom on a loop, analyzing if I sounded too stiff or too chatty, if I smiled too much or not enough. It’s a mental spiral that doesn’t stop. Was my joke funny, or did I just come off as weird? Did I smile in the right places, or did it look like I was trying too hard? The overthinking takes over, and no matter how hard I try to shut it off, it just keeps running, like a never-ending movie called something like Captain Awkward.

The thing is, I don’t even necessarily want to stop socializing completely. It’s not about avoiding people; it’s about trying to figure out how to interact with them without feeling like I’m falling out of sync every five minutes. I don’t want to be the weirdo who hides in the corner, but when I try to be “normal,” it feels like I’m constantly tripping over my own thoughts. It’s like wearing someone else’s shoes that are two sizes too small they might technically fit, but every step is uncomfortable and you’re just hoping you don’t get a blister.

And heaven help me if I accidentally misinterpret a social cue. Suddenly, I feel like I’ve been transported into an alternate universe where I’m the only one who doesn’t understand the rules. Was that a joke? Or were they being serious? Did they roll their eyes because I said something dumb, or were they just tired? Is it okay to ask for clarification, or is that just adding more awkwardness to the situation? I’m left to navigate this maze of unspoken signals, and half the time I’m not sure if I’m on the right path or just making things worse.

But when I finally get the courage to ask someone how they really feel, how they truly interpret things, I often hear, “Oh, I didn’t even think about it that way,” or, “I didn’t notice,” and I wonder if I’m just making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe everyone else isn’t analyzing every word as much as I am. Maybe I’m the only one with the internal movie replaying, critiquing my performance in this social action flick. It’s frustrating and liberating all at once to realize that most of the time, people are probably just thinking about what’s for dinner or whether they left the stove on or probably who said what on some social media app.

And then, there’s the part of me that wonders, What would happen if I didn’t try so hard to fit in? What if I just accepted that I’m never going to be the life of the party, the social butterfly, or the expert small talker? What if I stopped worrying about whether my smile is genuine enough and just let people see the real me? The thing is, I’m afraid that if I let go of all the effort, I’ll be even more isolated, even more out of place. But maybe that’s the irony by trying to blend in, I stand out even more. Maybe, I don’t have to pretend to fit into someone else’s mold. Maybe I can create my own.

Across the expanse of human history, ancient cultures have revered impermanence not as an enemy to defy, but as a teacher to embrace. They understood what modern minds often resist: that life’s rhythm is transient, yet timeless, a pulse that connects us all. From myths and rituals to symbols etched in stone, they wove impermanence into the fabric of their existence, honoring its inevitability with wisdom, not fear.

Consider the Maya, who viewed time not as linear but cyclical, an eternal turning akin to the rotations of stars or the unfurling of a flower. Their intricate calendars were not mere tools for marking days but profound maps of transformation, reminding them that endings were beginnings in disguise.

Spring gave way to summer, empires rose and fell, the cosmos shifted, and through it all, life endured. In their worldview, death was not a void but a passage a door swinging open into renewal.

The Stoics, too, preached the art of letting go with resolute grace. Marcus Aurelius reflected on observing each moment as it arose and dissolved, urging a love of fate, “amor fati”. To them, impermanence was not tragic, but the natural order of existence. It was liberation, freedom within the flow, a surrender to the rhythm of life as it turned.

Northward, the Norse carried their understanding of impermanence into the dramatic saga of Ragnarok, a prophecy of fire and frost, destruction and renewal. The world, devoured by chaos, was destined to rise anew. To them, impermanence carried no defeat but profound affirmation.

This cycle echoes the seasonal rituals of countless peoples the recognition that life and death are not opposites but partners in renewal.

In the wisdom of Indigenous peoples, impermanence found grounding in interconnection. The Lakota notion of Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ “All My Relations” reflects a profound awareness that all beings move together within a vast, ever-shifting web.

The rhythm of life unfolds, leaves drift to the ground, rivers adapt their course, animals migrate, and humanity remains intertwined with it all. Change here wasn’t disruption, it was the rhythm of belonging.

These ancient voices whisper truths that resonate deeply with my reflections.

They remind me that clinging to permanence blinds me to the beauty of life’s unfolding transformation. They invite me to release, not to grip; to trust, not to fear. What if, like the Maya, I saw each moment as a seed of renewal? What if I, like the Stoics, found freedom in acceptance, not resistance? What if I, like the Norse, perceived endings as beginnings with different names?

Impermanence is not an abstract concept. It is the heartbeat of existence. Ancient cultures knew this intuitively. They didn’t just write about impermanence, they lived it, embedding its wisdom into their calendars, their stories, their perceptions of time.

As I reflect, I see the ancient parallels with the questions I hold dear. Embracing impermanence means letting go not just of external control, but of the illusion of solidity we assign to ourselves. These cultures remind us that change isn’t chaos, it is continuity, a cosmic song unfolding line by line. It is both legacy and creation.

Perhaps impermanence was never about endings at all.

Perhaps it was about belonging to the flow, the rhythm, the eternal dance of existence where every note finds its place.

But for now, I’m still figuring it out one awkward interaction at a time. The goal isn’t perfection, but rather survival, with a bit of humor along the way. After all, it’s hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it all when you’re standing at a social event, internally debating whether the polite thing to say is “How’s it going?” or “What’s up?” and wondering if the other person is internally debating the exact same thing. If we’re all overthinking this, why not just own it? Maybe, just maybe, we’re all in this strange social experiment together, fumbling our way through the maze, one weird conversation at a time.

And yet, even in the midst of this social labyrinth, there’s a certain relief in realizing that I’m not alone in this. Sure, it feels like I’m the only one who struggles with these invisible rules, but the truth is, we’re all just guessing our way through it, aren’t we? Everyone’s got their own social quirks, their own script they’re trying to follow. I mean, have you ever watched someone else in an awkward situation and thought, Wow, they look just as uncomfortable as I feel? That’s a moment of shared humanity, right there. Maybe, everyone’s just pretending they’ve got it figured out, while secretly overthinking the same things I am. It’s like a giant game of Who’s the most confident? but deep down, we’re all just hoping no one notices the cracks in our social armor.

Then there’s the whole “Why do I care?” question. Why do I let all this anxiety about fitting in take up so much mental real estate? It’s like inviting someone into your house and giving them a room full of your worries as their personal storage space. The reality is, most people aren’t paying attention to me as much as I think they are. I mean, people are busy, right? They’re thinking about their own stuff, their own insecurities, and their own embarrassing moments. They’re not keeping a mental tally of my every word or move. And yet, I still find myself running through the social replay like it’s the final scene of a movie I can’t stop watching, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

But then, just when I’m ready to completely give up on social interaction altogether, something shifts. Someone cracks a joke, or shares a little moment of vulnerability, and suddenly, the whole thing doesn’t feel so heavy. Maybe I don’t have to be perfect. Maybe I can just show up and be me, and that’s enough. Maybe socializing isn’t about pretending to be something I’m not, but about finding people who get me, who understand that sometimes, I don’t need to say a word to make a connection. It’s funny how the more I try to fit in, the more out of place I feel. But when I stop trying so hard, the moments of connection seem to come naturally, like a surprising burst of sunlight on a cloudy day.

It’s these tiny victories that keep me going like the moment I realize that I didn’t have to say anything profound, didn’t have to make a clever remark, to be accepted. Or when I realize I’m not the only one who’s fumbling through the social script, and we all just need a little patience with each other. Maybe the key is to stop worrying about all the little things I’m doing wrong and start focusing on what I’m doing right. And you know what? What I’m doing right is showing up.

So, I guess I’ll keep on navigating this strange world of social interaction, armed with a little humor, a lot of overthinking, and the occasional moment of clarity. After all, if we’re all just trying to figure it out, why not enjoy the ride, awkwardness and all?

And as I keep going, I start to realize that the ride itself is the point. Maybe I don’t need to have every social interaction perfectly mapped out. Maybe, instead of stressing over what I said or didn’t say, I can focus on the fact that I’m simply showing up and participating in this grand, chaotic dance we call life. Even if I stumble, even if I misstep, I’m still part of the dance. And you know what? Some of the best moments in life come from those missteps. The times when I thought I completely blew it, but someone still laughs, or nods in understanding. The moments when I realize that the awkward silence wasn’t as awkward as I thought, and maybe, just maybe, someone else was feeling just as unsure as I was.

And when I stop holding myself to these impossible standards of social perfection, I start to enjoy myself more. I find myself laughing at the absurdity of it all, at how serious I used to be about fitting in. It’s like when you’re in a conversation and someone says something so ridiculously offbeat, that instead of feeling embarrassed, you just laugh and think, You know what? That was brilliant. It’s the unpolished, raw moments that make life feel real, not the perfectly rehearsed ones. Maybe socializing isn’t about being flawless, it’s about being human.

So, here’s to the uncomfortable moments, the awkward pauses, and the unspoken thoughts. Here's to the misinterpreted gestures and the moments when you feel like an outsider, only to realize you’re probably not the only one. Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to figure out the social script that was handed to us with no instructions. And maybe the secret is that there are no instructions only our own weird, wonderful ways of figuring it out as we go.

And if I get it wrong sometimes? Well, that’s okay. I’ll just add it to the pile of interesting stories to tell later. Because maybe the real lesson here isn’t about finding the right words or perfecting the art of small talk, but about being okay with the messiness of it all. And if I can laugh about it well, I think I’m doing just fine.

Heraclitus once said, “The only constant in life is change.” His words resonate deeply with my reflections.

Change is not an anomaly. It is life itself. Contemplating this, I see that embracing change allows me to flow more harmoniously with the rhythm of existence. Laozi’s concept of wu wei, effortless action reminds me that when I align myself with the flow of life, I can move with it rather than against it. It’s about letting go of the struggle, surrendering to the rhythm of existence, and finding peace in the constant dance of transformation.

The earth spinning at what, 67,000 miles per hour through the vastness of space? And here I am sometimes feeling so static, so trapped in my thoughts and behavioral patterns. But I’m not stuck at all, am I?

I’m literally hurtling through the cosmos on this celestial rock, with blood rushing through my veins, lungs expanding, and contracting in perfect rhythm without any effort on my part.

It's a curious thing, Isn’t it, to trace the word change back through time? To see how its own meaning has shifted and transformed, much like the very concept it represents. It began, as so many words do, with a practical purpose, the Old French, changier, to alter, exchange, or transform.

That, in turn, came from the Late Latin, cambiare, a word frequently used in the context of trade or barter.

 And it seems its roots may reach even further, possibly to the Celtic, cambio, meaning simply, I exchange.

As I consider this journey, I’m struck by how our words carry these echoes of ancient understandings, these subtle layers of meaning that whisper of a time when exchange was perhaps the primary form of change. It makes you wonder about all the other words we use, and the hidden histories they carry within them, each one a tiny testament to the ever-flowing river of language.

Change, though it pulses through every fiber of existence, seems to stir an enduring tension within us.

Why is it, then, that we humans resist this universal change with such determination? The inevitability of change, the constant ebb and flow of life, is as natural as the rhythm of waves meeting the shore, yet we persist in holding on.

 We grip tightly to people, ideas, emotions, possessions, as if by sheer will, we can render them immutable. Yet, this resistance does more than isolate us, it creates ripples that extend far beyond ourselves, shaping the very fabric of human connection and the values we share. Influence is not a static force; it flows, touching lives and actions like a river shaping the land. This flow is both a reflection and a creator of change, echoing through our shared existence.

The flow of influence is an omnipresent force, quietly shaping the values, emotions, and behaviors of individuals and societies alike. Every action, whether deliberate or careless, becomes a contribution to this current, a ripple that extends far beyond its origin, intertwining with others to form the moral and emotional landscape in which we live. The flow is unceasing and universal, connecting each moment to a larger narrative, each individual to a shared existence.

Its reach is vast, but its true nature often escapes notice. Influence operates silently, weaving through the fabric of daily life. It emerges in the conversations held between friends, the decisions made in solitude, the examples set by role models, and the systems designed to govern human interaction. It is felt in the warmth of a genuine act of kindness and the sting of a calculated betrayal. With every interaction, influence grows, gathering momentum as it carries forth the intentions, values, and consequences embedded in human choice.

When this current is guided by empathy, authenticity, and integrity, its ripples nurture connection and understanding. An act of kindness, a comforting word, a selfless deed, can inspire others to act similarly, spreading compassion like seeds carried by the wind. These positive ripples form a cycle of renewal, where trust flourishes and relationships deepen. Every thoughtful choice reinforces the shared humanity that binds us, creating a flow that sustains rather than depletes.

Yet the flow of influence is not inherently benevolent.

It mirrors the intentions behind each act, carrying both light and shadow. When actions are manipulative, when trust is exploited for personal gain, or when emotions are leveraged to provoke dissatisfaction, the flow begins to darken. The erosion of empathy is not an immediate collapse—it is a gradual, insidious process, a slow drift away from compassion toward apathy.

Manipulative practices, whether born of self-interest or systemic design, add pollutants to the current. A disingenuous gesture may seem minor, an isolated drop in the stream, but its impact is significant.

It sets a precedent, normalizing behaviors that prioritize personal benefit over collective well-being. These ripples create a culture where exploitation feels ordinary, where emotional manipulation becomes a tool rather than a transgression. The once-clear waters of influence become murky, carrying distrust and indifference into the farthest reaches of human interaction.

This erosion does not stop with the immediate acts of manipulation. Its effects seep into the way individuals view relationships, choices, and values.

When compassion is overshadowed by suspicion, generosity is perceived as strategic, and authenticity becomes rare. The absence of empathy fractures connections, leaving interactions transactional and hollow. Trust, instead of forming naturally, becomes conditional, a fragile structure built on the shifting sands of doubt.

As the flow of influence darkens, its consequences ripple outward, reshaping societal norms and expectations. Exploitation, once condemned, is tolerated. Indifference, once unthinkable, becomes commonplace.

The cultural landscape is transformed, not by a single act, but by countless drops feeding into the current. It is in this polluted flow that humanity risks losing sight of its shared essence—the interconnectedness that sustains it.

Yet the flow of influence, by its very nature, is not fixed. It is malleable, capable of change and renewal. Its course can be redirected, its waters cleared. This redirection begins with awareness, an acknowledgment of the role each individual plays in the current.

To understand influence is to recognize that no action exists in isolation. Every choice, every word, contributes to the world it will create.

Life isn’t a carefully arranged mosaic, it’s a shifting current, always moving, always reshaping itself. We like to think we can see the patterns, that outcomes are predictable, but the truth is, we’re in the middle of it, part of something too big to fully grasp. And within that movement, the smallest actions send out ripples, ones we rarely notice but that still reach farther than we imagine.

A smile at the right moment. A choice to pause instead of react.

 A brief kindness or a careless remark. None of it disappears. It all spreads, influencing the course of things in ways we’ll never fully trace. Change doesn’t announce itself with fanfare, it happens in the quiet, in the spaces between moments.

Most of the time, we don’t get to see the impact of what we do. The ripples fade from view long before their reach is finished. That’s the nature of influence. It isn’t always loud or obvious, but it moves through people, shifting things in ways we may never know.

So why do we act as if our choices exist in isolation? Maybe because we want proof. We want cause and effect to be clear, direct, measurable. But real influence isn’t like that. It’s like the wind shaping dunes, unseen but undeniable.

It’s the moon’s quiet pull on the tides. It’s the way a single light can change the path of something miles away. The small affects the great. The unseen shifts the visible. We are all caught in that current.

If everything we do sends ripples into the world, then the question isn’t whether we make a difference, it’s what kind of difference we’re making. Are we adding to the current in a way that nurtures connection, or are we letting carelessness and self-interest pollute the water? Do we choose kindness over indifference? Honesty over pretense? What we put into the world moves beyond us, whether we mean for it to or not.

But this isn’t about perfection. It’s not about getting everything right. It’s about being aware that even the smallest choice matters. A word. A glance. A gesture. These are the architects of change. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the unnoticed moments where life actually happens.

And speaking of messiness, I’ve learned that there’s this funny thing about social interactions that I never really understood until recently, knowing when to stop. It’s like there’s this invisible line, and I’m supposed to feel it, but sometimes, I’m just wandering around, chatting away, completely oblivious that I’ve crossed it. I’ll be telling a story and feeling good about it, and then I look up and realize… They’ve checked out, and I’ve been talking for so long that the conversation has moved into a parallel universe where my words no longer exist. I could be discussing the intricacies of the color of socks, and people are mentally planning their dinner instead of listening. And that’s when I realize, oh yeah, I forgot to stop.

I mean, when do you know when enough is enough? There’s this magical moment when everyone’s body language changes, shifting their weight, tapping their fingers, maybe even glancing at the door. And yet, I’m still going strong, thinking I’m providing valuable insights like some sort of social philosopher, oblivious to the fact that the last five minutes were essentially an impromptu monologue at a one-person TED Talk. It’s like I’m the last person to realize the show’s over, and I’m still giving an encore performance no one asked for.

It’s almost like I’m the social equivalent of a song that should’ve ended a minute ago, but the band just keeps playing, and now you’re thinking, Is this the bridge? Or is it just the lead singer showing off his solo talents for way too long?

But here’s the thing I’ve learned that it’s all part of the process. If I miss the signal and go on too long, I’ll eventually notice it. I’ll get that look the “look”. And when I do, I’ll wrap up with a witty remark or a random comment about socks, just to break the tension. At least I’ll get a laugh or at the very least, the quick “okay, let’s go” head nod as they politely step away from the conversation. It's like a social skill in development learning the art of stopping, but with a little extra flair for dramatic effect.

And then there’s the whole responding to social cues thing. That’s always been a tricky one for me. It’s like everyone else has a secret codebook on how to read body language, while I’m still over here trying to decipher hieroglyphics with a magnifying glass. I’ll be standing there, making eye contact (the wrong amount, mind you too much or too little, never just right), nodding along, and suddenly I realize everyone is waiting for me to say something. But I’ve missed the cue. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be responding to was that a rhetorical question? Was I supposed to laugh? Should I say something deep and profound, like I just had a sudden realization about the meaning of life?

Meanwhile, everyone else is all, “Yeah, totally, I was just thinking the same thing!” And I’m over here wondering, Were we all supposed to be thinking the same thing? Am I missing the memo again? So, instead of responding with something clever, I end up going with something totally random and out of left field like, “You know, I’ve been thinking about the physics of a spoon lately, and how it defies the laws of spoon geometry.” Because when in doubt, just throw out something bizarre, right? It keeps people guessing, and at least they can’t say I was boring.

And then, after I’ve said something totally off topic and potentially confusing, I get that look. Not the glazed over one, but the “What in the world did you just say?” look. And I realize, okay, I’ve crossed another line. But hey, at least I’ve learned that silence is never as awkward as over explaining why you brought up spoons in the first place.

So, my new goal is to balance the art of responding with enough awareness to know when to stop, but not so much that I lose the charm of unpredictability. It’s like walking a tightrope, except I’m definitely using training wheels and occasionally trip over the rope. But I’ll get there… eventually. Maybe.

Sometimes, though, I get a little too enthusiastic about making a point like I’m on the verge of solving some cosmic mystery and then suddenly, the room goes silent. And I realize, mid sentence, that I might’ve just overdone it. You know that moment when you’re talking, and it feels like you’re building to a grand finale, but you’re actually just talking yourself into a hole? That’s me. Every time.

I’ll be like, “And that’s why the universe is probably a giant donut because if you really think about it, there’s no reason why it couldn’t be, right?” I’ll be met with confused stares and a few awkward coughs. I know they’re probably thinking, What did we just hear? And I start scrambling for a way to make it all make sense, but the more I try, the deeper I dig. It’s like trying to backpedal on a bike that’s already in mid air, impossible, and very, very awkward.

Then comes the realization where I’m suddenly hyper aware that I might be the only one who’s enjoying this conversation. It’s like I’ve become the one man show, but the audience didn’t ask for tickets. And that’s when the internal monologue kicks in. “Okay, maybe I’ve taken this a step too far. But hey, who says there’s a limit to how far you can go before it becomes totally hilarious, right?”

But let’s be real sometimes I don’t know where to stop. There’s a point where I get so caught up in the excitement of sharing my “deep thoughts” that I forget to consider that everyone else might not share my enthusiasm. They’re not on the same wavelength, and I’m somewhere in a different galaxy altogether. I can’t help it though once I get going, I feel like I have to take the conversation somewhere even if it's to a place nobody else wanted to go.

So now, I’ve started trying a new trick If I feel the urge to say something wild, I just... don’t. I stop mid sentence and just let it simmer. It’s like playing social chicken with myself, but I’ve discovered it’s an excellent way to avoid spiraling into something even more embarrassing.

But, let’s be real, there’s always that temptation to take it a step further. Because once you’ve gone off the rails, why not ride the whole train to crazy town? If nothing else, at least I’ll have a good story to tell, even if I’m the only one laughing at it.

But sometimes I don’t realize I’ve gone too far until the very end of my grand speech, and by then, it’s way too late to undo the damage. I’ll throw out one final, “Well, that’s why I’m pretty sure time is just an illusion created by our limited perception of reality,” and then I just sit there, waiting for the earth to swallow me up.

The room, still dead quiet, feels like a fog. I stare at everyone’s faces like I’m trying to read a secret code. Are they impressed? Shocked? Should I be apologizing or basking in the glory of my genius? It’s hard to tell, because their eyes are either glazing over or rapidly darting around looking for a way out. And that’s when I realize I’ve created the perfect awkward storm where I’ve said something absurd, they’re not sure how to react, and we’re all stuck in this uncomfortable vacuum.

I’ll go, “Okay, okay, I get it. That was a lot,” as if I’m trying to patch things up, but it’s usually too late. My over-explanation is almost like a nervous reflex. It’s like I can’t stop myself from keeping the awkward train rolling.

I wish I could pull a quick “retreat and reset” maneuver, like I could just hit the mental ‘back’ button and pretend it never happened. But, no, the damage is done. And, here’s the fun part: I’ll often find myself laughing. Like, genuinely laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes, laughing at my own antics is the only way to cope. Because if I don’t, I’ll probably cry, and nobody needs that, especially not in a conversation about quantum physics and donuts.

But honestly, I think the best part is when the other person starts awkwardly chiming in, trying to make sense of my wild rambling. That’s when the fun starts! They’ll try to be polite, like, “Yeah, totally, time’s just an illusion… and uh, donuts… definitely make sense with the universe,” and I can tell they’re scrambling for some way to keep up with me. At that point, I stop and think, Okay, I’ve officially turned this into a bizarre improv game.

I like to believe that, sometimes, I might be unknowingly creating deep philosophical moments. Maybe my over-the-top randomness will spark a brilliant thought in someone else, even if it’s a thought like, Why did I even talk to him in the first place? Either way, I’ll never know because once I’m off the rails, there’s no stopping this crazy train.

And you know what’s the worst part? The quiet that follows. That heavy, suffocating silence where everyone’s too polite to say anything, but they’re all secretly wishing they were anywhere else. And then my brain starts firing off a thousand scenarios what if they think I’m a genius? What if they think I’m weird? What if they just secretly hate me? The internal panic is real.

So then, as the tension rises, I double down, because, hey, why not? If they think I’m strange now, let’s just give them more material to work with, right? So I’ll say something like, “But, seriously, if you think about it, the universe is probably just a big soup, and we’re all just floating noodles.”

At that point, the other person might crack a nervous laugh, or, if they’re really trying to keep it together, they’ll nod slowly like they’re deep in thought, but inside, they’re probably asking themselves how they ended up in this conversation. Meanwhile, I’m just basking in the absurdity of it all, not really understanding why they’re looking at me like I’m the first person ever to ask if reality is just a soup.

But then there’s the moment where I realize I’ve taken it too far. Like when the awkwardness becomes so palpable that even I can feel it and think, Okay, maybe I should stop before this escalates into a full blown crisis. But of course, at this point, I’m already in too deep, and there’s no graceful way to pull back. So I try to wrap things up, but not without one last flourish, because, you know, I’m committed now. “So, uh, anyway, I’m pretty sure if you stare at a spoon long enough, it becomes a key to the universe,” I’ll say, and just like that, I’ve given them one more thing to question for the rest of their life.

Sometimes they’ll leave and never talk to me again. Or worse, they’ll try to “be normal” around me, and we both know that’s just never going to work. And the whole time, I’ll be wondering, Did they get it? Were they just being polite? Did my random thoughts actually resonate, or did I just make myself the village weirdo?

But, honestly, I’ll probably keep doing it, because that’s just how I am. And maybe, I’ll accidentally stumble into the next profound theory of time and space. Or, more likely, I’ll just continue leaving people to wonder what in the world just happened. Either way, it’s a win in my book!

And you know what? Maybe that’s the secret maybe I’m onto something big. Maybe these conversations are the stepping stones to unlocking the mysteries of the universe. Or maybe I’m just the guy at the party who turned “What if the universe is a soup?” into an existential crisis. Either way, I’ll have left an impression, and that’s a win, right?

So, while everyone else is busy talking about the weather or what’s trending on social media, I’ll be here, diving deep into the absurdity of life, one noodle of thought at a time. Because, let’s face it, when the world is this weird, why not be weird with it?

And if I ever get a moment of clarity, I’ll definitely stop just before I start wondering if there’s an alternate version of me in another dimension trying to explain it all to their version of me. But that’s for another time. Right now? I’m still floating in the soup of the universe.

One of the most invisible struggles I face every day is sensory overload. The world around me is like an all-you-can-eat buffet of sounds, lights, smells, and textures, except instead of being a feast for my senses, it’s more like an assault. Take a trip to the grocery store, for example. It’s not just about picking out food. It’s about navigating those bright, unflattering lights that feel like they’re trying to cook me from the inside out, the constant beeping of scanners that sound like they’re announcing the apocalypse, the smell of forty different foods mixing together in a symphony of chaos, and then, of course, the ever-present chatter and clattering of carts. Oh, and don’t forget the perfume aisle—where I can smell someone’s cologne from three aisles away like it’s my superpower.

For most people, this is just background noise, easily ignored. But for me? It’s like trying to focus while a rock band sets up shop inside my brain, and every single note is a new level of “loud.” Most days, it’s only one or two senses doing their best to ruin my life. But on the bad days? It’s like my senses all decide to throw a party at the same time, and I’m the poor soul stuck in the middle of it. When that happens, it’s like my brain hits the “blue screen of death.” Complete shutdown. Fortunately, full overload doesn’t happen too often—but when it does, it’s like being on a sensory rollercoaster I didn’t sign up for.

The “small” overloads are bad enough. They leave me feeling like I’ve just run a marathon—except I haven’t moved an inch. Choosing items from the shelf turns into a life-or-death decision, talking to the cashier feels like I’m giving a TED talk, and navigating the store without becoming a human wrecking ball is a victory. There’s this constant pressure to “just handle it,” but honestly, it’s like asking me to juggle flaming swords while riding a unicycle. I just want to exist without feeling like I’m failing at basic human tasks.

Now, imagine walking into a room where everything is too loud, too bright, and too much. The lights are practically shining through your eyelids, the sounds are cranked up to “alien invasion” levels, and every sensation is like it’s trying to claim your attention with a loud, “Hey, look at me!” For most people, this might happen in a crowded concert or a busy street, right? But for me, it can strike at any time, in any place—at the grocery store, in a quiet office, or even in a park where I should be able to breathe.

It’s not just uncomfortable—it’s distressing. Everything starts to blend together into one giant, noisy blur, and I’m caught in the middle of it, trying to escape. My brain goes into overdrive, my heart races, and all I want to do is flee. But here’s the fun part: I can’t just leave. I have to pretend like I’m handling it, even though inside I’m one bad noise away from turning into a puddle of pure anxiety.

To someone else, it might look like I’m being dramatic. But for me, it’s like trying to walk through a room filled with marshmallow walls that keep getting bigger and bigger, and no matter how much I try to ignore them, they’re all I can think about. It’s not something I can “just get over” or “power through.” It’s real. It’s exhausting. And it’s one of the many reasons that sometimes, just living in this world can feel like running a race I didn’t sign up for.

If there’s one thing that keeps me grounded—and also keeps people giving me strange looks—it’s my stims, specifically pacing and spinning. These aren’t just habits; they’re survival strategies. The only downside? Apparently, a 44-year-old man spinning in place doesn’t exactly scream “well-adjusted adult” to most people.

Let’s start with pacing. For me, it’s like walking meditation. Back and forth, back and forth, my brain untangles itself with each step. It’s a magical combination of organizing my thoughts and calming my nerves, like turning on a fan in a room full of chaos. Sometimes, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ll suddenly “wake up” mid-pace and wonder how long I’ve been walking laps around the kitchen. The best part? Those little turns at the end of each pass. Sure, they’re technically to change direction, but they’re also my sneaky way of slipping in some spinning action.

It’s like my body’s version of trying to organize a messy closet, except I’m the closet, and I can’t stop walking around it, hoping everything will just fall into place. I do it as often as I can, because, honestly, it helps me process thoughts. It’s like my brain is trying to juggle too many ideas at once, and the only way I can make sense of it all is by walking in circles. Literally. It’s a bit like my brain is having a meeting, and it insists on pacing the room as if that somehow makes it more productive.

But here’s the thing: I know pacing bothers people. I can almost hear their internal monologue: “Oh great, here he goes again. Is this a walk? A nervous breakdown? Should I say something? No, I’ll just pretend it’s fine.” It’s like I’m one step away from being a human metronome, but instead of soothing music, I’m just creating a slight amount of discomfort in everyone around me. I can’t help it! It’s like my feet are in charge and my brain just goes along for the ride.

But here’s the thing about pacing—it seems to really bother people. I can’t count how many times someone has asked me to sit down because my pacing “makes them nervous.” Every time, I have to fight the urge to say, “That’s strange—pacing calms me.” Instead, I try my best to sit calmly for their sake, because the last thing I want is to cause someone else anxiety. After all, people are one of my main sources of anxiety, so I get it. But let’s be honest, me sitting there quietly fidgeting probably isn’t much better for them.

Now, spinning—oh, spinning. There’s nothing quite like the dizzy, floaty sensation it brings. It’s soothing and energizing at the same time, like a secret recharge button for my brain. The problem is, the world wasn’t designed to accommodate adult spinners. Kids get a free pass, but adults? Not so much. So, I’ve perfected the art of hiding it. Sometimes, I’ll add a little spin while pacing, calling it a “turn.” Other times, I just wait until no one’s around to let myself twirl to my heart’s content. You’ve gotta adapt if you want to stay functional

While pacing is my brain’s attempt to sort things out, spinning is… well, let’s call it my brain’s way of embracing chaos. I don’t really know why I enjoy the dizziness. Maybe it’s because it’s like a shiny distraction—something fun in the middle of everything else. Sure, I’m fully aware that I look like a toddler who’s had a few too many fruit snacks, but in those few moments, I’m not thinking about anything except the whirling sensation and the way the world feels just a little bit less… heavy. It’s almost like my brain’s getting a nice reboot, like hitting “refresh” on a web page that’s been frozen for too long.

Here’s the catch, though: I’m super sensitive to balance and vibration. I feel every shift, every little wobble in my body when I’m pacing or spinning. It’s like I’m constantly aware of how my body is moving in space. But when that balance is thrown off just right (or in my case, wrong), it’s oddly comforting. It’s like the sensation of standing in the middle of a room where the floor vibrates just enough to remind you you’re alive, but not enough to knock you over. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make anyone else dizzy. I just wish I could explain it without sounding like I’m auditioning for a role in a circus act.

The thing about stimming, pacing, or spinning—whatever you want to call it—is that it’s often misunderstood. People see it and think, “What on earth is this guy doing?” Meanwhile, I’m over here like, “Oh, this is my brain’s version of organizing a file cabinet. Just let me pace and spin, and everything will be okay.” At least, that’s how I explain it in my head while I try to avoid giving anyone around me whiplash.

What’s tough is when I can’t stim, like during a long meeting or in a cramped waiting room. In those moments, I feel like a pressure cooker, waiting for the chance to blow off steam later. And when I do finally get to pace or spin again? It’s like taking off a pair of too-tight shoes—pure relief.

Stimming isn’t just something I do for fun; it’s a lifeline. It’s how I stay sane in a world that often feels too loud, too fast, and too unpredictable. And if I happen to look a little strange while I’m doing it, well, at least I’m strange and happy.

You know, I spend a lot of time trying to keep up with people’s expectations. It’s like I’m on a constant mission to stay one step ahead, reading between the lines and anticipating what they want before they even ask. And I try to deliver—perfectly, I might add. But here’s the kicker: no one ever tells me when their expectations shift. They’ll ask for something, I’ll deliver exactly what they asked for, and then… poof—the goalpost has magically moved without any warning. I’m left standing there, confused, while they’re just casually going about their business, completely unaware they just changed the rules.

It’s like a game where the rules are constantly rewritten in invisible ink. I do everything they asked, thinking I’ve hit the mark, but somehow, it's not what they wanted. And the best part? They don’t even realize they changed the game halfway through. It’s like I’m in a play where I’m reading the script word for word, but the audience keeps reacting as if I missed some dramatic change in the plot. “But I thought you said…?” I ask, but they just shrug, completely oblivious to their role in this miscommunication.

And that’s where the fun begins. I’m over here, doing everything I can to meet their expectations, and they’re acting like nothing’s changed—meanwhile, I’m playing mental gymnastics, trying to figure out where I went wrong. It’s like they’re reading a book, but they forgot to mention they switched chapters. They’re still happily reading the old chapter, while I’m over here wondering why we’re suddenly in a completely different section of the story. But they don’t notice! They’ll say, “I told you I wanted X,” and I’m left thinking, Did you though? Or did the mysterious shift happen while I wasn’t looking?

It's like being in a puzzle contest, and you’ve been solving the puzzle based on one image, only to find out halfway through that the picture has changed entirely—but they didn’t bother to tell you. The rules are the same, the puzzle pieces are the same, but the picture you’re supposed to complete? Completely different. And they just keep going, completely oblivious, like nothing ever changed.

It’s a little frustrating, but mostly… it’s kind of funny. Because they’ll never know that they were the ones who changed the game without telling anyone. It’s like they think I’m the one who got lost, when really, I’m just trying to keep up with their constantly evolving set of invisible rules.

Humor has been one of my greatest allies in life. It’s like a mental trampoline—I can bounce off of it when I’m feeling stuck. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that laughter truly is the best way to diffuse tension, whether it's in my own mind or in a room full of people.

When I’m overwhelmed, cracking a joke or finding something silly to laugh at is often the quickest way to lighten the mood. It’s like I’ve got a hidden superpower—turning awkward moments into just another reason to laugh. And even if the joke doesn’t land, at least I can laugh at myself and feel a bit more relaxed. Sometimes, the real humor comes from how not funny something is, and that in itself is a moment to enjoy.

But here’s the thing: making others laugh feels just as good. There’s something about seeing people genuinely smile or chuckle that makes me feel more connected to them. If I can bring a bit of joy to someone else’s day, it’s like the conversation becomes easier, and I’m no longer that “captain awkward” I sometimes worry about. Instead, I’m just me—silly, fun, and trying to make the world a little lighter. Humor shifts the dynamic, breaking the ice, and makes everything feel less rigid.

I’ve found humor to be a sneaky way to break down walls. Even if I don’t fully understand all the social rules, at least I can make others laugh in the process. It’s like I’ve found a cheat code for connecting with people, and the best part is, I don’t even need to try that hard. Humor doesn’t come with the pressure of following a script; it just flows when I’m in the moment, and even if things don’t go as planned, I’m okay with it.

Humor also serves as my safety net. It gives me the ability to step into situations where I might otherwise freeze or feel overwhelmed. Whether it’s a small comment to lighten the mood or a random quirky observation, it helps me find my place in conversations and take the edge off. It’s a little like wearing a disguise—suddenly, I’m not the "quiet, awkward one" but the one who’s creating a ripple of laughter in the room. And if things do get awkward, well, I just turn it into a joke, and the pressure melts away.

At the end of the day, I’ve learned that humor isn’t just about making others laugh. It’s about how it helps me feel more comfortable in my own skin. When I can laugh at myself and laugh with others, it makes the whole social thing a bit more manageable. And for me, that’s a win.

One-on-one conversations feel easier for me—like I’m sailing smoothly on a calm lake. No waves, no confusion, just clear, easy interaction. But throw a group into the mix, and suddenly I’m in a chaotic storm, desperately trying to avoid becoming Captain Awkward. The pressure to jump into a conversation feels like trying to parachute into a moving target. I wait for an opening, but by the time I’m ready to speak, I’m either too late or end up blurting something random, which just adds to the awkwardness. So, I keep my head down, quietly waiting for my moment to contribute. It’s a work in progress, but I’m getting better at navigating those social waters.

My emotions are like an intense storm raging inside, but on the outside, I’m often described as calm—like a serene lake hiding a whirlpool just beneath the surface. It’s a strange disconnect, feeling so much but expressing so little. I’m not entirely sure why this happens, but it’s not something I feel the need to change.

This disconnect has its perks. It means I can stay outwardly composed in situations where others might visibly struggle. Inside, I might be unraveling, but to the world, I’m the picture of calm. It’s not about suppressing my emotions—I feel them deeply, sometimes too deeply—but they just don’t always show up on my face or in my voice.

It’s an odd phenomenon, being a bundle of intense feelings wrapped in a shell of tranquility. People often assume I’m unaffected or aloof, but the truth is, there’s a tempest they’ll never see. And I’m okay with that—it’s part of who I am.

As I sit here, reflecting on everything I’ve shared, I can’t help but smile a little. The truth is, understanding myself has been an ongoing, messy, sometimes frustrating, but always worthwhile journey. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to explain things to people, hoping they’d just “get it.” But what I’ve realized is that understanding me isn’t about convincing others to see the world exactly as I do. It’s about giving myself the space to exist as I am, without apology.

I know there will still be moments when people don’t quite understand. And honestly, that’s okay. I can’t control what others think or feel. What I can control is how I approach these moments, and how I choose to view myself. I’ve learned that self-acceptance is the key to living with the discomfort of being misunderstood.

Sure, there are days when it feels like no one is listening. There are days when I struggle to communicate what’s in my head, or when the social norms around me feel overwhelming. But I’ve also learned that it’s okay to be different. It’s okay to feel like I’m not fitting into the mold everyone else seems to be following. In fact, that’s where my strength lies.

So, if you’re reading this and feeling like you don’t fit, or like you’re always trying to explain yourself and never getting through, take a deep breath. You’re not alone. And remember—sometimes the best understanding comes not from others, but from yourself. You don’t have to be “fixed” to be worthy of respect, love, or kindness. You are enough, just as you are.

And I’ll end with this final thought. The world may never fully understand me (and that’s probably for the best), but at least I understand me—and I’m finally okay with that.

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