The Loneliness of Knowing You Don’t Fit
Imagine a thermostat set to a specific temperature. It dictates the environment, a fixed expectation of warmth or coolness. Now imagine your inner self as a completely different kind of thermostat, one that fluctuates, embraces various settings, and refuses to be confined to a single degree. For me, there’s no greater loneliness than the profound, unwavering knowledge that you simply don’t fit into any of the pre-set boxes the world tries to offer.
It’s a loneliness that settles deep in your bones, a quiet ache of being perpetually on the outside. This feeling wasn’t some sudden revelation; it was a slow burn, particularly evident growing up. In my family, the thermostat was set firmly to “conservative.” It was the expected setting, the comfort zone. But my internal temperature gauge always read differently. It wasn’t that I rebelled for the sake of it; it was simply that I wasn’t conservative enough to comfortably reside within that box. This was the first clear boundary I encountered, the first stark realisation that my internal wiring was different. I remember the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, ways it was highlighted — the unspoken questions, the not-so-gentle nudges towards conformity. There was a part of me that genuinely wanted to belong, to find that comfortable setting on the family thermostat. I might have even tried to adjust my internal dial to dim the parts of myself that didn’t quite align. But ultimately, that internal struggle led to a parting — not necessarily a physical separation, but a growing distance from the idea that I needed to shrink myself to fit someone else’s definition.
And the boxes kept coming. Based on how I present myself, another assumption people readily make is that I’m perpetually put-together, problem-free, and have everything meticulously figured out. This particular box breeds a unique kind of loneliness. It means that genuine inquiries about my well-being are rare; the assumption is always that I’m “fine,” that I “always have it figured out.” Little do they know, the truth is often the opposite. No one is perhaps as internally confused as I am, a terrible decision-maker navigating life while somehow managing to wear a confident facade and internally spiralling.
Then there’s the “good girl” box, a label often applied because of my Christian faith. I deeply believe in God and the sacrifice of Jesus, yet I find myself too free-spirited for some within the Christian community. Similarly, I don’t quite fit into whatever the other, unspoken “camps” might be. My wardrobe is a testament to this multifaceted nature: sometimes I wear short skirts, other times long ones; essentially, I dress for the weather. Living in Nigeria’s heat, armless clothes are a necessity. I love my tattoos and piercings, I enjoy a night out dancing with friends, and yet also find immense joy in attending Sunday service and teaching children’s church. I cherish reading my Bible and deepening my understanding of God.
Essentially, I don’t neatly slot anywhere. I’m not the first friend you’d call for a club outing, nor am I solely the go-to for church-related activities. I’m not pigeonholed into any specific need; I’m just the friend you call. This has undeniably affected my sense of connection. It’s difficult to forge deep bonds when you consistently feel like the outlier. Some people categorise me as “serious,” others as the “good girl,” and still others as the one who has it all “figured out.” But none of those labels truly capture the dynamic person I am.
When someone tries to box me in, I instinctively recoil and become defensive. I am authentically myself, someone who enjoys a multitude of things. Sadly, the consequence of embracing this multifaceted nature has often been loneliness, the awareness that I won’t perfectly fit into any pre-defined box, that while I may have wonderful friends, I might never fully integrate into a specific friend group. Yet, the alternative, trying to be anything other than my dynamically free-spirited self, feels like a profound betrayal of who I am. So yes, I have learned to embrace the solitude that sometimes comes with authenticity, choosing to remain true to myself, even if it means navigating life just outside the edges of the expected.