“The antithesis of belonging isn’t solitude—it’s conforming.” ~Brené Brown
A vivid memory from my early years is of kindergarten.
My mother purchased a new set of navy-blue corduroy pants for a school event. New clothing was uncommon for us, making it a notable occasion. Yet, what stayed with me wasn’t the pants or the event—it was the way I felt wearing them.
I found myself standing there, already anxious, concerned that the other children might consider me foolish. Fearful they wouldn’t include me in their games. Worried that being different, even in a minor way, would imply I didn’t fit in.
I lacked the vocabulary at the time, but the sentiment was unmistakable: if I was different, something was wrong with me. And if something was wrong with me, I wasn’t enough.
This feeling shadowed me into every subsequent experience.
As I grew older, I never clearly understood who I wasn’t enough for or what standards I needed to meet to finally claim my place. So instead of questioning that feeling, I sought to remedy it.
I transformed into the class clown, garnering laughs but also ire from teachers. Then I pivoted to seeking popularity—fixating on my looks and perceptions. Later, I became the devoted bodybuilder concentrated solely on fitness. Following that, I became the solitary achiever with flawless routines, outstanding grades, an impeccable physique, and an outwardly disciplined existence.
Each iteration of myself felt like a sincere endeavor. Each carried the hope that this would finally allow me to feel acceptable. None succeeded.
Every identity held for a while, until it didn’t. The weight of sustaining something that wasn’t genuinely me became unbearable over time. When it became overwhelming, everything would crumble.
After each collapse, I’d retreat within myself. Initially, it was through food. By my teenage years, alcohol and drugs came into play. The underlying feeling—this sense of being unworthy of merely existing—was suffocating.
Ironically, the more I tried to escape the feeling, the more intense it became. Each new persona required even greater extremity, more convincing than the last. And each collapse hit harder.
Eventually, I began to believe the issue wasn’t my actions—it was my identity. That no matter my efforts, I would always fall short. Perhaps some individuals were simply not meant to be worthy.
I reached out for assistance. Therapists helped me identify potential origins of the feeling: losing my father young, being bullied, experiencing unstable childhood circumstances. Their insights seemed logical. They provided strategies to explore.
Yet, even with this newfound comprehension, the feeling persisted. I still felt void. Still felt like I was flunking an unseen evaluation. Understanding clarified the hurt, but it didn’t loosen its hold.
In my mid-twenties, I met my girlfriend. At first, I felt lighter and more assured. The notion of inadequacy faded. Then I began to truly love her.
With that love resurfaced an ancient anxiety. I was petrified she’d uncover my true self and depart. That she’d realize I was an impostor. That this relationship would serve as further evidence that I wasn’t deserving of commitment.
This anxiety infiltrated every aspect. My academics faltered. My work became burdensome. I grasped at the few stable elements—eating moderately well, remaining active—because they offered something tangible to rely on.
Then we relocated to Thailand.
The move appeared thrilling on the surface, but underneath, I was drained. I didn’t acknowledge it then, but I’d been masquerading for a long time—pretending to cope with the stress, the uncertainty, the pressure to maintain functionality.
Upon our arrival, something within me gave way.
Unintentionally, I released the last routines that supplied stability. The feeling of inadequacy surged more potent than ever. Within weeks, I was convinced my girlfriend would leave the moment she encountered someone superior, which felt like nearly anyone. I was convinced my workplace would realize I didn’t belong and would find someone more deserving of the position.
Over time, that fear became my new norm.
I ceased wanting to do anything. Thought became a struggle. Getting out of bed felt insurmountable. Those around me grew exasperated, watching me withdraw and squander time. From an external viewpoint, it likely appeared as lethargy or a lack of discipline.
Internally, I