What It Means to Belong: Searching for Community After Diagnosis

Introduction: The Ache for Belonging

There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being alone— but from being unknown, from being an enigma to yourself. From sitting in a room full of people and feeling like you’re only half-there, just a vessel taking up space but not really involved. like the real you never made it through the door. That’s the ache I’ve carried for most of my life. Not just the desire to be liked, that’s not it. I admit and know that we all cant like one another. I think we can love and treat each other with respect, but that is not mutual with like. I have the longing to belong. To belong to something greater than myself. To belong to a community that loves and celebrates our differences. It is sameness that ultimately will kill an empire. Variety is not only the spice of life, it is a vital part of its blood. To feel woven into the fabric of something—not tolerated, not invited out of obligation, but wanted, seen, held without condition. After a late diagnosis, that longing has only gotten louder. Because suddenly I had words for why I never quite fit in. Why I felt like a visitor in my own life, performing a role written by someone else and for a completely different actor who very last minute had to back out. And here’s the strange part— when you finally begin to unmask, you expect to find belonging on the other side of that courage. But it’s not always there waiting. In fact, sometimes it feels farther away than ever. Because the people who knew the mask don’t always want to meet the person behind it. This post is about that search— about what it means to belong when the world was never built for your kind of truth.

Fitting In vs. Belonging

For a long time, I thought I had belonging— but what I really had was fitting in. Maybe fitting in isn’t the proper wording, perhaps its more like I was “blending” in. Becoming part of the props on stage so nobody would notice me being out of place. Fitting in is performance. It’s adaptation. It’s a depth of thought. It’s reading the room and adjusting every part of yourself. Seeing every sideways face, every smile, every devious eye until you become just palatable enough to stay in it. It’s being tolerated because you’ve tucked the “too much”, the unpalatable parts away. I’ve fit in a hundred different spaces— in school, at work, in friend groups— but almost always by bending myself into something more familiar, more acceptable, more easily digestible. And for a while, I thought that was connection. I thought approval meant belonging. I would often think that the connection was closer than it was in reality. You come to find that it’s a hollow kind of closeness— the kind where people only love the shape you’ve contorted yourself into. They love the benefits that you bring to their lives. Fitting in says: "We’ll make space for you if you can match the furniture." Belonging says: "Come as you are. You already have a seat at the table." Brené Brown once said, “Fitting in is about assessing a situation and becoming who you need to be; belonging is about being accepted for who you are.” And that lands different when you’ve spent most of your life not even knowing who you are. Fitting in kept me safe, yes. But it never made me feel truly known. It never gave me a moments respite or peace. It gave me a role to play, a new level to concur, but never a place to rest.

The Loss and Loneliness of Misfitting

There’s a special kind of grief that comes from almost belonging. The perceived connections that were in reality tortured souls left behind in a haunted house. Ghosts. From feeling like your always on the precipice of something truly meaningful, maybe this space, maybe these people— And then realizing, again, you’re too much, or not enough, or just not quite right. You will never be on the inside even though you are surrounded by people. It’s a slow erosion of self-trust. You start to believe the problem is you. After all, isn’t that how it is in life. If its always this or that, maybe its coming from the self. That if you were just a little less intense, a little less sensitive, a little less in the deep end of thought a little more normal, you’d finally find your people. And when that happens enough times, you learn to shrink. You start to hide the sides people run from. To be quieter. Softer. Easier. Not because you want to— but because the ache of rejection is louder than your own voice. Some of the loneliest moments in my life have come in rooms full of people. Not because I was invisible, but because I was misunderstood. Misunderstood for being in the corner quiet. Quiet because there is too much stimulation for me to interact so I have to focus all my energy on “remaining normal” Or sometimes, I do enjoy being in the same room, quiet, doing my thing while you do yours. Because I laughed a beat too late. Because I responded to sarcasm as reality Or didn’t understand the inside joke. Or felt things more deeply than anyone else seemed to, more passionate… Or had to leave early because the lights or the noise or the energy became too much, often without saying goodbye. People saw me—but through a distorted lens. Like looking at a reflection in a warped mirror. And the worst part is: they meant well. I truly believe that. I honestly think most people do mean well in the end. They just have a hard time dealing with things they cant understand. Which makes it even harder to explain how lonely it feels. I have a hard time hearing those words myself, my body though, it doesn’t, it feels it inensely. “Because how do you tell someone, ‘I know you love me, but I’m not sure you’ve ever really known me’?”

The Glimpses of Real Community

Every now and then, something shifts. There is a tremor that sets the tectonic plates moving. A moment, a space, a person— and suddenly, I feel myself exhale. Not the kind of breath you take to calm down or push through, but the kind that comes when you realize you’re not bracing anymore. The kind that leaves you feeling lighter I remember those rare flashes—not grand events, but soft, quiet moments where I felt safe enough to let my guard down. Maybe it was someone who didn’t recoil when I stimmed with joy. Maybe it was a conversation that didn’t need to be wrapped in small talk. Or a friend who let the silence be—who sat beside me, no questions, no pressure, just presence. These moments are rare. But when they happen, they feel like sun breaking through clouds and warming up your frosted body. Because for once, I’m not performing. I’m not calculating how to respond. I’m not trying to appear “fine.” I just am. Sometimes a depth of sadness, other times mountainous joy, and everything in between. And I’m still welcomed, not shunned, not judged, just allowed to exist comfortably in unison. It doesn’t take a crowd. It doesn’t take a grandiose gesture. Real community starts in these small ways— a shared value, a mutual rhythm, a deep yes that says: “You don’t have to edit yourself here. We respect you just for being, you are valued” And when you’ve lived your life editing everything— your words, your voice, your gestures, your presence— those little glimpses feel revolutionary. Like Fabian von Bellingshausen must have felt like when he first saw Antartica. They remind me that belonging is real. That it’s possible. That it may not look the way I once imagined, but it does exist. And those flashes— they’re what keep me searching through the deep archives They’re what make me believe that the right people, the right places— they’re out there. Even if I haven’t quite found them all yet.

What Belonging Might Look Like Now

Belonging used to be something I imagined as a place— a group, a gathering, a circle I could step into and finally feel whole. Finally feel fully connected. But the more I unmask, the more I’m beginning to realize: belonging isn’t always a destination. It isn’t necessarily a person, place, or thing. Sometimes, it’s a feeling that flickers like a candle struggling to stay lit in a damp basement— left to burn until it grows into a bonfire, bright enough to light the path ahead. It looks different now than it used to. It’s not always loud or visible. It’s not the center of the crowd or the head of the table. It’s the quiet sense of “I don’t have to explain myself here.” It’s when someone doesn’t flinch at my stims, when they don’t fill the silence I need to breathe. It’s not about shared hobbies or matching vibes— it’s about shared values. Kindness. Curiosity. Mutual care. I’ve started noticing who helps my nervous system settle. Who doesn’t need me to translate every part of myself. Who welcomes my deep questions and weird tangents— or even joins in from time to time. And it’s not just people—it’s places, too. A patch of forest where the air feels like home. Sitting at the zoo watching my penguin brethren waddle and play without care. A cozy chair by a window with a good book and a warm drink. The shoreline at low tide, where the ocean is quiet and endless. Sometimes, belonging isn’t a crowd— it’s a conversation with the world that says, “You make sense here. You’re not too much here. You’re not alone here.” I’m still figuring it out. I haven’t arrived. But I’m learning to trust the places—and the people— where I feel less like I’m performing, and more like I’m returning. More like I’m home.

You Deserve to Belong

If you’ve spent your life feeling out of place, like you’re always one layer removed from the moment— I want you to know: you’re not broken. You’re not imagining it. And most of all, you’re not alone. The search for belonging can be exhausting, it can leave you feeling lifeless. Especially when you’ve worn so many masks, you’re not even sure what your real face looks like anymore. When connection feels like a maze with no exit— just more mirrors, more one way paths, more dead ends. But here’s the truth I’m holding onto: belonging isn’t something we earn by becoming more palatable. It’s something we uncover by becoming more ourselves. And I know that’s terrifying. It can be downright spine-chilling To show up real, to show up with your “off-tone” loud voice. To let yourself hope again. To once again ride the waves of dreams. To risk being seen, not for the mask you’ve perfected— but for the sensitive soul you’ve protected. But I believe we all deserve to belong. Not because we’ve performed well enough, but because we’re human. Because we are life, and the odds against life are astronomical enough. We don’t need to harm other lives in our journey. We deserve spaces where our joy isn’t too loud, our sorrow isn’t too heavy, our presence isn’t too much. Spaces where we can take a breath, let our bodies unclench, and feel the warmth of being known— and still welcomed at the table. You deserve that. I do, too. We all do. So if you haven’t found it yet— keep looking. And if it doesn’t exist yet— maybe, gently, you’ll help build it. Let’s make room for each other. Let’s make room for ourselves.

💬 Closing Invitation

If any of this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. What does belonging mean to you? Have you ever found it—if only for a moment? Feel free to share, or just sit with these words and know: you have a place here.