For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like an outsider. Not in a tragic, misunderstood way, but in a way that made me question why everything around me felt so… artificial.
I learned early on how to sense the energy in a room—like a knife’s edge, sharp and ready to cut. The calm always came before the storm. One moment, everything was fine; the next, an explosion. One slip of the tongue, one small question asked by my mother, could turn an entire week upside down. Because when it started, it didn’t just last for an hour, or a day—it went on and on. A week of walking on eggshells, of holding my breath, of praying it would just end. That everyone would be okay again.
And so I became small. Hidden.
The only escape was books—worlds I could disappear into while the real one imploded around me. I could still hear it all—the screams, the cries, the begging for it to stop—but what could I do? A child can’t stop a storm. A child can only endure it.
Then came school. And the system had a different way of telling me I didn’t fit.
I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD as a child. Back then, I was just “unteachable.” Distracted. Easily bored. Always in trouble for not paying attention, for fidgeting, for daydreaming. No one saw the pattern. No one questioned why I couldn’t focus—why I would drift off into thoughts far bigger than the lesson on the board, why I would struggle to complete simple tasks but could hyper-fixate on something that actually interested me for hours.
Instead, I was labelled disruptive. Lazy. Unmotivated.
And so I carried that with me. I learned to believe I was just bad at focusing, that I simply wasn’t as capable as everyone else. That there was something inherently wrong with me.
It wasn’t until I was 33 that I was diagnosed with ADHD.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
The restless energy. The constant battle between hyper-fixation and complete disengagement. The way I could never quite do things the way other people did, no matter how hard I tried. And most of all, the deep, undeniable feeling that I wasn’t meant for the rigid structure of this world.
Because the truth is, I was never broken. The system just wasn’t built for people like me.
I see that now. The way society is designed to reward obedience, not curiosity. The way we’re conditioned to sit still, follow rules, and accept things as they are. The way people are trained from childhood to ignore their instincts, their wildness, their ability to see beyond the illusion.
But some of us never fully accept it. Some of us feel the resistance deep in our bones.
And the more I questioned, the more I realised—this world, the one we’re conditioned to believe in, is a lie. It’s designed to keep us small, distracted, obedient. It tells us what to value, what to chase, what to fear. It convinces us that freedom is reckless and that questioning the system makes us the problem.
But what if the problem isn’t us? What if the problem is them?
What if those of us who have struggled in this world—those with ADHD, those who grew up in chaos, those who could feel what others ignored—aren’t broken at all? What if we were never meant to fit in because we were meant to see through it?
That’s why I’m leaving. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Because I was never meant to be trapped in a system that dulls my instincts, my connection to nature, my knowing.
I don’t know who this will reach, but if you’ve ever felt like you don’t belong here, like you’re trying to wake up from a dream everyone else is still trapped inside—maybe this is for you. Maybe you aren’t crazy. Maybe you’re just seeing clearly for the first time.
So what happens when you realise you were never meant to fit in? Do you keep trying—or do you finally set yourself free?
Next Post > My Journey Back to Nature
Whispers of the Forest 
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