There’s a certain kind of question that follows you around in life: When was the last time you felt out of place? It’s a question that assumes misfit moments are inevitable, that each of us has a story of awkward laughter at the wrong table or silence that pressed too heavily in a crowded room. And yet, whenever I am asked this, I pause—not because I am hiding the answer, but because the truth is quieter, perhaps even unexpected.

I do not feel out of place.

Not because the world is always kind, or because I’ve never been the stranger in a foreign land, standing in a supermarket aisle confused over the price of bread in a currency that wasn’t mine. Not because I’ve never walked into rooms where every face seemed to know each other except mine. I’ve lived those moments. I’ve felt their edges. But I do not carry them as “out of place” memories. Why? Because I’ve learned to choose my circle well.

Belonging, I’ve realized, is not something the world gives freely. It is something you guard, something you curate with intention. When I was younger, I thought it was about being liked by everyone, squeezing myself into shapes that made me acceptable. I would say yes when I wanted to say no. I would laugh at things that didn’t move me, just to soften the silence. I wore masks, and for a time, they fit. But masks eventually suffocate. You can only pretend for so long before you forget your own face.

It took years—and the bruises of experience—to realize that true belonging doesn’t come from being everywhere. It comes from choosing carefully where and with whom you stand. These days, my circle is not large, but it is sacred. It is made of people who do not demand explanations for my silences, who celebrate my victories without a trace of envy, who grieve with me when life grows heavy. With them, I am not rehearsing myself into existence—I am simply living.

And that is why I can say, without hesitation: I don’t feel out of place. Not because discomfort has never found me, but because I no longer accept rooms that ask me to trade authenticity for acceptance. The truth is, being out of place is not always a condition of you—it’s a condition of the environment. And the great mercy of adulthood is realizing you have the choice to walk away, to close the door, to say: This is not my room, and that’s okay.

The lesson is this:

Belonging is not universal. You don’t need to be at every table. You don’t need every voice to call your name. You only need to stand where your soul feels recognized, where your laughter feels unrestrained, where your presence is not just tolerated but treasured.

And once you’ve found that, you no longer waste your life chasing spaces that were never yours to begin with.

I don’t feel out of place because I have learned to plant myself where love lives. And in that soil, there is no room for pretending—only room to grow.