Living in Britain has taught me many things, including that tea can apparently resolve situations I previously assumed required actual solutions. It has also reminded me that I do not need to be everyone’s cup of it. Some people will prefer coffee. Some prefer something herbal that tastes like lawn clippings. This is not a crisis. Compatibility was never meant to be universal.

There was a time when I would have treated not clicking with someone as a small personal mystery requiring investigation. Was I too quiet? Too serious? Did I say the wrong thing? Should I have made more effort? Younger me was apparently running a full internal customer-satisfaction survey after social interactions. These days, I am much quicker to accept a simpler answer: nice person, not my person.

That sentence has saved me an extraordinary amount of emotional administration.

I used to think belonging meant being able to fit into almost any room. I became observant enough to work out what version of myself would be easiest there. More talkative with one group, quieter with another, careful with opinions somewhere else, agreeable when disagreement seemed inconvenient. Some of that is simply social awareness; we all adjust depending on who we are with. But there is a difference between having manners and constantly editing your personality until everybody receives the version least likely to cause discomfort.

It is exhausting work, especially considering nobody is paying you for the performance.

The problem with trying to be universally liked is that the job specifications keep changing. One person thinks you are too reserved. Another thinks you talk too much. Someone admires your ambition while somebody else finds the exact same ambition intimidating. You are too independent until someone needs an independent person. Too emotional for one room, too detached for another. Eventually you realise universal approval is not a realistic objective. Even coffee has people who dislike it, and coffee has achieved far more than most of us before 8 a.m.

My circle has become smaller as I have grown older, and I no longer say that as though I should be concerned about it.

I genuinely prefer quality over headcount. I have work, family, pets, writing, responsibilities and a personal commitment to occasionally doing absolutely nothing. I do not have the administrative capacity to maintain fifty emotionally significant relationships, nor do I particularly want to.

What I value now is ease. Not a relationship where everybody agrees all the time, because that sounds both unrealistic and slightly suspicious, but one where I do not feel as though I am auditioning. I can be quiet without somebody assuming I am angry. I can share good news without reducing it first so nobody feels uncomfortable. I can have a difficult day without converting it into an entertaining story before I am allowed to talk about it.

There is also something wonderful about friendships that have relaxed attendance policies. We can disappear into work, family, night shifts and general adulthood, then return to the conversation without anybody issuing a written warning. Messages may sit unanswered because one of us read them while busy, composed a complete response mentally and then forgot to involve our actual fingers. This is now a recognised condition among adults with responsibilities.

And when we eventually meet, there is no awkward reintroduction. Nobody requires a detailed explanation for the gap. Conversation continues where it left off, often with food involved, which improves almost every reunion anyway.

I have also become much less interested in labelling every relationship that does not work as “toxic.”

That word is carrying an unreasonable amount of responsibility these days. Sometimes nobody manipulated anybody. Nobody betrayed anyone. Nobody requires blocking, a dramatic exit or a six-part podcast. Two people can simply be incompatible.

Perfectly decent human beings can be terrible friends for each other.

That does not make either person bad.

I think adulthood becomes considerably easier once you stop requiring a villain every time something does not fit. A friendship can fade because lives changed. A group can be perfectly lovely and still leave you checking the time every nine minutes. Someone can be intelligent, kind and interesting while also being a person you would not voluntarily spend a long weekend with.

That is fine.

We are allowed preferences in people just as we are allowed them in drinks. Some like espresso strong enough to restart a heart. Others want tea containing enough milk that the original tea is mostly theoretical. Some choose herbal infusions that smell wonderful and taste, to me, like somebody briefly introduced hot water to a hedge. Nobody needs to take this personally.

Compatibility is not a character reference.

The biggest change for me has probably been that I no longer automatically assume a room is correct and I am the problem. If I feel uncomfortable somewhere, I can ask whether I am genuinely nervous because something is new or whether I am simply surrounded by people with whom I do not naturally connect. Those are different things.

I have walked into rooms where everybody already knew one another. I have moved countries, started jobs, joined teams and spent enough time among strangers to know what being the newcomer feels like. Sometimes discomfort is simply the entry fee for a new experience, and it is worth staying long enough to see what develops.

But other times, your instincts are telling you something much simpler.

This is not your table….

You do not need to overturn it….

You can simply sit somewhere else…..

That understanding has made me less anxious about belonging. I no longer think the goal is to feel at home everywhere. Why would I? I do not even like every room in my own house equally.

Belonging, for me, is much more specific now. It is being around people who do not make me rehearse sentences before I say them, people I can laugh with without checking whether I was too loud, and people I can disagree with without wondering whether the relationship will suddenly collapse. It is being able to celebrate one another without turning every achievement into a competition. It is knowing that if life becomes difficult, I do not have to make myself smaller, funnier or easier just to make someone comfortable enough to keep me around. Sometimes belonging is even simpler than that. Sometimes it is silence that does not need fixing, and that may be one of the greatest luxuries of all.

So when someone asks when I last felt out of place, I no longer search for a dramatic answer. Of course there are spaces where I do not fit naturally. There are conversations that go nowhere, gatherings where I would rather be at home, and people with whom I can manage exactly forty-five pleasant minutes before I begin developing a very strong interest in leaving. The difference is that I no longer interpret that as evidence that something is wrong with me. Maybe they are perfectly nice. Maybe I am perfectly nice. Maybe we should simply never go on holiday together. All three things can be true.

I do not need everyone to understand me, and I certainly do not need to become understandable to everyone. I just need enough self-awareness to recognise the people who make life feel more honest, more interesting and considerably less exhausting. Some people are my people. Some are lovely acquaintances. Some I will happily wish well from a respectful distance. And some, like certain herbal teas, may be absolutely wonderful for somebody else. I am perfectly happy to have coffee.