Finding Where I Belong as a Neurodivergent Teen
The Misfit’s Perspective
I first shared a shorter version of this essay on Medium. Here, I’ve expanded it into a longer personal narrative, highlighting the experiences that shaped me into a stronger child.
Growing up, I always thought of myself as a misfit.
Early Childhood
Growing up neurodivergent wasn’t easy. It felt like standing on the outside of every circle. I was the quiet, curious kid who spoke in melodies instead of words, who found comfort in patterns and questions more than conversations. From childhood, I sensed my mind worked differently—and that difference would shape everything.
I often felt like a misfit—an outsider looking in. In kindergarten, I was the quirky, quiet kid — coloring outside the lines, spelling words in crooked trails. While others bonded over snacks, cartoons, and clothes, I drifted elsewhere. I could echo foreign languages after a single hearing, hum unfamiliar tunes, and sing in cadences no one recognized. Small talk felt foreign; patterns and melodies made more sense. Even then, I knew I was wired differently.
One of the earliest moments that shaped me happened at four. Playing with a rubber ball at home, it rolled under the bed. Leaning in, I didn’t notice a drawer slightly ajar — the corner sliced my forehead. The pain lasted a second. Then everything went blurry. I remember the blood, not the pain. Our maid pressed a handkerchief to my head and led me outside, as bystanders flagged down an ambulance. At the hospital, nine stitches later, I imagined pink sheep, turtles, and polar bears flying through the sky.
Later, my nanny was fired — a friend of my cousin’s caretaker. It was sad, but despite the injury not being her fault, she had taken care of me in that critical moment with composure and genuine empathy. The cut left a faint pink line — a quiet badge of resilience I carried long before I even understood the word.
Struggling to Fit In
Later, I learned I likely inherited ADHD, both hyperactive and inattentive. Focus was always a struggle. I wasn’t disruptive; I existed in another mental landscape, staring out the window, wondering: What lies beyond the playground fence? Beyond this life? Atlases of marine animals and books like The Call of the Wild fascinated me. Living by instinct, outside civilization’s rules, felt like freedom. Somewhere — maybe beyond Earth — I believed there was a home where I truly belonged.
But here on Earth, belonging came at a cost. I was left-handed — until I wasn’t. Cultural expectations forced me to switch. Hnewing a pencil became something to “correct,” not celebrate. Conformity was rewarded. Questioning was not.
School Days and Solitude
In elementary school, my parents sent me to a Protestant all-girls’ school. One morning, I delivered a prayer on stage. Bored by the usual rhythm, I invented my own melody. Singing, I felt the atmosphere lift — angelic, ethereal. No one applauded, yet Heidi, a classmate, whispered, “Encore!” I shook my head, embarrassed, and carried on.
I didn’t enjoy socializing. Classrooms were crowded, sweaty, chaotic. I spent recess in the library, poring over encyclopedias and Dalí-filled philosophy books. I joined the Astronomy Club, dreaming of star-filled nights and camping trips. Instead, it met only during the day. Discussions were theoretical, outings rare, and parental approval limited participation. Stargazing remained a private, imagined pursuit.
Finding My Sanctuary as a Neurodivergent Teen
By high school, the disconnect deepened. While classmates chased trends, I painted amphibians, birds, and imagined monsters. I buried myself in study — writing, focusing, passing exams. My favorite class was fine arts, where I could linger in the attic studio, surrounded by the musty smell of new books and dried paint. Time felt infinite. I could sing, paint, and simply exist. It was the only corner of the world where I truly belonged.
When I had free time, I would wander to the garden gazebo, watching a school of koi dart through the mini cascade waterfall in the little pond, while turtles rested on the rocks and lilacs and water lilies drifted gently across the water.
I also fell in love with languages — Romance languages and Latin — for the logic, rhythm, and history they revealed. Unlike real-life emotions, language offered structure. Love at home was mechanical, tangled in duty and expectation. Somehow, I felt trapped in the wrong body suit, in the wrong dimension. But I was curious, lying awake at night, wondering about life on other planets… or what comes after death.
Lessons From My Mother: Faith and Growing Up Neurodivergent
At seven, my mother read Revelation to me. Heaven, she said, was for those who confessed, walked in faith, and loved God. That night, I asked: “Since life is so hard, is there a shortcut to heaven? Like… strangling yourself with the curtain string?”
Her answer was gentle but firm: suicide isn’t a shortcut. It’s a sin — not because God is cruel, but because to harm ourselves is to harm a reflection of Him.
That moment left a lasting imprint. I began to see suffering as sacred, being different as an invitation: to question, imagine, and feel deeply.
Embracing Being a Misfit
I still don’t always feel like I belong. But I’ve realized something important:
“Being a misfit isn’t a flaw. It’s a perspective. And sometimes, that perspective is exactly what saves you.”
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