How community saved me from myself

I’ve always been a bit of a loner.

Not dramatically so, but more like… just never quite found my people. I had friends, yes. Conversations, moments. But not that tight circle you can laugh with for hours or call when something breaks, inside you or in your flat. I often felt like I was floating slightly to the side, not quite anchored to anyone.

And honestly? That gets lonely.

Especially when you’re surrounded by groups who seem to belong to each other so naturally. I used to watch them, arms around shoulders, all that shared language and laughter, and quietly wonder: What’s wrong with me?

Too strange? Too quiet? Too intense?

Or maybe just not… enough?

And the answer, I’ve come to realise, is yes. All of that. But also, no. Not in a bad way. Just in a me sort of way.

For a long time, I thought I had to change. Smooth out the edges. Be more normal, whatever that means. But after a while, I got tired of performing. It felt fake, and worse, it felt lonely inside the performance. So, bit by bit, I started to just… be myself. Not always confidently. Sometimes awkwardly. But honestly.

And in doing that, I started meeting other people who felt a bit outside, too.

People who didn’t quite match the standard template. People who were sensitive, strange, funny in unexpected ways. People who felt misunderstood, or overlooked, or just a bit off-script. And with them, I didn’t feel the need to shrink or adjust or explain myself.

So we started spending time together.

Not in a dramatic, movie-montage sort of way, more like cups of tea, slow conversations, shared silences. Little projects. Walks. Laughing at things no one else found funny. It was simple, but something shifted. I began to feel... held. Like I had a place. A quiet one, maybe. But mine.

I realised: this is my community.

Not built overnight. Not flashy. But real. People who saw me, not the polished version, not the half-hiding one, just me. And somehow, that was enough. More than enough. And when that happened, something softened in me. I stopped bracing for rejection. I started trusting connection.

Because that’s what community is, I think.

Not a crowd. Not a performance. Just a few people who see you, accept you, and let you be human next to them. Not needing to make sense all the time. Not needing to impress.

It’s support. It’s reciprocity.

It’s someone remembering how you like your coffee.

It’s laughing about something that doesn’t need to be explained.

It’s being able to say “I’m not okay” and not be met with silence.

Community made me braver, not louder, but sturdier. It gave me the space to feel sad, or weird, or joyful without apology. It reminded me I don’t have to go through everything alone. And that maybe, I never really did, I just hadn’t found my people yet.

And now? Now I have. And we co-create this odd, beautiful, imperfect little bubble together. Somewhere between chaos and comfort. A place to land.

So yes, I believe in community. Not the glossy kind. The messy, human kind.

The kind where you’re seen. Where you belong.

Where you give. Where you receive.

Where you’re not just tolerated, but gently, wholeheartedly welcomed.

That, to me, is magic.

And I wish it for everyone.

Because without it, I’d still be trying to fight the world on my own. And truly? Letting go of that fight is one of the best things I’ve ever done.