Some stories don’t have a single moment where they begin. They build slowly, in quiet ways - in classrooms where you feel like you stand out before you even say a word, in group chats that make you hesitate before opening them, in the realization that the way you experience the world isn’t always understood by the people around you.
Growing up, being one of the only South Asian kids in my elementary school meant growing up with a constant awareness of being different. I was visible in ways I didn’t choose. There were jokes that seemed harmless to everyone else, stereotypes that showed up before people even knew me, and a lingering feeling that parts of who I was were being reduced to something simpler. I didn’t know how to push back, so I learned how to smile through it, how to act like it didn’t matter. But even when you convince yourself something is small, it can still leave a mark.
In sixth grade, that feeling of being singled out followed me into a space that was supposed to feel separate from real life - the internet. I became the target of online bullying from older students I had never met, people from across the country who somehow still managed to make their words feel close. At that age, it’s hard to separate who you are from what people say about you. Their comments felt confusing and overwhelming, like I was trying to understand why I had become someone they could laugh at. Logging off didn’t make it disappear… it just gave me more time to replay everything in my head.
By the time I reached eighth grade, I didn’t expect anything to change. But that year, I met someone who quietly shifted everything for me. He became my first real friend - the kind of friend who listens without making you feel dramatic, who shows up consistently, who makes you feel like your thoughts matter. I remember texting him almost every day, telling him about everything - things that upset me, things I didn’t understand, things I was too afraid to say out loud to anyone else. He didn’t try to fix everything; he just stayed. And for the first time, I felt what it was like to not carry everything alone. That support didn’t erase what I had been through, but it was the first moment I realized that being understood was possible.
Still, as I got older, there were moments when doubt crept back in. I would look around and see people who seemed so sure of themselves, so included in their friendships and relationships. Everyone else appeared wanted, chosen, comfortable. And because of the experiences I had carried for so long, I started to wonder if there was a reason I felt slightly out of place. I questioned whether the distance I felt was something I had caused, whether maybe I was just harder to connect with. It’s a quiet but heavy thought: the idea that maybe something is wrong with you, even when no one is saying it out loud.
For a while, I became very good at appearing okay. I focused on school, on responsibilities, on doing what I was supposed to do. But there’s a difference between functioning and feeling secure in who you are. Underneath everything, there was still a part of me that wasn’t sure if I truly belonged without having to adjust myself first.
High school slowly began to change that story. I found a diverse group of friends who didn’t just accept differences - they appreciated them. Around them, I didn’t feel like I had to minimize parts of my identity or laugh things off to fit in. Being in a space where everyone brought their own perspectives and experiences made me realize that belonging isn’t about blending in; it’s about being in environments where you don’t have to question your worth in the first place.
Looking back now, I realize how many of these experiences stayed in the background because they didn’t seem dramatic enough to name - the constant but subtle stereotypes, the online words that lingered longer than anyone realized, the quiet comparisons that made me question myself. They were easy to overlook from the outside, but they shaped my mental health in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time, especially in spaces where stigma made it feel easier to stay silent than to explain why something hurt. Over time, I’ve learned that stories don’t have to be loud to matter; the most important ones often happen internally - the slow build of self-doubt, the first moment of real support, the gradual realization that you were never the problem. Healing didn’t happen all at once. It came through people. First, through one friend who made me feel heard, and later through a community that showed me what true belonging feels like. Those stories are still part of me, but they’re lighter now, because I can finally see that I wasn’t broken. I was just waiting to be understood.