The Taste of Invisible.

Have you ever felt different — almost as though you didn’t quite belong where you were?

Sometimes, it’s not the drastic moments but the subtle shifts you notice. The small silences. The glances that linger a second too long. The way people’s voices soften when they speak to you, or how their laughter dims the moment you draw near.

Everyone defines “feeling different” in their own way. For some, it’s the workings of their mind. For others, it’s the quiet discomfort of not fitting into a space. And sometimes, it’s simply how people make you feel — the quiet realisation that no matter how much you try to blend in, you still stand out. Yet, no matter the reason, everyone, at some point, knows that quiet awkwardness deep inside.

I’ve felt different in ways that words can barely hold.

When you’re denied access to things — not because you can’t afford them or don’t deserve them, but simply because of how you look — something inside you shifts. It’s not anger at first. It’s confusion. Then a kind of still ache takes root. You begin to wonder if you truly belong anywhere at all.

Sometimes it isn’t even what people say — it’s the pauses, the glances, the way space quietly rearranges itself when you walk into a room. You feel it in the air, heavy and unspoken. You hear it in the laughter that stops when you arrive, and in the polite tones that follow. You see it in the way people look past you — not through you, but beyond you — as though your presence unsettles something they’d rather not face.

It isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always wear harshness or cruelty. More often, it hides behind politeness — in lowered voices, in the way doors close softly behind you. It teaches you how to shrink, how to question your own worth. It whispers, without words, that you are merely tolerated, not truly accepted.

You begin to taste the invisible — that bitter trace of being unseen yet constantly observed, present yet quietly erased.

But it also teaches something else — resilience. The strength to keep showing up, even when unnoticed. The courage to exist fully, even when the world looks away.

In time, you stop asking for permission to belong. You build your own space, your own rhythm. You come to understand that being different doesn’t make you lesser — it simply means your story carries a depth others may never fully grasp.

Perhaps belonging isn’t about being accepted everywhere. Perhaps it’s about standing where you are and saying, I’m here. I matter. I always have.

Being different is not a flaw — it is that quiet voice that strengthens you, urging you to rise, to make room for others who feel the same.

Every outcast is unique. Gold is hidden; it takes time and care to uncover it. The world doesn’t always recognise value straight away. But gold never stops being gold, no matter how deeply it lies buried.

So yes, I have felt different. Many times. But I’ve learnt that difference is not weakness — it is a mirror, reflecting the places where the world still needs to grow.

And perhaps that’s the point — to stop shrinking so that others may be comfortable. To stop apologising for existing in a shade or shape that someone else cannot comprehend. To stand tall in your truth, even when the air feels thick with judgement.

Because belonging isn’t always offered — sometimes, you claim it. You walk into rooms and build your own welcome. You wear your name, your skin, your story like both armour and light.

And when invisibility leaves its taste upon your tongue, remember — your voice is proof you exist.