When I was 21, I had just failed out of university. Not the fun kind of failure with a profound lesson and a quick bounce back. It was the very quiet, lonely kind that makes you question your worth. I remember thinking I’d ruined everything—that I’d proven what everyone probably already suspected: that I wasn’t cut out for success.
But I wasn’t broken. The system was.
I didn’t know it then, but I’m AuDHD. It's not a universal experience, but I couldn’t blossom in a setting that demanded conformity over curiosity, stillness over stimulation, memorization over meaning. I wasn’t wired for it, and like in high school, I spent most semesters either overstimulated or completely checked-out. I was constantly told–to my face, or in quieter, more exhausting ways–that I was the problem.
It took falling apart for me to realize I was good at things. Just not the things that got you good grades or made your parents feel proud when talking to their friends. I was good at building trust. Good at sensing energy shifts in a room. Good at spotting what others missed and holding space for hard things. I just didn’t have the language to name it yet. And none of that fit into a lecture hall or exam rubric, but it didn’t make it any less valuable.
That year, I learned something I’ve never forgotten: your life doesn’t have to make sense to other people to be meaningful. You don’t need external validation to start trusting what you know in your bones.
So I stopped trying to make myself palatable to environments and people that made me feel small. I started saying “no” to things that made me feel dull or ashamed, and I started saying “yes” to the kind of life that let me roll around in my dreams a little.
I let myself want things. I let myself follow that longing to its edge. And when people showed up who could meet me there, I left the door open. I let them stay. Some stayed too long. Some left without saying goodbye. Some of them hurt me. Not always on purpose. But still. And even now, I keep thinking about how easy it would be to shut the door. But I don't regret leaving the door open. That part of me was honest. That part was mine.
It was clumsy and slow and incredibly painful. And so, so worth it. Photo by Deniz Demirci. Nobody told me this back then but maybe it would've helped, and maybe you need it now:
You don’t owe anyone proof that you’re capable. Not your parents. Not your old teachers. You don't have to spend your life trying to meet the standards that were never built for your mind, pace and ways of seeing and perceiving the world.Your worth is not in how well you fit systems that weren’t designed for you.
Say no to what drains you. Even if it looks impressive on paper. Even if it pays well. Even if it’s what you’re “supposed” to do. You're allowed to walk away from things that cost you too much, even if they once meant something. Especially if they never did.
Follow the things that light you up. The ideas, movements, projects that make you feel most alive–those are data. Don’t ignore them! It doesn't have to make money or make sense right away. It just has to make something inside you feel awake.
Let your longing lead. Not in a chaotic way. But in a “maybe this is actually possible for me” kind of way. You don't need a five-year plan to take the first step. You need curiosity. You need courage. And you need to trust that your desire isn't a distraction; it's a compass!
Keep the metaphorical door open. Even if just a little bit. Let people find you where you really are, not where you used to perform from. You don't have to perform your way into connection.
I used to think I had to fix myself before I could belong anywhere. Turns out, the more I honored who I actually am, the more belonging showed up naturally. Things started to click. Not all at once. Not perfectly. I started building a life that actually worked for me, and finding people who got it. I stopped second-guessing every part of who I am.
So if you’re somewhere in the middle of your own unraveling, or trying to make peace with the version of you that didn’t “succeed” in the ways people expected—maybe this is your invitation.
You can say:Here I am. And trust that the right people, places, and paths will say back: So glad you are.
