I've Always Found My People (Even When I Didn’t Know I Was Looking)

 

For most of my life, I chased the illusion of the “cool kid table.” Not because I thought I belonged there. Deep down, I always knew I was something different—too weird, too emotional, too awkward, too much. But years of being called spacey, dramatic, or even stupid convinced me that the only way to feel safe was to be accepted. I thought validation would come when the right people finally let me in. But I didn’t need popularity. 

What I was really yearning for was belonging. I wanted people who didn’t just tolerate my quirks—but embraced them. People who didn’t flinch when I rocked back and forth, or lose interest when I started talking in spirals. People who saw the worth in my imagination and creativity before I could see it in myself. 

At the time, I didn’t have the words to describe why I felt different. It would take decades before I learned terms like neurodivergent or received an AuDHD diagnosis. But even before I knew why I struggled, there were always these shimmering moments—people who made space for the real me, even when I didn’t know that’s what I needed. 

💙 In childhood, there was David Wierzbicki. We built sprawling imaginary worlds, drew comic books, invented “video games” on paper before I knew what coding was. He never made me feel weird for thinking out loud or drifting into daydreams—he just joined me in them. 

💙 My parents, who never tried to squash my quirks. They let me talk to myself without shame, encouraged my creative obsessions, and gently nurtured the world I was building inside my head. 

💙 As a teen, it was John Blackman and the Lost & Found Youth Group—a space that didn’t just allow imagination but celebrated it. Friends like Tim Teakle never made me feel like I had to perform to be liked. They just got me. 

💙 At Medeba, it was mentors like Steve Archibald and Sandy Faulkner-Stevens who saw the spark in my obsessive curiosity and wild creativity. They didn’t try to tame it. They just gave it direction and purpose. 

💙 Emily Spicer, who gave me not just her heart but her fierce loyalty. She’s walked beside me through depression, burnout, and the revelations of late-diagnosed neurodivergence. She sees the parts of me I once tried to hide—and she loves me because of them, not in spite of them. 

💙 My kids, who remind me daily what it means to be unconditionally loved. They’ve grown up with my quirks and questions and rambles, and they mirror back empathy, joy, and acceptance. 

💙 Theatre, where I’ve come to life in ways I never expected. Playful Fox Productions and Community On Stage have given me space to grow, experiment, and connect. Friends like Jessy Morgan Davies, Jess Rae, Rob Curwain, Andy Dominick, Kristy Dolson, Justin Eccles, and Daphne Clarke have not only encouraged me—but seen me. And I hope I’ve shown my appreciation for every beautiful person I’ve met in those spaces. 

💙 Carolyn Ho and Brandon Oliver, who’ve been there consistently, even when life has felt anything but consistent. Steady, present, kind. 

Do I still feel like an outsider sometimes? Absolutely. Social rules can still be a confusing maze, and there are moments where I misread a room or say too much—or not enough. There are days when I still wonder if I’m too much, or too confusing, or too me. But when I pause and trace the pattern of my life, I see it clearly now: I’ve always found my people. Again and again. 

Maybe not in the places I was taught to look. But in every chapter, I’ve been surrounded by people who allowed me to be fully myself—even when I didn’t fully understand who that self was. And for that, I’m endlessly grateful.