Let’s talk about fitting in.
A phrase I thought would be well left in my past by the time I finished the 8th grade. On the contrary, I am now an adult in all my back-pained and tax-filing glory, still wondering where I fit in.
Going throughout this Monday, I started as we all do with a healthy dose of scrolling in the morning. My Facebook feed is full of people 20 years my senior complaining about why on Earth the halftime show would be someone no one knows. It was the Weeknd.
Switching gears to my Instagram feed, where I feel like I have the most social prowess. The first scroll brings short form videos, reposted from Tik Tok, which is a platform I purposely never downloaded. Partly because I feel like I’m too old at my ripe age of 22 (more on that later), part of it is because I can’t afford to have my screen time go even higher, and partly because every time I see a teenage boy bite his lip and attempt to be seductive, I die a little inside.
The recycled Tik Tok’s vary from dance trends that I am far too self-conscious to attempt to partially scripted skits performed by married couples making fun
of their children.
Scroll a little further and it’s a picture from winter sorority recruitment.
Scroll again, and it’s a new mom’s ‘must haves’ for breastfeeding.
I keep scrolling, hoping to find something with a semblance of relatability. The algorithm seems to think we go straight from decorating our bedroom in our parent’s home to needing tips on how to sleep train your baby. For some people, that might be the truth, but for me it seems to leave a glaring hole in the content world for my particular life situation.
Enough of that. I swipe the apps closed and move on with the morning. Contrary to all the fashion and trendy content I prefer to consume, my day to day is anything but glamorous.
Today I donned blue light glasses, as recommended by 9/10 optometrists for those who sit in front of a computer all day, sensible heels, and a cardigan – because my office gets a bit drafty. In case you need a reminder after that last sentence, I’m 22.
Making the transition from Gen Z-er to working class adult is always a little of a culture shock in the mornings.
Every day starts with the same shuffle between offices, pouring of coffee and checking of mail. Small talk and pleasantries galore as everyone finds out how everyone else’s weekend was and if their drive in was alright. Inevitably, stories about what someone’s clueless husband did, or someone else’s rambunctious toddler got into start to flow. Topics that roll around and I can throw out my best chuckle for but can’t relate to. My apartment is empty, quiet, and gloriously non-sticky. My life is self-centered and doesn’t involve washing a man’s underwear (for another 8 months anyways).
All the anecdotes about parent teacher conferences or questions about who the best pediatrician is go straight over my head.
About once per week, I meet with either a networking group, a young professional board, or a non-profit event committee of some sort. Every single time, I look around the conference room. Seated in varying levels of ergonomic chairs inside slightly different mid century modern office buildings, are the same type of person. Driven, ambitious, motivated. The who’s who of the Springfield Business Journal’s frequent mentions. Those who I’ve never seen outside of a crisply pressed blazer and pearl earrings.
Somehow, these women have accomplished it all during their tenure in the workforce. A brief stint heading a fundraising committee, a feature in the local ’40 Under 40’ article, an extensive rolodex of local connections. I have been sitting in these carbon copied situations for four years now, and each year I hope to finally feel like I’ve earned my spot at the table.
Each year, I feel like someone thought it was ‘bring your child to work day’ and let me tag along at the meeting. Without the same impressive repertoire of connections and experience, it can be daunting to find your voice in those situations. I know I want a spot at the table, but it feels like the seat is just a little too big for little ol’ me.
I usually drive home in silence. My mind feels so loud after nine hours in front of screens wider than I am tall. It takes me every bit of the 20-minute drive home to stop fixating on my to do list for the next day and even decide what I want to eat for dinner. Mid decompression from work,
I’ll pop back on Instagram at a stop light. A meme that only someone who’s spent their formative years on social media would find the slightest bit funny greets me. The contradiction between what I was doing an hour ago versus now gives me a headache.
An hour ago, I was creating hundred thousand-dollar budgets for construction projects. Overseeing an entire subdivision. Running job cost audits for dozens of different homes at a time. Now, I am laughing by myself at a picture of a very smooth burger bun with a caption about its’ skincare routine.
The whiplash in that moment could send me back to the second grade.
One minute I’m hunched over my keyboard, squinting at my second monitor, trying to figure out if the stupid one is me or QuickBooks (it’s generally me), the next I’m tagging my friend in a photo of a baboon and telling them ‘it’s you’.
Somehow, I feel too young and involved in societal trends to be taken seriously at my professional endeavors, yet too old and encumbered by adult realities to really feel youthful.
I feel incompetent when talking to moms who all nod in agreement when talking about how bad strep throat went around the schools this year, when I’d be hard pressed to change a diaper. Less than ten minutes later, I feel outdated and archaic when I see my college friends have a casual lunch during the week, in hoodies and leggings, without checking to make sure they’re back at work on time. If I had a
dollar for every time I’ve shown up to an event and prefaced it with “sorry I look like a grandma, I just came from work”, I could re-design working women’s fashion.
I feel like I’m developmentally stunted when everyone around me has baby fever and is gushing over infant onesies, and I’m still terrified of children. But show me a Tik Tok of a 13-year-old girl dancing to WAP and I’ll go into mom mode and ask, “where are her clothes?!”
I know I can’t be the only one who feels like this. I feel like I blinked after high school and now I’m here with an engagement ring and a degree, but I’m unable to relate to college students or married couples. Everywhere I look, another glowing woman on my Instagram feed is closer to meeting their "sweet baby" and another teenage girl learned another new dance. I feel a little more archaic every time a newer, younger, prettier blonde girl trends on Instagram. At this point, I swear they’re making them in a factory.
I know I’m not the only one who has insecurities ranging from another girl having a wittier caption than me, to someone at my office juggling more responsibilities than me, to a woman making a Pinterest-perfect meal for her husband when the best I can do is grab takeout.
I don’t know if I want to be the trendy Instagrammer, the powerful working woman, or the doting wife and mommy blogger. Or all three. Or neither, and society is just so good at pushing false narratives behind our defenses so stealthily that we start to question if we put them there ourselves.
I try to tie all of my ramblings up with a life lesson and a clever quip and leave it all in a neat little bow.
Today I don’t know that I have a resolution. I have struggled with this on and off since high school. Too social and goofy to fit into my honors classes, too nerdy to fit in with my social circles, etc. As with most things, I’m sure 90% of it is in my head and everyone else is far too consumed with their own identity crises that they never stopped to notice mine.
The hardest part of life for me has always been finding my purpose. It’s also always been my biggest struggle as a Christian. Through my faith, my purpose is defined for me. Love others and bring others to know Jesus. That’s all I have to do! So why do I burden myself with excelling or “fitting in” with every corner of the world that I dip my toe into?
I could attribute it to my pesky Type 3 nature. I could say it’s because I’m a spiteful Scorpio. I could write a dissertation on why my childhood insecurity manifested itself into a desperate need to achieve and be liked.
The truth is, this is the way that Satan attacks me. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of failure. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of being an outsider. Fear of being left behind. Fear of unworthiness.
It has taken me all 22 of my years to realize that my perfectionism and need to conquer aren’t just ‘personality quirks’. They are deeply rooted weaknesses that are used to exploit me.
Knowing this gives me the freedom to not fit in. The freedom to enjoy my little in-between part of life, and all the living there is to do here.
It gives me the freedom not to win or conquer everything, because “You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them. The One who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world.” 1 John 4:4
Just because I choose not to contort and squeeze myself into the roles society has carved out for me doesn't mean I am quitting, or lesser, or weak. It means I want to find my own niche, and I know it will fit perfectly around all my jagged edges and imperfections.
Every day, I get a little more okay with not fitting in. I fall a little more in love with my contradictory, messy, confusing corner of the world. Whiplash and all.
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