'Normal' is a Shape I Don’t Fit

But it always looks so sexy on other people...

Greetings, friend.
I’ll start by confessing something: I’m a weirdo. There’s no hyperbole here—you’re getting the pure, uncut truth. But you might never guess it by looking at me.

[Sidenote: one of the surprising gifts of Substack is finding a whole community of lovable weirdos here—I think I’ve been searching for you all my life. Thank you, Substack, for allowing me to connect with my people.]

As a 46-year-old, unmarried and childless perimenopausal woman living a now mostly uneventful suburban life, I might seem insignificant on the outside. Nothing about me stands out. You might catch a faint whiff of Chanel Allure as I glide by, but I would otherwise slip past you entirely unnoticed in a small crowd.

I’ve grown to like my invisibility armour. I remember my days as a 20-something hottie when I’d shut my eyes tight and pray to be imperceptible—on long, awkward subway rides home after a night of clubbing, or while navigating downtown streets past ogles and catcalls.

Go back further, to elementary school, and I’d squeeze my eyes tighter still, willing myself to vanish from my playground tormentors. My secondhand, no-name clothes and offensive bowl haircut (thanks, budget-conscious parents) made disappearing impossible.

Later, in my teens through early thirties, my shapely curves, larger-than-average bust, and equally clamorous personality made it just as impossible.

So it’s no surprise that invisibility has always been my preferred superpower. (We’ve all been asked that question at some point, haven’t we?)

Now, decades later, invisibility comes naturally. Maybe it’s not just me—maybe it’s women over 40 in general. Crossing this age threshold feels like inheriting the witchy ability to slip by undetected.

And this superpower? It’s given me the freedom to be more myself along with a license for people-watching like never before.

Today, I:

• dance like no one’s watching (because they’re not—they’re glued to their phones).

• practice alternate nostril breathing in public (it probably looks like I’m testing for a sneaky nose whistle).

• stare at people too long, wondering about their lives and whether they’re happy (they’re too lost in their Spotify playlists to notice).

• wear shabby sweatpants and hulking boots to Walmart (no one’s got the energy to judge past aisle five).

Most often, people peer straight through me as if I’m not there.

On the rare chance they do notice, they’d never guess War Pigs by Black Sabbath is blasting in my ears as I stroll by in my soccer-mom coat, pom-pom hat, and scuffed-up runners. Nor would they suspect that Barbra Streisand’s Woman in Love is next on my playlist.

And they wouldn’t imagine that, with eyes closed on the subway train, I’m mentally crafting a landscape in my mind’s eye—observing spirit guides sitting alongside their humans, and saluting them. (I’ve been sensing our beloveds in the afterlife since I was about 11.)

Same girl, different passions.

Just as unexpected as that is the fact that, 12 years ago, I journeyed to Peru to participate in life-changing Ayahuasca ceremonies led by an Indigenous shaman…

…Or that 6 years ago, I booked a one-way ticket to Southeast Asia with only a $150/month writing gig as my income and a bank line of credit to support me…

…Or that more recently, I built an Etsy shop selling digital products I made myself, racking up nearly 10,000 sales…

…Or that today, I habitually rock out on my electric guitar during my many idle hours…

…Or that next on my ‘To-Do’ list is Death Doula training because I think this world desperately needs holistic end-of-life care, and to reframe death itself.

Needless to say, I’m a woman in love with so many contrasting things, as evidenced by my exceedingly checkered history of passion projects and the diverse tracks on my Spotify playlists. But most would never suspect these eclectic life experiences and interests just by gazing at my (now) plain exterior.

Along with these mounting daily hobbies and interests, relics of my youth have followed me into adulthood, including apparel that still fits like a glove—like my high school prom dress. (I guess you could say I’m a living example of the expression, ‘We are still everything we always were.’)

Yet, today I still don’t know where I fit in society. Finding my place has always been far more challenging than fitting into old teenage clothing. Having had countless job titles, entrepreneurial pursuits, love interests, and ambitions as eclectic as I am, I’ve always struggled to distill myself into a single, cohesive identity.

I feel like one of those odd-shaped Lego pieces—often dismissed because it doesn’t seem to fit anywhere at first glance. In a complex build, however, perhaps I’d be the one to bridge impossible gaps or complete the design in ways no one anticipates. (Also, cross paths with me on the living room floor and you’ll certainly feel my impact as strongly as any other Lego piece!)

I do know that I’m a woman who identifies as an ADHDer—driven by novelty, paralyzed by monotony, and occasionally stuck in a strange inertia between the two. And then, of course, there are my contradictory Cancerian traits, which want to safeguard me from the unconventional, deviating life that a neurodivergent mind seeks.

This is the part of me that craves the (illusive) security of routine and predictability. When operating under this mode, I make steadfast plans, lock myself into contracts, commit myself to weighty promises, and gear up for what looks to be a fixed future—assuming tomorrow’s enthusiasm will match today’s. (It rarely does. The hunt always begins again when I catch the scent of an exciting new venture—or more aptly, a thrilling new version of myself.)

For me, normalcy is seductive. It feels like the safe place I crave to be. But it’s fleeting. This is why it’s so problematic. The comfort it brings is dangerous—a fragile thing. Even my inner Crab knows that however permanent it appears, the caravan home it carries is just another liminal space we eventually leave behind.

When all is said and done, I know my desire to fit in eventually gets stamped out by the urge to stand out, shine, and vibrate at new frequencies. Normalcy, I remind myself whenever I slip into any pattern that resembles it, is simply blending in. And while others wear it so effortlessly, it hangs awkwardly on me like an oversized blazer (ironically highlighting my inability to blend in.)

Despite these two polar extremes butting heads in me, I’ve come to trust in my ever-changing Self, as it more accurately mirrors the fluidity of reality. Nothing is constant. So how could our sense of Self ever be?

I’m all these things, but maybe it’s more accurate to say I’m equally neither of them.

Tomorrow, I’ll likely cringe at this post—not the quality of the writing, but the version of myself projected through its syntax and diction. Because tomorrow, I’ll have a different sense of who I am. It might be weirder than today’s version, but I’m trying to open my heart to it, either way.

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Ok, friend. I’m turning the mic over to you. Do you struggle with contradictory aspects of your personality? Does your sense of Self shift often? How do you reconcile with it? What helps ground you? Let me know in the comments below.