I Just Want To Belong

I dread waking up. I dread being alone. I hate fighting with my thoughts—thoughts like, Why am I here? Why am I so useless? I know I probably should ask for help, but I’m too scared. And it’s not that I want to die—I don’t. I just want to feel like I belong. Like I’m loved. Like I’m seen. I want to be heard.

People say, “Treat others how you want to be treated.” But how is that fair when you're never treated the way you want to be? I guess I just don’t understand. Maybe I never will. Life is always unknown. Sometimes you get the ups, sometimes the downs. But for me, it feels like I’ve been stuck on a straight road of downs.

I just wish for one thing: to belong. Or at least to feel like I do.

I walk through my days like a ghost—present, but not really here. I smile when I’m supposed to. I nod when people talk. I laugh at jokes that don’t feel funny. It’s like I’m playing a role in a play I never auditioned for. And the worst part is, no one seems to notice that I’m not okay. Maybe I’ve gotten too good at pretending.

Sometimes I wonder if people would care if I disappeared. Not in a dramatic way—just quietly, like fading into the background until I’m not part of the picture anymore. Would they notice the silence? Would they miss the space I used to fill? Or would life just go on, like I was never really part of it?

I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want attention. I just want connection. I want someone to look at me and really see me—not the version I show, but the one I hide. The one that’s tired. The one that’s scared. The one that’s aching to be understood.

I’ve tried to be strong. I’ve tried to be the person who holds it all together. But lately, it feels like I’m unraveling. Like every little thing is just another thread coming loose. And I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden.

I keep telling myself that maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe I’ll wake up and feel something other than dread. Maybe I’ll find a reason to smile that isn’t forced. Maybe someone will reach out and remind me that I matter. But those maybes feel so far away.

I scroll through social media and see people living, laughing, loving—and I wonder how they do it. How do they find joy in a world that feels so heavy? How do they find people who make them feel like they belong? I try not to compare, but it’s hard not to when you feel like you’re always on the outside looking in.

I’ve built walls around myself—not because I want to keep people out, but because I’m afraid of what happens when they get too close. I’m afraid they’ll see the mess inside and walk away. So I keep my distance. I stay quiet. I convince myself that solitude is safer, even when it hurts.

There are moments—brief, fleeting moments—when I feel a spark. A tiny flicker of hope. Maybe in a song lyric that hits just right. Or a sunset that paints the sky in colors I didn’t know I needed. Or a stranger’s smile that feels like warmth. Those moments remind me that maybe, just maybe, there’s something worth holding on for.

But then the darkness creeps back in. The doubts. The fears. The loneliness. And I’m back to wondering if I’ll ever feel whole. If I’ll ever feel like I belong.

I’m tired of pretending. Tired of carrying this weight alone. Tired of feeling like I’m too much and not enough all at once. I want to scream, but I don’t want to make noise. I want to cry, but I don’t want anyone to see. I want to be held, but I don’t know how to ask.

I keep thinking about that word—belonging. It’s such a simple word, but it holds so much. It’s not just about fitting in. It’s about being accepted, being valued, being loved for who you are—not who you pretend to be. And I don’t know if I’ve ever truly felt that.

Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day someone will look at me and say, “You belong with me.” Maybe I’ll find a place where I don’t have to hide. Where I can be messy and broken and still be enough.

Until then, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep speaking the truth, even if my voice shakes. I’ll keep hoping that someone out there understands. That someone out there feels the same. That maybe, through these words, we can find each other. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll both feel a little less alone.

Some nights I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone else feels this hollow. Not the kind of emptiness that comes from boredom or silence—but the kind that feels like something vital is missing. Like a part of me was never built, or maybe it got lost somewhere along the way.

I replay conversations in my head, analyzing every word I said, every expression I made. Did I sound okay? Did I say too much? Not enough? It’s exhausting, this constant self-editing. I wish I could just exist without second-guessing every moment.

And then there’s the guilt. Guilt for feeling this way when others have it worse. Guilt for not being grateful enough. Guilt for wanting more—more love, more connection, more meaning. But guilt doesn’t erase the ache. It just adds another layer to it.

I keep hoping someone will notice. That someone will ask, “Are you really okay?” and mean it. That they’ll wait for the real answer, not just the polite one. But people are busy. People have their own storms. And maybe I’ve gotten too good at hiding mine.

Still, I hold on. To the small things. A kind word. A warm breeze. A moment of peace. They don’t fix everything, but they remind me that maybe not everything is broken.

And maybe, just maybe, I don't have to constantly think, I don't belong here.