Clueless Ink

It’s so important to read the room.

If you just wait, watch, and stay quiet, it’s surprisingly easy to understand how the room sees you. For years, I fought against what the room was trying to tell me.

But if you sit still long enough, the room begins to whisper its truths. I spent years ignoring those whispers, trying to silence them when they grew into screams: You don’t belong here.

So, I fought. I shaped myself into something I wasn’t, hoping the room would see me differently. I lost bits of who I was, picked up pieces that didn’t quite fit, made friends, and mastered the art of pleasing others. Slowly, I felt like I belonged.

But there were signs I overlooked: the way I’d stand in front of the mirror, changing outfits two or three times before stepping in. The way I’d knock on doors again and again, switching between personalities, the one they liked most, just to feel welcomed. Seeking permission, seeking validation. My hands carried the ache of effort, stained with the oil of endless knocking.

One day, I stopped. I sat in the hall instead, thinking, If someone truly wanted me there, they’d come find me. No one came.

Until new people did.

And I realized something: the urge to chase, to change myself, to fit into a room that wasn’t mine? It wasn’t meaningless. It was fear. Fear of being different. Fear of not finding my room, the one where I’d be welcomed without knocking.

Now, I enter rooms differently. I take my time. I observe, I hesitate, I talk, and I wait, until I’m comfortable. I give the room time, and I give myself time. Because time validates everything, relationships, work, and life. Time reveals everything.

These days, I no longer knock until my hands hurt. In fact, I’ve stopped knocking altogether. I’ve found myself chilling in the hall, sometimes even behind a tree downstairs. 

I’m rarely alone, and when I am, I’m not rehearsing silence or pretending to be someone else, leaving the real me behind.

I no longer twist myself into someone I’m not for rooms that don’t belong. 

Instead, I sit quietly, listen, laugh, and gently remind my old insecurities: Hey, you were in your 20s. It wasn’t easy then, but look at you now.