Alien
Since I can remember, I felt different — and in many ways, I was different.
I grew up in a middle-class family within a rough, working-class neighbourhood. Being sensitive and artistic, I often felt like an alien among my peers. While they played soccer, I was writing poetry. When they went to the scouts, I had already finished reading the entire kids' section of the local library. While they worried about whether they’d be invited to the next class party, I was wondering whether god existed.
It took me years to find my true friends. And even then, my soul kept calling me to move — to find a home in a different country, a different climate, a different language. In my new home, I realised that while some parts of me finally found their place, others didn’t. Part of me still felt like an alien.
Only in recent years, after my daughter reached school age and I was able to meet my younger self through her, did I realise that my own differences mirrored some of hers — and that I’m most likely neurodiverse. Though not an official diagnosis, this helped me become more compassionate toward myself and access a new range of supportive tools and strategies. Inspired by Gabor Maté’s book title, The Myth of Normal, I never look to meet “normal people” in my coaching practice. Each person I get to work with is unique. We often believe that what makes us different sets us apart — but once brought into the light, it often reveals our similarities and our connections.
In the story below, I let myself lean into the feeling of being an alien. I hope you enjoy it.
Alien
The band was playing a fast Irish tune mixed with jazzy flavours. The banjo player was jamming with the guitarist and saxophone, accompanied by drums and cello. The crowd in the intimate bar was going wild, intoxicated by the music and a variety of consciousness-altering substances. She moved her body with them, aware of their bodies moving around her - the men with goofiness of boys, letting their big arms and legs be thrown about. The women’s movements were more coordinated, more flowing. Their bodies moved with patterns and textures. She observed them with fascination.
The lead singer spoke, and the crowd laughed and clapped. They were all chanting the song together. And while she could not understand the words, she was able to feel the meaning.
It reminded her of the feeling she got that morning, when she took her body into the cold sea. The waves were stroking somewhere deep inside of her. A place that wanted to be touched—a place of longing. They were singing now, and the crowd was chanting—a collective longing, a remembering of something that didn’t have words.
She let her body move with the fast rhythm, responding in small ways to the movements of the people around her. A back arched forward and arms moving like around a fire; quick jumps and fast leg movements; arms moving in curves and circles; she exchanged smiling glances with the dancers, letting her body dissolve and forget its form. She could see lines of light extending from each palm and foot. The lines were connecting between the dancers, coming in and out, moving and twisting, colour shifting and changing. They were all connected, and together they were making a beautiful vision of remembrance. This is what she came here for.
Suddenly, someone stepped on her toes, and his back was pushed into her chest. Automatically, her arms pushed forward to protect herself. The man didn’t notice. He was engrossed in a dance with a young woman, spinning, showing off their dance moves. Where did they come from? She didn’t notice them before. Rage was rising in her; she could see his body spinning, arriving again at a point of crashing into her. She pushed again and spoke. He barely noticed her. The next time his body was about to crush into her, she took a deep breath and channelled her bubbling rage from her tummy, through her chest, into her arms. Her legs planted into the ground, as he crushed again into her, she was ready. She pushed him hard. He crushed into his dance partner, his forehead smashing into her face, both of them tumbled like rag dolls, hitting the ground in a painful, awkward way.
She stood there, now separated from the crowd that took no notice of what had happened. Her body was radiating red. She could feel her heart beating through each part of her body. The connection was broken, and the colourful vision she had before the incident was gone. The rage was vibrating inside her. Images of being pushed appeared in her mind, flashing one after another. Women with different skin colours and of all ages. This rage was old and thick. Between the flashes, she could see people around her, intoxicated, moving their bodies in forgetfulness. The hurt couple slowly got up and found their place between them. She felt no remorse.
She left the pub.
From the street, she could hear the music still blasting inside.
She walked slowly, gathering the data from everything. The band, the music, the crowd, the couple, the floor, her body, the faces of the people, the smells, so many smells. Food, body odours, drink. And the threads that were pulled between them.
She walked until she reached her usual spot in the dark alley. She stepped into the dark corner, made sure no one could see her and pressed the button that was embedded in her palm. Within seconds, her body released its physical form, the empty clothes fell to the ground. She could feel the wind going through her as she dissolved into endless particles, each intelligent and loving, free again to be her full self.
She was home. She was god.
The knowledge she gathered was embedded in the collective consciousness, updating the latest status on the human experiment: still a work in progress.