Finding My Own Rhythm

He walked in wearing a heavy coat, a backpack slung neatly over one shoulder, and a posture so straight it seemed rehearsed. He caught my attention immediately. His cubicle was directly opposite mine.

As I settled into my chair and opened my laptop, I watched him from the corner of my eye. He unpacked with deliberate precision. First, the coat came off. Then the overshirt. Then the scarf. Each piece was folded and pressed firmly to the side of his desk, as if securing them in place against some invisible disorder. He smoothed them once more, ensuring they would not shift.

Then came the soft sound of zippers. He unlatched his backpack and removed his laptop with calm certainty, placing it squarely at the center of his desk. Everything aligned. Everything intentional.

Only after arranging his small world did he sit down.

I glanced up again. He had a strikingly composed face. Glasses framed his features perfectly, and his hair was combed with careful attention. Nothing about him seemed accidental. He inhaled deeply before beginning, as though preparing not just to work—but to perform competence.

The woman in the next cubicle greeted him with a warm good morning. His response was firm, yet gentle. Polished. Effortless.

As he began typing, someone from behind called out to him. That’s when I realized I hadn’t caught his name. I missed it in the exchange. For now, I decided to call him Brian.

He looked young. Too young, I thought, to move through an office space with such assurance. I found myself admiring him. How did someone so young master these subtle rules so easily? The posture. The tone. The rhythm of belonging.

And then the thought came quietly, almost painfully—why was I not like that?

For some people, normal seemed instinctive. Mannerisms came naturally. A simple “good morning” never felt misplaced. They remembered faces. They recognized people in elevators. They carried themselves as if they had always known how to exist in structured spaces.

For me, it was different.

A greeting sometimes felt rehearsed. Faces blurred in my memory. I would see someone daily and still forget they belonged on my floor. I wondered if that made people unsure about me. If they found me distant. Unpredictable. Not quite fitting the expected mold.

One afternoon, I confessed these feelings to a colleague.

She listened without interruption, her expression soft and steady. When I finished, she smiled in a way that surprised me.

“You know,” she said gently, “I used to watch you the same way you watch Brian.”

I blinked at her, confused.

“The way you focus when you work,” she continued. “It’s intense. Complete. Like everything else disappears. I used to wonder how you did that. I still can’t.”

She paused, glancing briefly toward Brian’s cubicle before returning her gaze to me.

“We all have our own way of being here. His is careful and structured. Yours is… something else. But it works.”

I wanted to protest. To list all the ways I felt clumsy in small talk. All the social cues I missed. All the ordinary moments that felt unnatural to me.

But she had already turned back to her screen, the conversation dissolving as seamlessly as it had begun.

I looked at Brian again. He was typing steadily, posture unchanged, everything in its rightful place.

Then I looked at my own desk.

My jacket hung loosely over my chair. My bag remained half-open. Papers were scattered across the surface in a pattern no one else would understand.

But I did.

Every note had meaning. Every scribble held a thought mid-flight. My workspace wasn’t careless—it was alive. It reflected how my mind moved: nonlinear, searching, deeply absorbed.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe normal wasn’t a single standard but a thousand quiet variations coexisting under fluorescent lights. Maybe fitting in didn’t mean mirroring someone else’s rhythm. Maybe it meant allowing your own rhythm to exist without apology.

The next morning, when Brian walked in again—coat heavy, posture straight—I didn’t measure myself against him.

I simply noticed.

And when someone stepped into the elevator beside me later that day, I made myself say, “Good morning.” It came out softer than I intended. Slightly uncertain.

But it was real.

I returned to my desk, pushed my scattered notes a little closer together—not to imitate order, but to make space for clarity. Then I opened my laptop.

For once, I did not try to be Brian.

I allowed myself to be exactly who I was—learning, adjusting, imperfect, but present.

Belonging isn’t about performing normal.
It’s about showing up—fully—as yourself.

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