being average.

If I had to tattoo one word on my forehead, it would be average. Everything I do in my life feels so average. I never seem to be in a position where I thrive. It often feels like I’m running in circles, incapable of reaching a level I’d like to achieve.

I recently binge-watched a psychological thriller called Severance, featuring an eerie story where employees have their work and personal memories separated. Their “outie” steps into the work elevator and, seconds later, heads out for the day. They have no idea what they do during their work shifts. On the other hand, the “innie” has no idea who they are in the real world. Every moment of the life they know is spent working in a lit room, surrounded by white halls and a strange, unwavering dedication to their employer. There’s a character named Dylan who really stuck out to me.

(Spoiler warning for Season 2 of Severance)

In Season 2, Dylan’s wife has the opportunity to spend time with his “innie” for some time each week in a secluded room. Through conversations with her, Dylan’s innie comes to realize that he struggles in the real world to find where he thrives, and he begins questioning his worth in life. While his wife doesn’t outright say it, the innie concludes that he’s actually a loser.

That hit home. I think most of my 20s have been about trying to figure out where I’m doing well. When my mental health was hitting rock bottom, I remember a friend telling me that my ex was talking about me online — basically calling me a loser. It felt like every fear I had about myself was confirmed: that I was failing and that people saw me as worthless. It was devastating to think that someone I once loved and trusted saw me that way. I had already been struggling to find any sense of self-worth, and hearing those words made me question if I even deserved to feel good about myself. It reinforced the belief that I had nothing to offer and left me sinking even deeper into isolation. And it hurt a lot because I never intended to disappoint them. I was going through various medical issues that had yet to be discovered.

I was exhausted every second of the day, constantly gaining weight, and my self-esteem was burning in the process. At the time, I didn’t realize these symptoms were connected to my undiagnosed medical issues. The lack of answers made it even harder to separate what was happening physically from how I felt mentally. Every day felt like a mental battle, chipping away at my sense of self. I blamed myself for the changes, instead of considering that something deeper might have been going on. The longer time passed, the more I started wearing sweatpants so as not to have to worry as much about them not fitting. I began to shut down emotionally and developed attitude issues. My life reached the point where I couldn’t see myself achieving anything, and I was about ready to give up altogether.

It felt like people didn’t want me in their lives, and I still wonder if that’s because they genuinely didn’t, or if it was the energy I brought to the table. But I recognize my potential autism, or at least my social awkwardness, has made it hard for me to fit in. So, most of my life has felt like a constant effort to catch up — to prove I was enough to at least belong somewhere in the middle. But what was I best at? I feel like I’ve been average as a pianist, as a writer, as a salesperson, as a student, as a friend, as a son, as a human being.

But even if I see these things as average, there have been small moments of pride — like when I finally learned a challenging song on the piano, received a compliment on something I wrote, or hit an achievement at work. While these moments don’t make me exceptional, they are mine. And maybe that’s enough.

Though my reality is that deep down, I know I’ll never be the best. And I’m okay with that. It isn’t my goal to be, because this world was never made for someone like me. We live in a society filled with narcissists, and I’ll always be the NPC who isn’t looked at twice.

But Josiah, you made this website. Clearly, you want attention.

On the surface, it could seem that way. But creating my own space wasn’t intended to be a search for validation. It was about finding a new way to process my ideas and evolve from a new angle. And if someone finds value from my perspective and feels a little less alone, that would mean so much to me.

If I begin sharing my work, it could look like I want attention. But I’d be okay with never showing my face online because I don’t know if I’ll ever like the way I look. If there were a way for me to exist without a physical body, I think I would. But all I really hope is for at least one person who’s in the same boat to feel reassurance that things will be okay.

There are over 8 billion people in the world. My ideas are far from unique. To some extent, every idea has been proposed. Songs today share keys with older ones. Melodies are recycled. Themes are borrowed. Genetics are repeated.

Maybe I’ll never stand out the way I hoped to when I was younger. But I’m still figuring out ways to be the best version of myself. Even if I’m a supporting character shadowing a larger vision, that doesn’t mean I don’t hold value. We are constantly told that everyone has their purpose in existence. It’s okay if I don’t have that. And not all of us have to be the main characters. We’re still significant in our own stories.

Maybe average isn’t something to be ashamed of. We’re here in the now, and that’s enough.