This is a personal essay written by the author, sharing their individual journey and experiences. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this piece belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MyndStories. This essay has not been professionally vetted or reviewed for clinical accuracy.

Have you ever felt this sinking feeling? You are standing in a room full of people and yet you don’t belong? 

I have. More times than I can count.

It’s a kind of loneliness that cuts deeper than just being alone. Growing up, school wasn’t always easy. 

“Oh no, she’s here. Ssshhh, stop talking.”

The words weren’t meant for me, but they may as well have been whispered straight into my ears. I felt the weight of their stares as I stepped into the classroom. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Laughter shrank into smirks. I knew what they thought.

Being the teacher’s daughter made me untouchable in the worst way possible. They assumed I’d run to Ma with their secrets, that I’d tattle if they let me too close. 

So, they shut me out. Not with words, but with silence. With side glances and inside jokes I was never part of. I think that’s where it started, the feeling of not belonging. Or maybe it was at ten when I stepped into an empty house after school. 

The air, still and quiet. No welcome, no warmth, just the distant hum of a ticking clock.

Ma and Baba worked late, providing for us, but love to the 10-year-old Ankita was time. And time was scarce. Now, looking back, I see it wasn’t their fault. But it wasn’t mine either. At eight, I tried to barter my way into friendships. I laughed at their jokes even when I didn’t understand them, lent my favorite pencils only to never get them back, and shared the best part of my lunch, hoping for a smile, a thank you, and an invitation to sit closer.

But? Nothing worked.

And the worst part? 

It started shaping my belief that – it was all my fault. 

Maybe if I tried harder.

Maybe if I was funnier.

Maybe if I was less… me.

That’s where I first learned to shrink myself, to make space for others while leaving none for me.

At 20, I carried that ache into adulthood. Into friendships. Into love. Into moments where I believed I had to earn my place. I believed that love is fleeting; something you can only find in others. So I sought love with an urgency that bordered on desperation. 

Then came someone who made me feel at home in a way I had never experienced before. It felt like salvation. It was the way their presence could ease my anxieties and calm the chaos of my mind. In them, I saw my worth, and as long as they were there, I was enough (or so I thought). 

I felt seen and heard.

“Oh, this is rare. Don’t let them go. Cling on, Ankita,” a voice whispered within.

And cling I did. I built my world around them, convinced that as long as they existed in it, I would never feel lost. But it wasn’t just love I was offering. It was dependency, the desperate grasp of the little girl who feared being abandoned. For years, I tied my identity to someone else. I sought refuge in their presence, their voice, their understanding. 

I thought I had found home in them, and for a long time, I did. But that sense of home? It was fragile. What I failed to recognize was that – this was the foundation of what I now understand as anxious attachment.

The insatiable need for reassurance, for proof that you are wanted, chosen, irreplaceable. You brace yourself for the shift, for the day they pull away, for the moment they decide you were too much. So I clinged, overextended, gave away parts of me I didn’t even realize I was surrendering. Not because I wanted to, but because if I didn’t, I was afraid they’d leave. 

So when they left, because sometimes people do that, it wasn’t just loss, it felt like it was proof of every fear I’ve ever had. That I am unlovable, that I am forgettable, that I was never enough to make them stay. What we don’t understand about anxious attachment is that it isn’t just emotional, it’s physical. It lives in the body. The way our heart races when a message goes unanswered. The tightness in our chest when we sense distance. The need to over-apologize, over-explain, and overcompensate because deep down, you believe love is something that must be kept at all costs.

It took me 23 years to realize that what I was seeking wasn’t love but belonging. But that didn’t come all at once.

It wasn’t some sudden epiphany. No, it was slow, it came quietly, like a drip of water slowly eroding a stone. I felt it in the weight that settled in my shoulders, the ache that never seemed to leave. It was the exhaustion that came from walking on eggshells, bending myself into shapes that weren’t mine to fit in.

It came by losing people anyway. When no amount of fixing or proving was enough. 

When you finally see how much of yourself you’ve given away just to feel wanted.

And then I did something that terrified me. I stopped. After two years of therapy, I learned to catch the voice before it took control. I learned to stop reading between the lines of every message. It was in the moments when I opened up to my parents about my past, and this time, they were present. They listened, held me, and let me cry.

It was with friends who helped me build boundaries and create security. It was in relationships where I discovered that love isn’t something to chase. Distance didn’t mean danger; it meant space. And the right people would never need convincing.

It was when I started learning to love myself by sitting with my emotions, by allowing myself to feel, and by allowing myself to cry. Some days, it still feels like the old voice is lurking there, waiting to take control. 

That need to prove myself, to be someone else, to shrink down into something smaller so I can be accepted – it’s a hard habit to break. But on others, I notice a quiet strength, an unfamiliar steadiness in my pulse. Each time I choose myself, it leaves a mark – like the faintest crack in a wall that’s been standing too long.

I haven’t fully found myself yet, but I’m closer. And that’s enough. 

Note: Pictures in this article are representative and not related to the author.