At the Edge of the Circle

This excerpt is in conjunction with Mental Health Awareness Week with the theme of Community

That no matter who you are—your interests, your scars, your background—there will be someone, somewhere, who welcomes you in. Maybe it’s that one person, that one space, that one shared moment that says, you belong. And maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s even happening to you now. But what if the real issue isn’t about being accepted?

What if it’s about accepting yourself?

You’re surrounded by people who make space for you. You laugh with them. You show up. You contribute. You listen. Technically, you’re part of the group. But inside? You’re still outside—palms pressed against the glass, staring at the warmth you don’t think you deserve.

No one really talks about this part. The part where the community is already there—kind, open, loving—but you just… can’t step in fully. Not because they’re pushing you away, but because you’ve locked the door from the inside.

So you try to compensate. You show up early, you carry things, you check in on others. You’re good at noticing when people need help. You give your time, your energy, your presence. But when the heaviness hits your own chest, when the ache creeps in, you tell yourself: not now, maybe later, maybe never.

Because someone else probably needs it more. Because you’ve always been the reliable one. Because asking for support feels like failure. Because if you let the walls down, they might see the parts of you you’ve worked so hard to hide.

You wonder, If they saw how tired I really am, would they still want me here?

So you raise the bar again, as you always have. You become more helpful, more self-aware, smiling even when your bones ache. You tell yourself you don’t need rest. You have a community—shouldn’t that be enough? But it’s not, is it?

At the end of the day, you’re still alone in your own head.

The cage is open, but you choose to stay. Because freedom without trust feels like another prison, one made of freshly shattered glass. You fear one wrong step could send you back to where you were before—without a community, not alone, but lonely. At least here, you can hold your chains and pretend they’re safety.

And yet. One day, maybe in a quiet room, on a bus ride home, or lying in bed after another night of gaslighting yourself—you feel it. That hollow ache. That gap between what you give and what you allow yourself to receive.

You want to be held too. You want someone to notice when your voice shakes, when you fall silent. You want to believe someone would catch you if you stopped holding yourself up. But then the fear rises: If I slip, if I cry, if I even whisper my need, would they see me differently? Would I lose the community I fought so hard to be worthy of?

So you stay silent.

And the worst part? No one’s keeping you outside but you.

You already know what they would say if you asked. You know they’d hold space for your pain the way you hold space for theirs. But knowing it in your head and believing it in your heart are worlds apart. Still, you try. Just a little. Slowly, imperfectly, honestly.

You say "tired" instead of "fine." You ask small questions, request small advice. You let yourself be quiet without apologizing. And no one flinches. No one pulls away. The bar you’ve clung to begins to lower—not because you’ve failed, but because you’re learning you were never meant to carry this alone.

You realize bonds in community aren’t built on performance. Being liked doesn’t mean being the loudest, the funniest, the most useful. Sometimes community just means being present, again and again, until trust grows.

Community isn’t about earning your place. It’s about choosing to stay. To trust. To let yourself be seen. Maybe that’s the hardest part—not finding the community, but letting yourself in. Because you don’t have to prove you belong. You already do.