The Rarest Kind of Me

My Dear Stranger,

I took every tests, you named it.

Not once. Not twice.

Over and over, through different seasons of my life.

And every time, the result came back the same,

the rarest one.

Always the outlier.

Always the quiet margin note.

Maybe it’s just a label.

Maybe it’s just numbers and patterns.

But somewhere deep inside,

it felt like someone finally whispered,

“Oh… so that’s why.”

That’s why I feel too much and say too little.

That’s why crowds exhaust me but silence heals me.

That’s why I see people deeply,

yet struggle to find those who see me back.

If I am rare,

then maybe it explains the loneliness.

Not because I am broken—

but because finding mirrors is hard

when you’re not made in bulk.

I think my soul knows this.

That’s why it never fully rests.

It keeps listening.

Keeps searching.

Keeps waiting for a frequency that feels like home.

I am longing—not for fame,

not for being understood by everyone,

but to finally meet my people.

The ones who don’t ask me to shrink.

The ones who don’t fear depth.

The ones who speak softly but mean every word.

Maybe one day,

I’ll sit across from them

and feel my shoulders drop for the first time.

No explanations.

No masks.

Just recognition.

Until then,

I stay.

I breathe.

I keep becoming.

My Dear Stranger,

If I am the rarest kind,

then I will honor that truth,

even on the days it feels heavy.

And maybe one day,

my soul will rest,

not when I change,

but when it finally hears someone say,

“I’ve been looking for you too.”

Your Stranger,

Vie