The Lie of “Normal”

“If it’s killing your soul but everyone else is doing it, they’ll call it normal.
Doesn’t mean you have to play along.”

You don’t realise how deeply the programming runs…

Not at first.
Not while you’re busy chasing goals they handed you like a script.
Not while you're smiling in group photos that feel like cardboard.
Not while you're building a life that looks good but feels like a cage wrapped in Instagram filters.

You only start to notice it -
when you wake up inside the life you were told to want... and you want to scream.

Because it doesn’t feel like yours.
It feels like a costume.
Like you’ve been acting in someone else’s production,
reading lines that don’t land in your body anymore.

You ticked the boxes.
Got the job.
Got the flat.
Got the stable Direct Debit for your phone, your streaming, your gym membership, your low-dose distractions.

You play along.
Laugh at the right moments.
Talk about the weather.
Book the holidays you need a holiday from.

You numb quietly -
through convenience, through endless scrolling, through self-improvement cycles that promise freedom but never deliver peace.

Because this is what we do, right?
This is what they call success.
This is what they told you to aim for.

A clean, curated, comfortable kind of dying.

This is life.
This is normal.

And that’s the fucking problem.

Because normal is just a name they gave the system
to make sure you wouldn’t question it.
To make sure you’d blame yourself when it started to rot from the inside.
To keep you chasing goals that keep them fed - while you run on fumes.

You weren’t meant to survive in this box.
You were meant to break it.

“Normal” is a lie sold to keep you silent.

A manufactured metric of acceptability.
A measuring stick soaked in shame.

It doesn’t liberate you.
It doesn’t honour your complexity.
It shrinks you.

It’s not just a word -
it’s a system.
A script.
A cage dressed up as comfort.

“Normal” is how they teach you to self-abandon.
To apologise for your depth.
To hide your rage.
To tone down your joy.
To split yourself into acceptable fragments.

It tells you what’s okay to feel.
How loud you're allowed to be.
How different is too different.
What dreams are “realistic.”
What grief is “appropriate.”
What desires are “too much.”

It doesn’t ask you to live -
It asks you to blend in.

It’s a performance contract, and most people sign it without reading the fine print.

Here’s what it actually says:

Don’t make us uncomfortable.
Don’t question the rules.
Don’t outgrow the group.
Don’t wake the others.

“Normal” is the silent agreement to keep pretending.
To go along with traditions that hurt you.
To laugh at things that don’t feel funny.
To chase things that never fed you.

And when you finally start to break free -
guess what they’ll say?

“Don’t be dramatic.”
“You’ve changed.”
“You’re not being realistic.”
“You used to be more grounded.”

No.
You used to be more manageable.
You used to be dying inside, but politely.

Normal was never real.

It was just repetition.
Louder.
Faster.
More polished.
Passed from generation to generation like a sacred script no one dares rewrite.

But it was never based on wholeness.
It was based on fear.

Fear of being different.
Fear of being left behind.
Fear of what would happen if they actually told the truth about what they feel.

Most people would rather die slowly than disappoint the crowd.

They’d rather be accepted than be free.
They’d rather be praised for staying asleep than judged for waking up.
They’d rather rot inside a socially approved version of success
than risk stepping into their own wild, sacred truth.

But you?

You’re done pretending.

Let’s name what “normal” really is:

It’s waking up with dread lodged in your chest,
but dragging yourself into motion anyway -
because that’s what adults do, right?

It’s performing for five days straight,
playing the role, holding the mask,
just to survive two days that are gone in a blink.

It’s eating anxiety for breakfast, lunch, and dinner -
calling it "hustle" or "ambition" or "getting ahead."
Wearing burnout like a badge of honour,
because rest has become rebellion.

It’s calling numbing “self-care.”
Another glass of wine.
Another binge-watch session.
Another scroll spiral.
Not because it nourishes you -
but because it helps you feel less.

It’s feeling disconnected from your body, your people, your purpose
but too tired to do anything about it.

It’s needing three coffees
just to remember you exist.

It’s still feeling exhausted even when you rest,
because rest doesn’t reach the kind of fatigue that comes from betraying yourself every day.

And everyone around you says…

“That’s life.”
“That’s just how it is.”
“Welcome to adulthood.”

But no -
that’s not life.

That’s survival.
Wrapped in a Zara jumper and a fixed smile.
Presented as “normal.”
Marketed as “maturity.”
Rewarded as “success.”

But it’s not freedom.
It’s not truth.
It’s not living.

“If your life doesn’t feel right, it’s not because you’re broken.
It’s because you were born for more than what they call ‘normal.’”

You weren’t made for a beige existence.

You weren’t built to coast.
To colour inside the lines.
To trade your fire for approval and your truth for fitting in.

You came here bright.
Wild.
Wide-eyed and soul-deep.
But “normal” -
that system of shoulds, shame, and silent agreements -
made you shrink.

It didn’t just tell you to behave -
it made being different feel dangerous.

Too loud.
Too sensitive.
Too intense.
Too deep.
Too much.

So you did what most of us did.
What we were trained to do.

You edited yourself.

You studied the room.
Softened your voice.
Bit your tongue.
Toned down the magic.
Made yourself digestible.

You dimmed the parts that burned bright
because someone once flinched at your light.

You numbed the parts that felt too much
because the world didn’t know what to do with your tenderness,
your rage,
your hunger for something real.

You smiled at things that made you sick.
Laughed at jokes that cut like glass.
Nodded along while your body screamed “get me out of here.”

You adjusted.
You adapted.
You disappeared.

Not in some dramatic, movie-scene collapse -
but in the quiet, daily erosion of your authenticity.

Bit by bit.
Day by day.
Compromise by compromise.

Until one morning you woke up
and couldn’t tell if what you were feeling was depression
or just what everyone keeps calling “maturity.”

Is this adulthood? Or is it self-abandonment with a pension plan?

You forgot how much fire you came here with.
How clear your instincts once were.
How vivid your life used to feel
before the world told you to turn it all down.

But somewhere inside you,
something’s still glowing.
Still breathing.
Still fucking alive.

And that part of you?
It’s not interested in being normal.
It’s interested in being free.

Let’s pause.

Let’s get honest.

• What parts of yourself have you exiled in the name of blending in?
• What do you really think about the life you’re living right now?
• Where have you traded truth for approval?

These are the questions most people never ask.

Because the moment you ask them…
You can’t go back.

“Normal” is the fastest way to die with your eyes open.

It won’t break your bones.
It won’t shatter your world overnight.
It won’t feel like a crisis.

That’s the trap.

It feels like safety.
It looks like stability.
It wears the mask of “This is just how life is.”

But underneath?

It’s a slow death wrapped in a familiar routine.

“Normal” keeps you stuck in patterns that don’t serve you -
but are so ingrained you barely even notice anymore.
It rewards you for consistency, not for truth.
It applauds your productivity, not your passion.

It holds you in jobs that don’t ignite you,
where your soul clocks out long before your shift ends.
Where your gifts get buried under to-do lists.
Where you trade your creativity for a steady paycheck and call it adulthood.

It tethers you to relationships that don’t reflect you -
ones that feel more like mirrors of who you used to be
than containers for who you’re becoming.
Where you shrink to stay loved.
Where you perform to feel safe.

“Normal” chains you to routines that don’t nourish you -
Wake. Work. Scroll. Sleep. Repeat.
Where your body aches, your mind spins, and your soul goes silent.
But you keep showing up,
because everyone else is doing it too.

And yes, it’s safe.
It’s comfortable.
It doesn’t make waves.
It doesn’t challenge the system,
so the system leaves you alone.
You blend in.
You comply.
You stay small and call it “peace.”

But the cost?

Your aliveness.

That wild, holy fire inside you.
The voice that wants more.
The hunger that never went away.
The knowing that this can’t be all there is.

You don’t get to live both ways.
You can’t be fully expressed and fully accepted by a system that only rewards obedience.

So yeah, “normal” might not kill you quickly.
But it’ll bleed you slow.

One numbed feeling.
One ignored truth.
One swallowed “no” at a time.

“You don’t need to fix your life.
You need to stop calling your prison ‘normal.’”

If this is hitting you - good. It should.

Not because you’re weak.
Not because you’re broken.
But because something inside you is finally done pretending.

Because deep down, you’ve known for a long time that something’s been off.
Off in your body.
Off in your rhythm.
Off in the way your days blur together,
even though you’re doing “everything right.”

You just didn’t have the words.
You didn’t know how to explain the emptiness
without sounding ungrateful.
You didn’t know how to name the ache
without being told you were overthinking.

So instead, you blamed you.

“Maybe I’m just not disciplined enough.”
“Maybe I’m too emotional.”
“Maybe I just need to work harder, be better, fix more.”

You kept showing up.
Kept pushing.
Kept trying to earn your way out of the heaviness.
You stayed grateful when you should’ve been honest.

But the ache didn’t go away.
Because it wasn’t there to punish you.

The ache isn’t the problem.
The ache is the alarm.

It’s your soul saying,
“Wake up. This isn’t it. We didn’t come here for this.”

It’s the part of you that refuses to die quietly inside a “normal” life.
It’s the knowing that survival was never the goal.

You’ve outgrown “normal.”
Outgrown the game of keeping it together.
Outgrown the small talk, the fake calm, the performative gratitude.

You’ve outgrown survival.
The mode where you’re always coping, managing, enduring -
but never really feeling alive.

And no, you’re not supposed to shrink to fit in.
You’re not here to stay digestible.
You’re not here to be admired for how well you hide your truth.

You’re supposed to expand.

To get louder.
Brighter.
Wilder.
Truer.

To take up so much space that the old version of you doesn’t fit anymore.

This ache?
It’s your invitation.

Not to fix yourself -
but to finally come back to the you that’s been waiting beneath the performance.

So what do you do with that?

That ache.
That knowing.
That rising discomfort that won't shut up anymore.

You don’t need a 10-step plan.
You don’t need a colour-coded spreadsheet, a five-year vision board, or a morning routine with matcha and mantras.

You need to start telling the fucking truth.

Not online.
Not to strangers.
To yourself - first.

Because that’s where it begins.
The unedited, unfiltered, throat-tightening honesty.

You tell the truth about how tired you are.
Not “a bit burnt out.”
Not “just need a holiday.”
But bone-deep exhaustion from carrying a life that doesn’t feel like yours.

You tell the truth about how disconnected you feel.
From your body.
From your people.
From your purpose.
From the version of you that used to actually feel alive.

You tell the truth about how much you miss your own presence.
Not just being around others -
but being with yourself in a way that feels sacred, solid, home.

And maybe the hardest one -

You tell the truth about how little this life reflects who you really are.
The masks.
The compromises.
The way you’ve edited your fire down to a flicker,
just to keep the peace in rooms that were never built to hold you.

Then what?

Then you move.

Not in panic.
Not in perfection.
Not for applause.

But slowly.
Loudly.
Relentlessly.

You move out of their stories -
the ones that told you who to be and how to behave.
The ones that praised your obedience and shamed your truth.

You move out of your conditioning -
those scripts you didn’t write but memorised to survive.
The patterns. The people-pleasing. The performance.

You move out of your mask.
The one that smiles when you’re screaming.
The one that says “I’m fine” when your soul is begging for change.

This isn’t about fixing yourself.
It’s about finding yourself underneath everything they layered on top.

You don’t need to become someone new.
You just need to stop pretending you’re not already in there.

This is the real work:

Not the curated grind.
Not the hustle-in-heels highlight reel.
Not the trauma-coated productivity loop dressed up as “self-development.”

This. Right here.

This is the unlearning.
The remembering.
The sacred fucking revolt.

Redefining success.

No more chasing what empties you.
No more calling burnout ambition.
No more worshipping the grind while your joy bleeds out behind the scenes.

Success, now?
It’s inner peace.
It’s presence.
It’s sleeping at night knowing you didn’t abandon yourself today.

Choosing peace over validation.

Not everyone needs to clap.
Not everyone gets it.
Not everyone’s supposed to.

You’re done performing for approval that never filled you.
Done twisting yourself into palatable shapes to be “liked.”
Now you choose peace - even if it costs you the crowd.

Letting go of what looks good and choosing what feels real.

You’re done curating your life for aesthetics.
Done wearing the perfect mask while your truth rots underneath.

Now it’s about alignment.
Now it’s about fuck appearances - give me depth.

You choose what’s true, even if it’s messy.
Even if it doesn’t get you likes.
Even if it scares the people around you.

Creating a life that makes no fucking sense to others -

but feels like home to you.

That’s it.
The ultimate rebellion.

You start building not to impress, but to come alive.
You start saying no to things that drain you -
even if they come wrapped in prestige and praise.
You start living like it’s your life - because it is.

And yeah, there’s a cost.

You’ll lose people.
People who only knew the mask.
People who liked the version of you that made them comfortable.

You’ll break patterns.
Generational ones.
Cultural ones.
Personal ones.

You’ll piss off the system.
Because it doesn’t know what to do with someone who’s no longer for sale.

But most of all?

You’ll remember who you are.
Not who you were told to be.
Not who you became to survive.
Who you’ve been all along beneath the noise.

And finally?

You’ll fucking breathe.
For real.
For the first time in years.
Without guilt. Without masks. Without the weight of pretending.

Truth hits.

Let it burn.
Let it free you.

“You weren’t born to be normal.
You were born to be wild, awake, and fully fucking alive.”

Final prompts:

• What part of your current “normal” feels like soul-death?
• What would your days look like if you stopped performing calm and actually created peace?
• If no one judged you - what would you do differently by the end of this week?

Final words.

Normal is not your goal.
Never was.
That word? It’s a spell -
used to flatten, quiet, conform.
To make you question your instincts.
To make you shrink your soul.

Normal is not a benchmark.

It’s the fucking cage.

A padded room of predictability and permission slips.
A box where curiosity dies and wildness goes to sleep.
A place where you stop living and start performing.

You don’t belong in the middle of the bell curve.
You were never meant to fit neatly in anyone’s expectations.
You were never meant to be “average.”

You belong on the edge.
Where things move.
Where life breathes.
Where truth doesn’t need translation.

You belong where it’s alive.
Where it’s honest.
Where it’s sovereign.

So stop apologising for wanting more.
More depth.
More truth.
More soul.
More silence.
More real fucking connection.

Stop apologising for being too deep,
too sensitive,
too awake for a world that numbs by default.

You are not “too much.”
You are the reminder that most people forgot how to feel.

Let the world call it weird.
Let them flinch.
Let them label.
Let them try to diagnose your freedom.

You’ll know what it really is.

It’s not weird.
It’s not wrong.
It’s not broken.

It’s freedom.

And you were born to fucking live it.