The Beautiful Burden of Being Weird
When someone says, “You’re weird,” what they often mean is: You’re not following the script. You’re not behaving in the ways they’ve been conditioned to expect. You don’t laugh in the usual rhythm. You dress a little left of center. Your thoughts come in diagonals when theirs march in straight lines. In a world that finds safety in sameness, you are a disturbance in the field. A deviation.
And that’s not an insult. It’s an awakening.
See, weirdness is a form of rebellion — a declaration that the mold isn’t worth fitting into. It’s often the scar left by survival, or the sparkle left by wonder. Weirdness is born from thinking too deeply, caring too much, dreaming too wildly, hurting too profoundly. It’s the symptom of having lived awake in a world that often prefers sleepwalking.
To be weird is to be unedited. Raw. A little electric. It’s to ask “why not?” in a world that constantly hisses “that’s not how it’s done.” It’s to carry some strange, sacred flame that others may not understand — and sometimes, may fear.
So when someone calls me weird, I smile. Because what they’re really saying is: You remind me that I gave up parts of myself to fit in. You remind them of a younger, freer version of themselves. Or perhaps of the version they were too afraid to be.
Weird people make the world bearable. They write the books no one else dares to write. They invent languages. They turn mundane days into art installations. They start revolutions. They ask questions that have no answers, and then live in the space those questions create.
So if someone ever tells you you’re weird, say thank you. You’re not here to be digestible. You’re here to be unforgettable.
Ezra Finchlight
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