That's me in the corner.

              Hello, my love. 

           Have you ever walked into a room, looked around, and not known where to stand? Or watched others slip so easily into cliques, while you stand there wondering how they do it? I like to think I have a lot of friends and am honoured to know some wonderful people, but that doesn’t mean I always feel like I fit in. More often than not, I find myself in the background, watching and trying to work out where I belong. Why does joining the group feel like a mystery to me? How do some people always seem to know the right thing to say, while I somehow blurt out the wrong thing?

         Growing up, I was always the odd one out. Friends and colleagues would get invited out, while I was left behind. What was it about me that didn’t cut it? Is it my inability to “be normal”? Do my Emma-isms scare people off—or is there perhaps a more exciting reason I don’t fit the mould? 

          The funny thing is, I’m actually shy. Talking to people can feel daunting, yet I overcome it by… talking. A lot. Sometimes so fast that even I struggle to keep up with myself. The harder I try to be quiet, the more I chatter. I don’t want to be that person, but I can’t seem to stop. And the more I try to be normal, the stranger I feel. I don’t get the pop culture references. I don’t enjoy the same music or films. I’ve tried, but I just can’t. Give me quirky clothes and a zombie horror movie over a romantic comedy any day. My playlists swing from true crime podcasts to Queen, Meatloaf, Dolly Parton, and, of course, show tunes. There isn’t a ready-made space for me in other people’s worlds. 

            I think a lot of that comes from my childhood. To me, it was magical, but not exactly “normal.” For years, my family toured the country, performing in theatres, community halls, and even under a big top tent in the middle of a field. I grew up surrounded by actors, clowns, magicians, and other wonderfully unusual people. Someone always knew just what to say to pull in a crowd. But the flip side was that I always knew I was different. I used to yearn for a “normal” life, school friends, routines, TV in the evenings, instead of costumes, props, and endless hours in the back seat of a car, driving to the next show. That sense of being on the outside has never quite left me.

           So, what does it mean to live in the corner, where you can watch and share in other people’s lives but never quite feel part of them? Is it lonely, or is it a place where I can finally be myself without squeezing into a shape that doesn’t fit? From the edge, I can see things more clearly. I don’t have to fake knowing the latest blockbuster or chart hit. I can be unapologetically me. And it turns out I’m not alone. Many others are here as well—people who no longer want to shrink themselves to belong. The outside has its gifts: from here, you notice the gaps others fall through, and you can soften their landing.

         Could I be happy living on the sidelines? Yes. Because the edge is not rejection, it’s redirection. It’s a chance to build my little world, where being odd is celebrated, not hidden. And in standing apart, I can become a beacon for others who feel the same. Together, we can shine our beautiful, bizarre, eccentric, unusual lights. By reframing what it means not to fit in, I’ve realised the corner isn’t exile, it’s vantage.