Belonging Becomes Its Own Kind of Prison

Being a ‘what’s next kid’ forced me to live in the future, yet I only had my past to take as a reference while I fuelled my expectations. Memories always equalled shared bonds, each reminding me of an ache of possibility when they surfaced. Expecting anything to appear exactly as I once labelled it invited rigid thinking, stripping away the possibilities of wonder.

As I tried to estimate the outcome of every possible scenario, even the simplest choice, like ordering a meal, became exhausting, as I typed each option into a search engine for its image. By devoting myself to the best, I quietly rehearsed disappointment through prediction.

Still, expectations that could not fulfil their role did not disappear. They hid themselves sneakily, building habitats in the corners of my mind, fuelling themselves through my inner romanticiser. I began lucid dreaming in waking life, entering worlds that responded to thought, wandering through scenes that shifted like silk, meeting versions of people who existed through my imagination.

Pushing my will onto what existed instead of allowing it to be as it was invited forcefulness. I was insisting rather than expressing, living in constant urgency, as if slowing down meant failing. My restless nature refused to live in the present, taking what was for granted in favour of what might never even exist.

What is given is often mistaken for a birthright rather than recognised as a privilege. Yet the roots of oppression lie in obsession, and that is the core of every addiction, allowing even the most ordinary things to hold us tightly without us noticing.

Health. Love. Attention. People. Being chosen. Feeling seen.

Yet what we perceive as meaningful is only what is relevant in that emotionally charged context. Obsession begins the moment we demand permanence from what was never meant to stay.

Think of your first kiss. The first time you aced a test. The moment you witnessed a breathtaking view. At first, your heart pounds, spreading through your body. Your temperature rises. The tips of your fingers itch in the best way.

Every first feeling feels like a climax. You expect that rush to stay exactly the same, perfectly intact.

Until it fades.

It is not the moment that disappears. You still have your first kiss. The mark remains on your transcript. The view is still breathtaking. What changes is not what exists, but how you insist experience unfold in the same way each time.

It is not fate that strips us of wonder, but us, by demanding uniformity from life.

What begins as a private expectation is quietly reinforced by the world around us.

Society asks us to fit under the same labels because sameness makes control easier. Grouping makes the world manageable. We begin forcing ourselves into boxes that do not fit, until the edges of our authenticity grow tired of being shaved down.

We wire ourselves to seek validation, believing approval is proof that we belong, while we are already human by nature. The more we live by labels, treating life like a puzzle whose pieces must fit the picture on the box, the more we invite judgment. That is how we remain stuck. Yet in true connection with oneself, differences reveal themselves not as something to hide, but as the doorway to authentic expression.

Once we accept who we are, society’s grip begins to loosen. Identity takes shape through our reactions to thought, as energy surfaces, lingers, then sinks if left unattended. What feels like a downfall can become the very rope that helps us climb to the top of the hill. Nothing exists as an absolute opposite, and every extreme contains a seed of the other. Nature moves by polarities, where there is form there is counter-form, where one current runs, another returns.

Life is dual-sided by nature. The universe requires balance.

Everything, living or not, carries a shadow side.

When one side is denied, it does not disappear. It returns in distorted form.

Striving to make the best decisions by estimating every possible outcome, I ended up strengthening my fear of failure, attributing my belonging to being successful. While I boxed myself through my achievements, I realised my perfectionism was the shadow of devotion. That is how belonging became its own kind of prison.

Devotion, once rooted in care and commitment, hardened into a hunger for excellence through control when it met the fear of loss. When things got messy, I attributed them to my worth and became disconnected from myself. Showing up became self-erasure. My imperfections led me to withdrawal.

Constantly trying to predict the future strengthened my anxiety. I ended up being my own terrain, treating my body like a machine, forsaking its limits for redundant demands disguised as irreplaceable needs, until life itself became unbearable.

When a person repeatedly ignores inner conflict or misalignment, that tension may eventually seek expression through the body, because the body is the last place experience cannot be abstracted away.

While my days stretched wide, I never settled. I chose illusion over presence, falling in love with possibility, romanticising what wasn’t there.

Slowly, the outer world began to mirror my inner disorientation. My inner imbalance reflected in my physical coordination, and I started walking unusually. Shame waited in every corner while people kept asking me whether I was drunk or about to faint whenever I was in public, trying to take a step forward. The shame I had hypothetically tied to the possibility of failure while I convinced myself that I was seeking success.

The prisons I lived in were the ones I had built myself.

In truth, I was seeking permission to belong, waiting for life to feel cinematic, while standing in the place I had been trying to reach.

That feeling of home I kept searching for was not a place. It was how I felt when I was whole, not through uniformity, but by allowing opposite sides to breathe in the same room.

When force was no longer hardened by the fear of loss, striving softened back into effort, control returned to responsiveness, and devotion returned to its original form. My inner balance slowly returned by letting the two extremes speak to one another instead of interfering with the way life naturally moved.

Where devotion stayed intense, imagination stayed alive, and ambition remained present.

Where restraint softened force, stillness met movement, and no part needed to disappear for another to exist.

Yin and Yang aren’t opposites. They’re in a conversation.

Wholeness is not the absence of movement, but the recognition of constant recalibration, the ability to let every part belong without allowing any one part to reign. Identity is not fixed. It is the endless act of returning, each drift followed by a homecoming. Like water pressed against a dam, life will always seek another route in the underlying rhythm of existence. The quiet intelligence that governs growth, decay, rest, and return, without asking for permission.

I stopped forcing my way forward.

I met my body where it was.

Author’s note:

If I could do this all day, every day, I would choose it without hesitation. To sit with language, to think slowly, to shape meaning, and to create from the place where things are still forming. I don’t write to convince. I write to stay honest. And if my words have ever spoken to you, even briefly, if something you read here made you feel seen, less alone, or quietly understood, then you already know what this space is. Supporting this work means allowing me to keep choosing it. If you’re in a position to do so, please consider upgrading to paid, so I can keep showing up, creating carefully, and doing the best I can for this shared space we’re building.

With love always

-imi

Thanks for reading! If my words spoke to you let them travel.