I grew up in a world of muted rules,
where conformity was the only warmth offered.
A pear tree rooted in unfamiliar soil—
ripened too soon,
pulled too late.

I was a child with a mind like wildfire,
too loud, too literal, too uncontained.
Inside me, there were constellations—
patterns only I could see,
a chaos of thoughts that never fitted expectations,                                                my stars did not align with the others.

The school was my first harvest.
They laughed at my hands,
flapping like wings trying to take flight,
at my voice too deep, tripping over itself.

My clumsiness spilled endlessly,
a waterfall no one cared to navigate.
I didn’t belong.

"Autistic," the doctor said.
"What does that mean?" my mum asked.
"Different," he replied,
but in his eyes, I could see,
as if I were cursed.

If they would not embrace me,
I would make them watch me rise.                                                                                                              I wanted to be someone they couldn’t ignore.

"The best revenge is to live well," some say.

So, knowledge became my fortress,
books my armour,
each award a brick in my wall—
Masters.
PhD.
Titles stacked like shields,
Letters after my name,
Soldiers standing guard over my ego.

But the higher my walls rose,
the lonelier I felt inside.
Being smart wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t enough.
Because no matter how many papers I published,
Their laughter still echoed in my head.

I could still remember the fake love letters I received,
meant to mock the way they all saw me as repulsive.

The endless contests for "prettiest in class"
where my name was never even whispered.
And the empty space where my graduation photo should have been,
because they believed my ugliness would ruin the picture,
so they locked me away in a closet.

I wanted to silence them once and for all.
So, I paid for the quiet.
Every penny invested in beauty,
a stock I could not afford to lose.
Tweaked, tucked, reshaped—its flesh reformed,
until the fruit in the tree was barely mine to claim.

Still, it wasn’t enough; I craved more.
I wanted to be the name they would remember,
the only one who left the orchard, who ventured beyond.

So, I left,
crossed oceans to escape the ghosts of their indifference.                                                                                                                                                The obsession was mine, not theirs.                       

They had long stopped laughing,
moved on, started families,
yet their shadows still followed me.

That’s how I found myself in East London, stripped of all pretence.
Not naked, but raw—
exposed in a way most will never understand,
a mosaic of contradictions.

Carrying my self-importance wrapped in scars,
but the city did not roll out a red carpet.

I stumbled over foreign words,
trying to make them mine,
while doors slammed shut,
my degrees no longer keys.

Interviews and more interviews.
Rejections and more rejections.
Companies didn’t care for my titles,
only how I could use them.

"Where are you from?" most ask.                                                                                                      

"But your English is so good," some add.
Constant statements,
I smile, I nod, but inside, it stings—
they mean well,
but to me, it’s just a reminder
of the outsider they see and the stranger I feel.

I wander the country,
the prices hold me hostage—
borrowed homes, rented dreams.
Each avenue is a mirror,
revealing a different version of me.

The academic, buried beneath pride,
the dreamer grasping fragile plans,
the hypocrite, writing articles on social deprivation while scorning those who fade—
delusional, an impure nectar masking its flaws.

I am all of them,
and none.

Somewhere in the space between,
I search for the version of me
that doesn’t care or judge
the one still tender and sweet,
unspoiled by arrogance, real once more.

I get back home, and the pieces scatter,a Rubik’s Cube twisting in my hands                    a futile attempt to solve the puzzle of my life.

But as I stare at the faces,
the irony slices through me:
years spent running from their cruelty,
only to sculpt myself into something
equally unkind.
I became my own bully,
carved by their words,
shaped by my pride.

I had worn my conceit for so long,
thinking my education meant I deserved more,
but there I was,
still that seed in the field,
desperate to bloom,
desperate to be chosen.

It took years to understand that intelligence isn’t a crown to flaunt but a tool to share, that talent wears many masks, and that wisdom resides in unexpected places.

Because not all truths are confined to books   or taught in lecture halls. Some emerge in the power of a voice on stages where no classrooms reach.

And brilliance isn’t always loud it lives in resilience, in mindfulness, in listening, and in the understanding that no single art can hold the vastness of the world.

But perhaps the most profound lesson of all:
empathy is the smartest thing I’ll ever learn.

I looked in the mirror again,
And for the first time,
I let the cracks show.
I let myself breathe.

I realise different doesn’t mean less.
And people, people are more than grades,
more than degrees,
more than a university name,
more than injections under the face.

Belonging isn’t about someone else approval—it’s about being at peace with myself.

So, here I stand,
Not perfect.
Not better.
But whole.
A prickly pear, bruised from the fall, yet still worth holding, finally, enough.