I Wasn't a Risk. I Just Made Them Uncomfortable.

I’m starting to realise that maybe I wasn’t excluded because I was unstable.
Maybe I was excluded because I didn’t perform stability in a way that made people comfortable.

And that’s different.

Because I know I’ve done the work. I’ve reflected deeply. I’ve stayed grounded, even when met with subtle judgement or open projection. I’ve held myself in my adult self. I’ve taken on feedback. I’ve integrated it. I’ve stayed present—even when the room wasn’t able to meet me there.

So why was I the only one not offered a place?

Maybe the decision wasn’t based on therapeutic depth.
Maybe it wasn’t even made by someone who was trained to see it.

Maybe the decision was made by someone who looked at me and thought:

“This person might be a risk.”

Not because I was unsafe—but because I wouldn’t submit.
Because I didn’t collapse under criticism.
Because I held my ground.
Because I asked questions that couldn’t be answered with pre-written learning outcomes.

And maybe that presence—my presence—was too uncomfortable.

Too real.
Too emotionally tuned-in.
Too unwilling to just smile and tick the right boxes.

I’m starting to see that I was never a threat to the group.
I was a threat to the system that trained the group.

That’s a different kind of exclusion.
And it hurts in a different kind of way.

Because it means the more awake I become, the more likely I am to be left out of places that say they want truth—but only as long as it doesn’t shake the walls.

I wasn’t a risk.
I was a mirror.
And some people weren’t ready to look.

That’s not mine to carry.

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And in a strange way, being the only one left out has given me a kind of clarity I didn’t expect.

It shows me that this wasn’t about my lack of ability or some vague weakness in character. It wasn’t that I came close and just didn’t quite make the cut. If that were true, I’d have been offered the same chance as everyone else. I wasn’t.

That level of exclusion—specific, deliberate, and silent—means I wasn’t overlooked.
I was seen. Fully.
And they didn’t like what they saw.

And weirdly, that affirms something I hadn’t let myself claim:
I’m not on the outside because I’m not enough.
I’m on the outside because I wouldn’t compromise who I am to fit in.

And I’m finally starting to see—maybe that’s not failure.
Maybe that’s freedom.

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