When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to fit in.
I wanted those Skechers that lit up. The Vera Bradley bags that every middle school girl seemed to have. The rainbow loom kits advertised between Disney Channel episodes that everyone suddenly possessed. I wanted to know the lyrics to the songs everyone else already knew. To always laugh at the right moment. To always say the right thing. To contribute just enough — not too much, not too little.
Fitting in was everything.
But suddenly — and I’m not quite sure just when— the screenplay flipped.
Now, fitting in is marked with the equivalency of being lackluster. The fine line between conformity and being perceived as boring has thinned. Instead of trying to blend, standing out becomes the forefront of our minds. Because now, ‘unique’ is no longer an insult, but rather a compliment. Proof of being unique has become the end goal.
However, not just unique. Unique in the right way. In a tasteful way. In a defensible way. In a way that can be proven.
“I thrifted this.”
“I knew them before they blew up.”
“It’s kind of underground.”
“It’s niche.”
Don’t blend in. Differentiate.
Individuality no longer lands as a natural byproduct of how we operate, but rather a personal branding exercise where our livelihood has to be tailored and thoughtfully curated.
And you can hear it in how we talk.
“I know it’s basic, but…”
“It’s really popular, but…”
“It’s kind of boring, but…”
“I know everyone’s seen it, but…”
Why is there always a consistent disclaimer? Why are we apologizing when we genuinely like things? Why does enjoying something popular or common suddenly require justification?
Because individuality is no longer inherently possessed— it’s something we feel the need to demonstrate. To curate. To prove.
And proof requires evidence.
My Instagram becomes evidence. My aesthetic, my style, my ability to romanticize the mundane. My record collection becomes evidence. Physical proof of the distinct music taste I possess. The books I own. My spotify wrapped. The posters on my wall. My Letterboxd. My reposts. My clothes. My LinkedIn. And every form of visible representation that presents a clue of who I want to be.
It’s subtle, but it’s everywhere. This quiet competition to have the most defensible identity. The most curated taste. The most interesting combination of interests. The most specific skills.
Being who we are isn’t always enough. We have to be distinct.
I find myself guilty of this mentality, too.
I do feel a certain pride when I thrift a vintage designer piece and manage to mention it in conversation. I like when I’ve seen a film someone else hasn’t. When I discover a new artist before they become mainstream. When I have something that feels like proof that I’m different, and therefore interesting.
I think that’s what it is. The proof.
Proof that I am not forgettable.
Because in a culture that equates visibility with value, blending in feels synonymous with disappearing. “Well-rounded” stopped sounding impressive or desirable. It started sounding vague. Unremarkable. Generic. Forgotten.
What happened to being someone who just likes a lot of things? What happened to having range?
This applies professionally as well. In a sea of applicants for the same jobs, opportunities and positions, we amplify our niche. We capitalize on differences. We further play into the brand, and we try to sell to others that we are different.
Now it feels like we need a niche. A specialty. A defining trait that makes someone say, “Oh, that’s so you. We build a self-concept around not just who we are, but around how we are perceived.
One of my favorite quotes is from the film Before Sunrise, when Celine asks, “Isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?” I think about that often.
Maybe this desire to be niche isn’t about superiority at all. Maybe it’s about memorability. About wanting to be noticed. To be remembered. To be chosen.
If I am distinct, then I cannot be replaced.
If I am rare, therefore I am valuable.
And if I am valuable, then I am worthy of love.
That’s the underlying school of thought,ven if we don’t consciously say it aloud.
But here’s the contradiction: the people I remember most in my life are not the ones with the most obscure hobbies or the most curated aesthetics.
They’re the ones who are real.
I don’t remember someone because their music taste was underground. I remember them because of how passionately they talked about it.
I don’t remember someone because their style was experimental. I remember them because it felt undeniably them.
Authenticity leaves a stronger imprint than novelty ever could.
Yet, we keep chasing novelty, maybe because it feels measurable. Tangible. Postable.
After all, as they say, would you still run a marathon if you couldn’t post about it on social media?
Authenticity is harder to quantify. It doesn’t always translate into a caption or a highlight reel. It doesn’t always look impressive and it isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like admitting you like something popular without flinching. Sometimes it looks like being well-rounded without apologizing. Sometimes it looks like not having a niche at all.
At the end of the day, the rarest thing in a culture of performance is comfort in being ordinary.
Not bland. Not indistinguishable. Just unafraid. Unapologetic in liking what you like. Unbothered by whether it’s cool. Unconcerned with whether it serves to differentiate you.
Authenticity is the real niche.