The Bird Outside My Window (And the One in My Chest)

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There’s this bird I keep seeing outside my apartment.

He’s big.

Male—you can tell by the way he stands, like he knows exactly who he is. There’s this shimmer on his neck, almost purple, like someone dipped his feathers in sunlight and bruises. It’s beautiful. But it’s not “normal.”

And you can tell he’s different.

The female birds? They avoid him.

He’s too loud without saying a thing.

Too colorful.

Too much.

And I get it.

I do.

Some days, I feel just like him—standing out when all I want is to belong. Too emotional. Too opinionated. Too soft. Too strong. Too much of everything in a world that’s constantly trying to mute people like me. Whether it’s in dating, friendships, or even just existing online without a filter.

And yet… that bird still shows up.

Every. Single. Day.

Neck glinting like defiance. Like, “I’m still here, even if you don’t understand me.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about that bird lately.

Because maybe we weren’t made to blend in.

Maybe we were designed to be seen by the right people, not all people.

Maybe being different isn’t the problem—maybe it’s the point.

And maybe—just maybe—we shine so bright because we’re meant to light the path for others who feel a little too much like outliers, too.

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Just a thought for a thought.

Lately, I’ve been working on grounding myself whenever I spiral. Overthinking has this way of making the smallest things feel enormous, like everything’s crumbling when it’s just a moment.

I’m learning to breathe.

To pause.

To notice what’s real.

That’s why I go to therapy—

to unpack, unlearn, and re-root myself in peace.

I’m not perfect at it, but I’m showing up.

Just like that bird.

Still different. Still here.

Still me.

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🕊  With heart & feathers,

Tiki