Becoming a Color with No Name: Living Beyond Normal

What does it really mean to be "normal"?

Is it dressing like everyone else? Speaking in approved tones? Thinking safe, digestible thoughts? To be normal often means to stay within the lines. To make yourself smaller so that others don’t feel uncomfortable.

But I don’t believe we came here for that.

I believe we are each a living social experiment in free will, here to explore the fullness of what it means to be human. Why else would we have been given so many sensations, emotions, textures of experience? Why would we silence our colors just to blend in?

There are thousands of ways to live. To communicate. To change our appearance with the tides of our spirit. Our style is a language. Our expression is seasonal. Yet conformity clips the wings of that expression before it even learns to fly. It stems from fear. Fear of standing out, fear of rejection, fear of not being enough. But more deeply, it stems from a belief that we must earn belonging.

And here’s the truth many don’t say aloud: even in alternative spaces—the artist scenes, the fringe communities, the supposedly accepting holistic circles—many still feel the sting of judgment. I’ve been the young mom judged by the older ones. I’ve been the alternative pin up girl in a conservative neighborhood, where my neighbors wouldn’t wave hello. Too clean cut for the hippies. Not fringe enough for the anarchists. Too pretty to be kind—yes, I’ve been told that to my face. As if being aesthetically put together disqualifies you from having depth, warmth, or empathy. And eventually, I stopped trying to belong anywhere but with myself.

I began living by my own rhythm. I showed up alone. But I showed up open. My body language said, "I’m available for real connection." My eyes said, "I see you, if you choose to see me." And slowly, without forcing, my people found me.

You don’t have to stay in friendships or communities that make you feel invisible. You don’t have to keep shrinking to be digestible. Step out. Trust the space between. It might feel empty at first, but that is sacred ground. That is where your frequency recalibrates. That is where your blooming begins.

And when you bloom outside the boundaries, you become something rare. A color this world has never seen. A hue without a name.

We are all threads in the great human weave. Some are muted, others loud. Some shimmer, some shift in the light. I see uniqueness as texture. Frequency. And I wish more people would treat difference not as danger, but as sacred.

We forget that language came after rhythm. That the first stories were told with the body, with drumbeats, with dance. And yet now, we judge people for not using the "right words," when we’ve forgotten how to feel the truth beneath them. Energy doesn’t lie.

There have been so many moments in my life when I felt the quiet fear of others. I’m tall. I carry presence. I change my appearance often. As my art, as my form of play, as evolution. And I’ve felt the difference in how I’m received. Sometimes people don’t know what box to place me in. There’s hesitation. A pause. But when there’s eye contact (real eye contact) the veil softens. Sometimes it fades. Sometimes it stays. That’s not mine to fix.

And here’s what we don’t speak of often enough: when we hide our true self, when we perform normalcy, our body feels it. Illness begins not just with bacteria or imbalance, but with self abandonment. With dissonance. The nervous system constricts. The breath shortens. The spirit dims.

Expression isn’t just spiritual. It’s biological. It’s how we keep the system flowing. How we regulate, how we stay well. Your vitality is tied to your truth.

So I say, give up the performance. Be a color with no name.

The world needs your rare hue. Not the filtered version. The full spectrum you.

That’s what lifts the collective. That’s how we redefine beauty. That’s how we remember who we are.