What is Normal?

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is completely normal.”

-Viktor Frankl

The past six months have been a roller coaster of heightened emotions.

Big changes, one after another—leaving Chicago, moving to Bangalore, starting business school in Hyderabad, and now working again.

Underneath it all was a familiar feeling: being out of place. Of not belonging. Yet again.

Recently, I met a friend from New York who was visiting India. Seeing him made me realise how much emotion I had built up—most of it conflicting and difficult to comprehend.

And the question that keeps returning: this is home—so why do I feel this way?

When I moved to Chicago, I remember breaking down in the office one day. It was about two weeks in. It was my birthday. I felt extremely alone.

I felt the same way when my friend left.

For a while, I experienced the normalcy I had been craving—the kind of life I remembered from college. I was home with my parents, going to school, making incredible friends, and living an unexpectedly vibrant social life. I enjoyed that normalcy. I didn’t question it. I didn’t check in with myself.

“Are you okay?”

A friend once asked me where I get the courage to pack my bags and just move. I told her I’ve learned to embrace solitude. I said “but I didn’t choose it. No one chooses to be alone. I had to learn.”

I have always liked wandering off alone, but I always knew there was someone waiting—that safety mattered. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I could handle any amount of solitude. That was the mistake.

Being alone when you don’t want to be changes you. Over time, it wears you down. Wanting people does not make you weak — it simply means you’re human. I’m noticing that many of us, now in our thirties, are finally learning this balance: not needing people to survive, but wanting them to live well.

Knowing that is not regression. It’s awareness.

The fact that I had changed should have been a signal.

My definition of normalcy no longer held what it once did. I was still enthusiastic, still drawn to people — but I had changed. I had begun to prioritise my inner life over my outer one — or at least, I thought I had.

Isha Foundation, Coimbatore

The real problem wasn’t the new developments. It was not taking the time to check in and course-correct, choosing instead to go with the flow. I felt constantly ungrounded, afraid that if I touched anything in this full life, it might break.

Underneath that surface were sporadic moments that left small dents — not deep enough to trigger alarm, but persistent. Emotions that required honest attention.

A distasteful comment.

A hostile tone.

The constant stares.

The backhanded compliment.

The safety tax that only applies to women i.e spending more, both emotionally and financially, just to ensure safety.

Worst of all, the need to justify criticism by immediately balancing it with criticism of the West.

For example, women aren't 100% safe in US as well, but in comparison to here, yes its much safe. But why do I need to add this detail? or hesitate before sharing my frustration?

I struggled to reconcile these emotions—especially irritation and exhaustion.

Most advice I received boiled down to this: adjust. Don’t compare. Don’t criticise. Empathise.

Empathy was the only one that resonated, even slightly.

So I tried. I tried to adjust. To belong. To stop comparing. To focus on the good. It would work for a couple of weeks. Then something would happen, and I’d be back at square one.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I had already overcome something far worse — learning to manage my mental health.

That is what brought me back to India the first time.

The second time—now—is for business school.

In trying to belong, I distanced myself from myself.

In trying to empathise with everyone else, I forgot to empathise with myself.

I often think I judge people—especially when they are close-minded or entitled.

But in trying not to judge, I turned that judgment inward. I questioned why I was still struggling after getting exactly what I thought I wanted: parents, business school, friends, comfort.

When life appears aligned with society’s expectations, it becomes easy to ignore the small voice that says something doesn’t feel right. Instead, you hear: You are finally “normal.”

What I needed was simple—and surprisingly hard to accept:

“Yes, sometimes it just sucks.” No explanation. No silver lining. No plan.

Not being allowed to “not like” my situation — or to feel lonely — made me feel even more alone. In the US, at least I had that permission. Here, it often feels like I don’t. May be because there I had company.

Understanding your own emotions isn’t straightforward. Are you sad because you had a bad day—or is it a symptom? Is there something deeper asking for attention? Are you demanding too much? Shouldn’t you just be satisfied for once?

You can spiral into thoughts that quietly paralyse you.

We start judging ourselves for feeling abnormal. For wanting things that might make us seem—asocial, awkward, sensitive—again.

An outsider, again.

I was ready to pack my bags—again. I started wondering if everyone was right — if this was just who I was.

But a quieter voice kept insisting this wasn’t true. If it were, the mention of Chicago or Connecticut wouldn’t still light up my eyes. I had imagined entire lives in those places when I lived there.

When I started travelling, travel became my home. I still want to see the whole world—but I also want a home to come back to.

Legislative Assembly of British Columbia, Victoria, Canada

I had to realise the hard way that what I was and am experiencing is misalignment between my outer life and my inner world. It is pain.

Pain is difficult to explain when the thing that’s broken isn’t visible. It’s not a fractured limb. There’s no plaster for it. And it often hasn’t reached a severity that makes it impossible to ignore.

To an observer, it appears in flashes. It comes and goes. That’s why people forget to be kind. They don’t see the cumulative impact of those tiny dents.

The volcanic reaction doesn’t happen on a stage with spectators. It happens in silence—in a closed room, with muffled tears. Often followed by more silence. And the cycle repeats.

Very few people actually pay attention to the effect of those dents. I am deeply grateful for the few who noticed—even the smallest shift. Sometimes I wonder why we don’t talk openly about our struggles. Maybe it would make it easier to accept that sometimes, it simply sucks.

My reactions may not look “normal”—happiness, anger, sadness, irritation. But this is not a normal situation.

From the outside, I am a typical extrovert. That is why this went unnoticed the first time—for years—until it was too late. This time, the difference is awareness.

My body no longer waits years to signal misalignment. It responds sooner—through restlessness, panic, and a tightening in my chest.

And when I feel stuck, when I feel I have no agency, when the fear of having to “leave again” creeps in, that tightness returns.

I don’t want to feel paralysed. I want to breathe.

And to breathe, I write.

To express. To process. To set another reminder.