Scarlett had been thinking about something that was difficult to explain.
It started on Tuesday, when she was with Maisie and Anya at lunch—laughing loudly at something, talking over each other, taking up space the way it felt natural when it was just the three of them.
Then a group of older children walked past, and Scarlett noticed, without deciding to, without meaning to, that she got slightly quieter. Took up slightly less space. Waited before speaking instead of just speaking.
It had lasted about three minutes. And then the older children had gone and she’d expanded back to herself without thinking about it.
Still she’d noticed it.
And then she’d started noticing it other places too.
With Sam and Daniel she was different, faster, funnier, less careful about what she said.
In class she was different again, attentive, measured, making sure her answers were right before she offered them.
At home with Lenny and Pudding, she was the most different of all: loose and rambling, not particularly making sense half the time, and completely unbothered by it.
By Thursday she had a question she needed to ask.
“Am I the same person in different places?” she said to Lenny.
Lenny looked at her thoughtfully. “What makes you ask?”
“I’m different with different people. Louder with some. Quieter with others. I say different things and care about different things. Which one is actually me?”
“All of them,” said Lenny.
Scarlett frowned. “That can’t be right. They’re contradictory.”
“People are contradictory,” said Lenny comfortably. “Being different in different situations is completely normal. The question worth asking isn’t which version is you; it’s whether any of those versions feel forced.”
Scarlett thought about the older children walking past. The automatic shrinking.
“Sometimes it feels a bit forced,” she said honestly.
“Tell me about the ones that don’t.”
Scarlett didn’t have to think for long.
“Here,” she said. “With you and Pudding. That never feels forced. I just…. am.”
“Yes,” said Lenny. “And with Maisie and Anya?”
“Mostly not. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too much. Mostly it just feels easy.”
“That ease is what belonging feels like,” said Lenny. “Not fitting in, belonging. Fitting in is when you adjust yourself to be accepted. Belonging is when you’re accepted without adjusting.”
Scarlett sat with that for a moment.
“So the places where I shrink,” she said slowly, “that’s fitting in?”
“Or trying to,” said Lenny gently. “There’s nothing wrong with adapting slightly to different situations; we all do. The question is whether you’re adapting how you say things, or whether you’re hiding who you are.”
Scarlett thought about the difference.
Adapting how you say things. Or hiding who you are.
Two very different things, she realised.
“How do you know which one you’re doing?” she asked.
“You tend to feel it,” said Lenny. “Belonging feels like ease. Fitting in feels like effort, like holding your breath.”
Scarlett thought about all the different Scarletts she’d noticed this week.
The one holding her breath.
And the one who wasn’t.
She knew which one she wanted more of.
🫶 Dream big dreams.