Caleb’s Story – Lost Frequencies: Navigating Loneliness and Belonging
For much of my early childhood, the idea of loneliness was foreign to me. I understood it in theory, but I never truly felt its sting. My days were filled with laughter, friendships, and the certainty of belonging. I was good at sports, well-liked, and surrounded by family and friends. Life was simple and enjoyable.
But as I entered my teenage years, that simplicity began to fade.
My athletic abilities, once a source of pride, became less impressive as my peers experienced rapid growth spurts. Their developing muscles and stubble made them look like young men, while I still carried the appearance of a boy. Social interactions became more complex, governed by unspoken rules that I struggled to grasp. Conversations felt like radio frequencies I couldn’t quite tune into.
By my second year of high school, the friends I had arrived with gradually distanced themselves from me. There was no explicit hostility—no bullying or cruel words—but the message was clear: I was no longer part of the group. Invitations stopped, inside jokes no longer included me, and I was left wondering what had changed. My confidence, once unwavering, crumbled. Girls who used to call me cute stopped noticing me. I no longer felt popular or cool.
The shift was jarring. I had always been self-assured—perhaps even cocky—but that certainty was replaced by awkwardness and self-doubt. Confusion and sadness settled in. Instead of forcing my way back into a group that had outgrown me, I moved on, unsure of why it had happened but painfully aware that it had.
I found a new group, this time among working-class boys who weren’t concerned with academic achievement. Their futures didn’t involve university or prestigious careers. They were rebellious in ways my former friends had never been—disruptive in class, disrespectful to teachers, and prone to mischief. As the years went on, some of them escalated their defiance, smoking on school grounds and earning suspensions. I never fully embraced their rule-breaking, but being around it felt exhilarating, like a quiet act of rebellion.
They welcomed me into their world, and for a time, I felt like I belonged again. We went on camping trips filled with cheap cider and reckless adventures. Sometimes, girls joined us, adding to the illusion that we were living out the ultimate teenage experience. I convinced myself that this was what freedom felt like.
And then, once again, the invitations stopped coming.
There was no dramatic fallout, no confrontation—just silence. I was slowly, wordlessly pushed to the sidelines. This time, however, there was no backup group waiting to absorb me. I was truly alone. The loneliness was suffocating. I found myself on the outside, watching and listening but never participating, without understanding what had led me there.
With no other options, I embraced solitude. I told myself it wasn’t loneliness, just peaceful isolation. I lost myself in books, retreating into their pages as a refuge from a world that had turned its back on me. Yet, reality was never far away. In class, I’d overhear the plans my former friends were making—trips, parties, moments I would never be part of. The sting of exclusion never lessened. I didn’t resent them, though. Instead, I blamed myself. I believed there was something fundamentally wrong with me.
These experiences shaped my expectations. I began to assume rejection was inevitable. If someone showed kindness or interest, it was more of a surprise than a norm. It wasn’t until years later that I finally understood the reason behind my struggles: I was on the autism spectrum.
My brain had always worked differently. While my peers instinctively grasped social norms and unspoken rules, I had been navigating a completely different wavelength. No one had explained the rulebook to me, and I had spent years trying to play a game without knowing the rules.
Carrying this realization into my twenties, I became determined to bridge the gap. A whole new world of resources opened up—books, articles, videos. I began studying the mechanics of social interaction, analyzing body language, and decoding the psychology of neurotypical minds. I practiced mirroring mannerisms, fine-tuning my responses, and adopting behaviors that made me appear more socially adept.
University provided a fresh start. With conscious effort, I learned how to mask my autistic traits, gradually building friendships. For the first time in years, I experienced a version of social success. But even as I learned to navigate the world more seamlessly, the underlying truth remained: I had always been different. And I always would be.