Square Peg, Round Hole: On Not Fitting In

The Journey of Rediscovery Series - Post 3

by Valerie L Valentine

Between Worlds

Like Mr. Spock from Star Trek, I am a child of two worlds. Not quite one thing or another — always existing in the space between.

Growing up, that didn’t seem unusual. On the military bases, my sisters and I were just kids — running, laughing, and living among families from everywhere. Our parents’ different skin tones didn’t matter there. The base was its own kind of world: structured, diverse, contained.

Back in the 1960s and 1970s, we played in the neighborhood streets. An impromptu game of kickball or freeze-tag with all the kids in the neighborhood was commonplace. *Image created by ChatGPT.

But when we moved off the base, everything changed.

It was as if the moment we crossed into civilian life, the rules shifted. Lines appeared where none had existed before. Categories suddenly mattered.

And for the first time, we didn’t fit neatly into any of them.

When Normal Shifted

At first, I didn’t notice the difference — kids are good at adjusting. But little by little, it became clear that we didn’t belong to either side of the neighborhood.

We mostly played with each other in our own yard. There were a few exceptions — a neighbor named Erica, and sometimes her cousin down the street. We played G.I. Joe in the attic and made up adventures like military brats do. But there was always a faint edge to everything, a quiet reminder that we were outsiders in our own backyard.

I can still remember the sting of words shouted in the street — the way names could become weapons. Some of the neighborhood Black kids called us “crackers.” The white kids, and sometimes even their parents, called us the N-word.

At six or seven years old, I didn’t understand much about history, but I understood hurt.

We weren’t white. We weren’t Black.

 We were just us.

 And somehow, us wasn’t enough for anyone else.

Names and Boxes

If you know the history, “cracker” was once used for the white overseer who cracked the whip on enslaved people. By the 1970s, it had twisted into a slur hurled back at white folks. But we didn’t fit that word.

And the other one — the word that hung heavy and sharp — didn’t fit either.

We didn’t have light skin, or dark skin. We had tans that deepened in the summer and hair that went from straight to unpredictable as puberty hit (oh, and that was its own adventure — “Oh, lord, what happened to my hair!?” might be the title of another post entirely).

The world wanted us to pick a side, but we were never meant to choose.

“Where do you fit in a country obsessed with black and white?”

That question followed me for decades — not just in color, but in every part of life. It echoed in classrooms, workplaces, relationships, and art. It was the quiet hum beneath every attempt to belong.

The Art of Adapting

Being a “square peg” shaped everything that came after.

I often felt like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. *Image created by ChatGPT

It taught me to observe before I spoke, to find patterns, to anticipate reactions. It made me good at blending in — at least on the surface. I learned how to mirror, how to translate, and how to make others comfortable even when I wasn’t.

That same skill made me a great teacher later in life. It helped me read a room, find the rhythm of my students, and reach them where they were.

But there’s a cost to constant adapting. You start to forget the shape you began with. You start to confuse peace with absence — silence with safety.

And you start to wonder if “fitting in” is worth the erosion it requires.

Owning the Edges

Now, decades later, I see it differently.

I’m no longer trying to sand down the corners of who I am. I’m done auditioning for belonging.

Living in Spain — in the soft light of the Costa del Sol — I finally understand that being “between worlds” is a kind of freedom. I don’t have to fit in one place, because I belong to many.

The colors that once confused others now inspire my art. The edges I once tried to hide give my stories their shape.

“I am the bridge — between cultures, between languages, between ways of seeing.”

I no longer wish to be round or square.

 I’m the mosaic in between — and every piece shines in its own way.

I am the artist. I am the mosaic. Bringing many different colors and shapes together to form something beautiful. *Image created by ChatGPT.

For so many of us, “not fitting in” feels like failure. But maybe it’s proof that we were never meant to blend into someone else’s pattern. Maybe we’re meant to make new ones.

So here’s to the misfits, the hybrids, the children of two worlds — the ones who never found their box because they were too busy building bridges.

We are the shape of change.

 We are the color in between.

 And we fit exactly where we stand.

Reflections & Resources

Reflection: 

Think back to the first time you felt like you didn’t belong. What did you learn to hide — and what beauty might live in that hidden part of you?

Artist’s Notes: 

This post explores how growing up between cultures shaped my sense of belonging — and how that experience threads through my creative life today. It builds on Tempering My Fire and connects to Relearning How to Shine as part of my ongoing journey toward authenticity. It is the third installment in my The Journey of Rediscovery Series.

Further Reading / Inspiration:

• The Color of Water by James McBride

• Mixed by Angela Nissel

• Caste by Isabel Wilkerson

• My posts: The Story of a Second-Best Career, Tempering My Fire,

• Upcoming: What Are You? A Question That Follows Me