In this reflection we acknowledge the weight of being singular.
You walk into a room and count. It happens automatically now. You note who is there and who is not. You locate yourself in the demographic breakdown before anyone else has a chance to do it for you.
Today the count is one. You are the only one who looks like you.
This awareness takes up space. It runs in the background of every interaction, every meeting, every casual conversation. You are present but you are also watching yourself be present. Monitoring how you are received. Calibrating.
People who have never been the only one do not understand this layer. They just exist in rooms. They do not have to wonder if their presence is surprising or if their competence will be questioned or if their tone will be read differently than someone else's identical tone.
Being the only one can mean being invisible. Your perspective is not asked for. Your experience is not considered. You are there but not seen.
Or it can mean being hypervisible. Every move you make becomes representative. Your success is an exception. Your failure confirms something. You cannot just be yourself because yourself has been turned into a symbol.
Both are exhausting. The invisibility and the hypervisibility. The sense that you do not belong and the pressure to prove that you do.
Some days you do not notice. The work is engaging. The people are kind. You forget, briefly, that the math exists.
Other days the weight is unbearable. You feel the isolation in your body. You wish you did not have to carry this awareness into spaces where everyone else gets to just be.
You are not imagining it. The extra layer is real. The fatigue is real. The cost of navigating spaces that were not designed with you in mind is real.
Finding others who get it helps. Not having to explain. Not having to prove the experience is valid. Just existing with people who know.
You should not have to do this math. But you do. And that is not your failing. That is the room's.