I have never been a social person. Not “I’m shy at parties but once I warm up I’m the life of the room” not-social. I mean the kind of not-social where, even as a kid, the best part of an event was the moment I could leave it.
And before you think, “Aw, poor thing, you were lonely,” let me stop you right there.
I was a loner because nobody wanted to be my friend.
Except… everybody wanted to be my friend.
That sentence makes no sense. Welcome to my entire personality.
In primary school, I was the boy everyone invited to all the birthday parties and events. Everyone always wanted to make sure I would be there. Why? Honestly, I still don’t know. I wasn’t juggling flaming batons at recess or handing out candy like a tiny sugar dealer. I was just… there. Existing. Breathing. And somehow that was enough to get me a VIP pass to every social gathering within a ten-mile radius.
Then secondary school came and it was the same thing, just with more hormones, more politics, and worse cafeteria food.
I went to an all-boys Catholic school, which meant the social ecosystem was basically a documentary about territorial birds, except the birds were teenage boys in uniforms who thought they were running small nations. There were the jocks, the rich boys, the white boys, the Indian boys (with subgroups, because of course), the Chinese boys, the religious boys, and then the boys who pretended they weren’t religious but could quote half the Bible when it was time to argue.
So where did I land?
None.
And all.
Because I’ve always been neutral. Not “I don’t care about anything” neutral. More like “I’m not signing up for your nonsense without evidence” neutral.
In my family, whenever there was an argument, I didn’t pick sides. I listened. I collected information like I was building a court case. And then I’d decide who was right and who was wrong. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, I just couldn’t stand sloppy logic.
They called me the family lawyer.
Which is funny because I went on to become a chef, and now I spend my life arguing with produce that refuses to ripen on schedule. So yes, life has a sense of humor.
At school, I was courted by all the groups. Not in a romantic way, though I’m sure someone out there would love to read that version of my life. No, they wanted me in their orbit. They wanted me to belong to them, to be claimed, to be included in the group photo like a trophy.
The jocks wanted me because I played badminton on a national level. I was pegged to represent the country at a Caribbean tournament.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
I got injured and never played again.
And yet they still didn’t stop trying to claim me. Like, “Yes, he’s limping and emotionally detached, but have you seen the way he used to smash a shuttlecock?”
The rich boys wanted me badly too. That one I understand a little more, because my family name had clout. My mother was a beauty queen, one of the popular ones. Not “she won a local pageant and got a sash” popular. I mean she held a high-level job and people knew her. My father’s family was one of the richest families and the name was very well known.
Now, my little family pod was not rich by any means. We weren’t rolling up to school with chauffeurs and a personal assistant to carry our emotional baggage. We just had the name. The name opened doors. The name made people assume things.
And for the rich boys, adding me to their group would give them “clout.”
I will never stop laughing at that. Imagine trying to recruit someone into your friend group because they come with a brand name. Like a handbag. Like a limited-edition sneaker. Like, “We need him. He’s a Basildon. That’s going to look amazing on our roster.”
The white boys wanted me for similar reasons. The name, the fact that I was considered “white,” and whatever social math they were doing at the time.
As for the other groups? I genuinely can’t tell you what their reason was. Maybe I was funny. Maybe I was calm. Maybe I had that mysterious “doesn’t want to be here” energy that people always mistake for confidence. Who knows.
I just know I tried to spread myself between all of them, and it was exhausting.
Because it’s not flattering after a while. It’s work.
It’s like being everyone’s favorite restaurant but you’re the only cook in the kitchen and the tickets never stop printing.
So instead of going to the grand hall for lunch and having each group call me over, I started wandering off and eating alone.
Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
I wanted to do what I wanted to do.
And after I ate, during that little stretch of time between lunch and class restarting, I’d go up to the library, find a quiet corner, and read a book until the bell rang.
That was my bliss. That was my oxygen. Not a table full of jokes and jostling and social bargaining. Just me, a book, and the sweet sound of nobody asking me to pick a side.
I even got invited to join an after-school card game one of the priests held.
I know. Catholic school and the priest is a card shark?
It was all in fun and clean. Very clean. I assure you. Nobody was betting confession tokens or anything.
But that was the pattern: I was always invited everywhere.
Teachers and the principal wanted me to join things too. Clubs. Activities. Committees. It was like the entire adult staff saw me as a project. Like I was a bright young man they could place into a neat little box labeled “Future Leader.”
The problem was: I didn’t want to lead. I wanted to read. I wanted to go home. I wanted to exist without being collected by someone else’s idea of what I should be.
I was popular without trying or wanting to be, and as a loner it drove me crazy.
Then I left school and went to work in a bank and, bam, Mr. Popular again.
Everybody wanted me to hang with them. Every party I was invited to. Every time anyone went out for lunch, I was asked along. Clubs on the weekend. Drinks. More parties. More lunch. More “Come on, why not?”
And again, it was exhausting.
I started making excuses. I became a professional dodger. I could’ve taught a master class in polite escape routes.
“No, I can’t make it, I have something to do.”
Something to do, meaning: go home and sit in quiet like a plant that finally got watered.
Then I met my wife when I was nineteen, and she was very popular too. The kind of popular where people swarm around you like you’re giving away free hope.
Every guy wanted her to be their girlfriend. I remember, even before we met, watching the swarm of boys trying to get her attention.
And then we met, and the other guys just peeled away.
Like magic. Like the universe said, “Okay, the audition is over. She’s chosen.”
The amazing part?
She was a loner too.
It was heaven.
We loved spending every minute together, alone. Not lonely. Alone. There’s a difference, and I will die on that hill with a sandwich in my hand and a book in my lap.
I couldn’t have asked for anything more. And I love that we are loners. There is a special bliss that comes with being alone with someone you love and never needing another living soul to be in your orbit.
Now, before someone jumps in with the think-piece tone, yes, I know people need community. I know people need friends and family and support systems. I’m not saying connection is bad. I’m not saying you should cut everyone off and go live in a cabin with only a kettle and your righteous independence.
I’m saying: some of us are built differently.
Some of us recharge in quiet. Some of us find safety in small circles. Some of us feel suffocated by too many hands reaching toward us at once, even if those hands mean well.
And I also know there are a lot of people living without the support of family or friends, not by choice. That’s real. That’s painful. That deserves compassion.
But here’s the other truth: being a loner can teach you something valuable.
You learn to love time alone with yourself. You cherish it. You learn to be resilient. You learn to be a problem solver. You learn how to sit with your own thoughts without needing someone else to translate your feelings into something acceptable.
And you learn not to rely on validation as your main source of comfort.
So when I got sarcoidosis, I was okay.
Not “this is fine, I’m a cartoon dog in a burning room” okay. Not “I never felt fear” okay. I’m human. I felt it. I still feel it.
But I wasn’t shocked by the idea that I wouldn’t be surrounded by a cheering squad.
All the support I needed was my wife’s and mine.
I didn’t go wailing to family and friends only to be disappointed by their lack of compassion. I didn’t need them to validate me. I didn’t need them to make a big show of concern and then vanish when it became inconvenient. I didn’t want to become a conversation topic, a prayer request, or a tragic update people pass around like a casserole dish.
I just needed to know that I was okay.
And as long as my wife was with me, which she always was, I could handle the rest.
For years, I’d go to appointments and see people come in for something simple, like a blood test, and their entire family would be there. Like they were attending the premiere of a blockbuster titled “Mild Lab Work: The Saga.”
Look, I’m not judging. Some people truly need that kind of support. Some people feel stronger when they’re surrounded by their people. Some people feel comforted by the sheer presence of others.
But for me?
Too much of a good thing is good for nothing.
Because when you have two dozen people hovering, you don’t always get support. You get fear.
And fear has a very specific energy.
It’s heavy. It’s frantic. It wants reassurance. It wants certainty. It wants you to perform strength so they can feel better. It wants you to answer questions you don’t have answers to, and smile so they can pretend everything is fine.
That energy comes at you from all directions and it doesn’t land as comfort. It lands as pressure.
If you’ve ever been sick and had someone show up not to help you, but to soothe themselves, you know exactly what I mean. They call it support, but it feels like you’re carrying their emotions on top of your symptoms.
No thank you.
I’d rather have a small dose of self-support and the steady presence of my wife than a crowd of terrified faces projecting worst-case scenarios onto me like a horror movie marathon I didn’t ask to watch.
And I’m not saying to dump your family.
I’m not saying to become a hermit with a sign that says “Do Not Speak To Me Unless You Bring Soup.”
I’m saying: choose the kind of support that actually supports you.
Because not all attention is care. Not all questions are compassion. And not everyone who shows up is bringing calm.
Some people spread fear. Some people spread gossip. Some people spread their own anxiety like it’s confetti.
And when you’re living with a chronic illness, especially something like sarcoidosis, you do not need extra fear added to the mix. You’re already managing enough. Your body is already throwing surprises. Your mind is already doing math it never wanted to do. You don’t need to also manage someone else’s emotional reaction to your reality.
So yes, I stayed small.
I kept it simple.
If this hit you in the chest even a little, I’d love to hear from you. Drop a comment and tell me what support looks like for you, especially if you’re living with sarcoidosis or another chronic illness. And if you want more posts like this, subscribe so you don’t miss the next one.
My wife and me.
And the longer I live with this, the more I realize something that feels almost rebellious to say out loud: needing fewer people doesn’t make you broken.
It makes you specific.
It means you know what you can carry.
It means you know what drains you.
It means you’ve paid attention.
And maybe that’s the part nobody teaches us. We get taught to measure love by quantity. How many people called. How many people texted. How many people showed up. How many people posted “thinking of you” on social media like it’s a badge.
But love isn’t a headcount.
Love is the person who sits with you in silence when you’re too tired to talk.
Love is the person who learns your medical vocabulary without turning you into a headline.
Love is the person who doesn’t demand an update just to satisfy their curiosity.
Love is the person who helps you keep your dignity when your body is doing its best impression of a rebellious toddler.
For me, that love is my wife.
And the rest?
The rest is optional.
That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate kindness. It doesn’t mean I don’t notice when people genuinely care. It doesn’t mean I’m above connection.
It just means I refuse to perform my illness for an audience.
I refuse to manage other people’s fear so they can feel like they participated.
I refuse to let my health become a group project.
Because living with sarcoidosis has taught me something very blunt: energy is currency. You spend it whether you want to or not. And if you’re not careful, you’ll spend it on things that give you nothing back.
So here’s my thought-provoking ending, the one I wish someone had handed me years ago:
You don’t owe anyone the version of support they prefer to give.
You owe yourself the kind of support you can actually survive with.
If that means a big loud village, build it.
If that means one person who loves you like gravity, hold on tight.
If that means you and your own quiet resilience, then trust that it counts.
Either way, don’t let anyone tell you that the “right” way to be sick is to be surrounded.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose peace, close the door, take a breath, and let your healing be private.
If this hit you in the chest even a little, I’d love to hear from you. Drop a comment and tell me what support looks like for you, especially if you’re living with sarcoidosis or another chronic illness. And if you want more posts like this, subscribe so you don’t miss the next one.
Discover more from Tate Basildon
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.