This week I posted something on LinkedIn about a pattern I have spent most of my life not seeing in myself.

It got more private responses than most things I post, which usually means one of two things: either it was wrong in an interesting way, or it was true in a way a lot of people recognised but had not seen written down enough. Based on the messages, it was the second one.

Here is the short version, for anyone who missed it. Then I want to take it further than a LinkedIn post allows.

A substitute teacher once accused me of lying about a piece of work. “There was no way a ten year old could have produced it,” she said. She was the teacher, so obviously she was right, and I adjusted accordingly.

For most of my life, I thought I was average. I assumed everyone saw what I saw. The patterns seemed obvious. I could not understand why no one else was discussing them.

What never occurred to me was that my normal is not average.

My brain works in patterns. I can hold significant complexity without losing the thread. I can read a situation with a level of detachment from the emotions running through the room that most people find either very useful or mildly unnerving, depending on the circumstances. Often both at the same time.

It kept happening. At college, I was told I was not allowed to show concern about exams, because “if the other students see you concerned, it will destroy their confidence.” So I didn't. Obviously.

Every time, the pattern was the same. Soften it. Shrink it. Tuck it away so others felt better.

But you cannot change your core being without there being a cost. And the price, I can tell you, can be high.

And why the hell should I? was finally the question I asked.

That question changed how I saw the room. Not just my own pattern, but what the room's reaction to it had actually been measuring all along.