I’m not sure if being a nerd is something you’re born with or something you grow into, but for as long as I can remember, I have always been a little out of sync with the kids around me. While others were busy comparing tamagotchis or talking about the latest boybands, I was happily buried in my own little universe, literally.

When I was nine, I became completely obsessed with the cosmos. Keep in mind, this was the 90s. The internet wasn’t at our fingertips and having a desktop computer at home was a luxury. We didn’t have Google in the 90s to type “Stars in the sky,” so I relied on newspapers and the very few books I could find at the library. The ones with good pictures were like treasure; rare, precious and always on loan.

Singapore skies didn’t make things any easier either. Thanks to light pollution, you couldn’t really see much up there. Still, I remember staring up at the night sky for long stretches of time, waiting to catch even one bright star. And when I did, my excitement was off the charts. Not only did I read about celestial objects, I memorised them all; names, distances, fun facts, the whole package. (Even now, I can feel myself nerding out again just talking about it.)

The problem was, no one else around me cared. Who was I supposed to share this fascination with? My nine-year-old friends were more interested in trends or the latest toys. So I kept my excitement bottled up, quietly convincing myself that one day I would find my people.

By the time I was twelve, my “nerdy oddball” energy was already well-established. We were assigned an English project where we had to present on any topic of our choice. The possibilities were endless; vacations, hobbies, favourite celebrities. My classmates went with what was safe and relatable. Trips to Malaysia, their admiration for a celebrity, or why a certain boyband member was the love of their life.

And then there was me. I stood up confidently and announced my topic, ‘The Different Types of Aliens.’

I launched into full detail, describing species I had read about with the kind of enthusiasm that could power a rocket launch. Meanwhile, my classmates stared at me with a mixture of confusion and disbelief, like I had just confirmed I was, in fact, one of the aliens I was describing. To be honest, I sometimes felt the same. Maybe I really was on the wrong planet.

Looking back now, it’s hilarious. At that age, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just “be normal.” I thought everyone else was odd, when really, I was the oddball. But I’ve grown to love that about myself. Being different meant I saw the world through a different lens.

I don’t know if my parents were ever worried about me. Maybe they just thought I was shy and awkward or maybe they didn’t really know what was going on inside my head. I was a lone ranger, always cooped up in my room, glued to the computer or flipping through CDs my mom bought for me. She has always been supportive of my hobbies (read: obsessions) But while other kids my age were into games or music or fashion trends, my choice of entertainment was… encyclopedias. Astronomy, cosmology, galaxies, black holes, anything that wasn’t about Earth.

Looking back now, I think I was trying to escape. There was something about the vastness of the universe that comforted me. Earth felt small and unkind, but space… space was limitless. It was a place where no one could bully me, no one could tell me I was a weirdo. At twelve years old, my logic was simple. If I couldn’t belong here, maybe I belonged out there.

There were nights when I would secretly wish aliens would contact me. I imagined being beamed up into a spaceship, taken “home” to some faraway planet where “my tribe” would finally understand me (too much watching the X-files). At that age, the thought wasn’t frightening. It was hopeful. I wanted to leave Earth behind, leave all the hurt behind and just start over somewhere new.

In hindsight, I realise those thoughts weren’t really about aliens at all. They were about the issues I was going through. The loneliness, the sense of not fitting in, the emotional wounds that, at that time, I didn’t have the words to explain. Subconsciously, I was trying to find solutions by running away, even if it was only in my imagination.

Almost thirty years later, I have begun to piece things together. I see now that I had traumas that shaped the way I thought, acted and felt. They made me retreat into myself, searching for belonging in galaxies instead of in the people around me. And yet, strangely enough, those challenges also became part of my resilience. They forced me to build a world inside my own mind, a world where curiosity and imagination kept me company when people couldn’t.

Today, I want to believe that I turned out okay. I’ve made peace with the fact that Earth is where I belong, with all its messiness and struggles. I’m no longer obsessed with aliens or waiting for someone from the stars to “rescue” me. But sometimes, when I look up at the night sky, I smile at that younger version of myself, the child who thought maybe she was on the wrong planet. In a way, she taught me how to survive here.

Because here’s the truth. Life on Earth can be cruel, confusing and painful. But it is also where I’ve learned, grown and loved. And while the universe is still breathtaking to me, I don’t need to leave this planet to find meaning anymore.

NAME : Nadia H.

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