The Sacred Art of Not Fitting In
From doubt to Berlin: how Twenty One Pilots reminded me what matters.
There’s something sacred about belonging—and something dangerous about chasing it the wrong way.
Some of us try to earn it by conforming. We reshape ourselves to fit into whatever puzzle or system already exists. I’ve done it.
At one point, my life was an amalgamation of other people’s expectations. And somewhere in that performance, I lost track of who I actually was.
That changed in 2004. At rock bottom, I made a decision: to stop performing, chase something real, and figure out who I actually was. To turn my life into a life worth saving—because at the time, it didn’t feel like it was. I even wrote a book about that journey.
It’s been twenty years. And yeah… I’ve grown. I’ve healed. But healing can drift into apathy. And growth can quietly turn into settling.
And if I’m honest, I started to wonder:
Have I gotten tired?
Have I lost my edge?
Have I become—gasp—ordinary?
Maybe.
I’m 52. Happily married for over a decade. Two amazing boys. A life I love.
Mortgage. School drop-offs. Gymnastics. Swim lessons. A steady rhythm of “normal.”
So… is this it?
Do we press pause on self-discovery until the kids move out?
Do we wait for the house to go quiet—along with our identity?
Cue the midlife crisis.
Bring on the external validation.
Buy some hair color.
Ready, go.
Wait.
No.
That thing that awakened in me in 2004?
It’s not dead. But I may have stopped feeding it.
Comfort had started to eclipse relevance. My uniqueness was getting squeezed out by the need to be a good parent.
I even see my kids wrestling to fit in. And I have to stop myself from giving them tips on how.
Because the truth is—I didn’t learn to belong by fitting in. I found belonging by not fitting in.
By refusing to.
By staying on the path of discovering who I actually am.
Cue my friend Mike: “Have you heard of the band, Twenty One Pilots?”
I hadn’t heard of them. Wasn’t curious. Had no expectations.
But I trust Mike—and try to surrender to whimsy when I can—so I looked them up.
And I didn’t like it. It felt like music made for a younger generation.
I’m in my fifties. I figured I’d outgrown this kind of thing, right?
The music felt strange. A little chaotic. Like it was trying too hard.
But underneath it was something I couldn’t ignore—a creative defiance that hit a nerve.
It wasn’t polished, but it also wasn’t careless. It was sharp. Deliberate.
Like someone broke the rules—not for rebellion’s sake, but to make something honest.
At first, I thought it was just a persona.
But the more I listened, the more I read… the more it started to feel uncomfortably, beautifully real.
I wasn't raised in the hood
But I know a thing or two about pain and darkness
If it wasn't for this music I don't know how I would have fought this
Regardless, all these songs I'm hearing are so heartless
Don't trust a perfect person and
Don't trust a song that's flawless,
Lyrics from “Lane Boy” by Twenty One Pilots, written by Tyler Joseph. © Fueled by Ramen (2015).
There was vulnerability in the lyrics.
But the real bravery was in the delivery—raw, unpredictable, and unapologetic.
They made music that didn’t fit anywhere and performed it exceptionally.
That’s what got me.
Not because it reminded me of who I used to be—
but because it called something back out of me.
Something I’d nearly buried under responsibility and the slow grind of fitting in.
The music. The boldness. The sheer audacity of it—
it dared me to create what my heart actually longs to make.
To create like it matters.
Because it does.
This wasn’t entertainment.
It was art doing what art is supposed to do.
It woke me up.
I used to have multicolored hair and funky clothes. I worked hard to stand out;
I hated blending in.
But eventually, even that started to feel like a performance—like I was performing uniqueness instead of just living honestly.
So I let that version of rebellion go.
I stopped trying so hard to stand out visually and started fighting to keep my voice different.
To stay sharp in thought.
To stay vulnerable in how I create.
Because the truth is—when I start sounding like everyone else, I get uneasy.
If my work feels too safe, I know I’m drifting.
Homogenization is a quiet killer.
I’ve seen what it does to creativity—and to humanity.
So I’ve built a discipline around staying uncomfortable.
Pushing against polish.
Keeping the edge sharp, even when the world keeps trying to sand it down.
But I’ve also had to build a career.
So the boldness—the risk—it’s okay in moderation, right?
That’s what I told myself, all the way to the intersection of Apathy and Conformity. Man, that is one lonely corner.
And then I found this band.
Not because they reminded me of something I’d lost—
but because they live out the kind of artistic boldness I claim to believe in.
And they’re doing it without flinching.
It’s unsettling.
And beautiful.
Because their art isn’t asking for approval.
It’s asking for courage.
And I’m listening.
To Twenty One Pilots.
To God.
To myself.
The question that won’t leave me alone is simple:
Am I creating what I believe in—or what I think will work?
I used to believe in risk.
In beauty for its own sake.
In art as an act of faith.
But somewhere along the way, belief got replaced by strategy.
Not bad strategies—just small ones.
Efficient. Safe. Market-tested.
And truthfully? They worked, sorta.
But they didn’t move me.
Not like belief used to.
Not like it still can—if I’m brave enough to make something true.
That’s what this band stirred in me.
Not fandom. Not nostalgia.
A kind of re-conversion.
A return to making what matters.
Even if it doesn’t fit.
Even if it doesn’t land.
Even if it costs me.
Because at some point, you stop asking what works—
and start asking what’s worth doing—even if it fails.
That’s why I flew my whole family to Berlin to see them live.
I wanted my kids, my wife, and myself to be dared and challenged by art like this—
the kind that brings life, confronts the status quo, and refuses to fit in.
And strangely, sitting in an arena with 20,000 other people who refuse to fit in? It didn’t feel isolating.
It felt like belonging.
💬 If you’ve been trying to find your way back to the work that matters—
I’d love to hear about it.
Hit reply. Or share this with someone you know is creating against the grain.
-Scott
Scott is a faith-driven creative disruptor—husband, father, and a self-proclaimed crazy disciple—writing and speaking to stir what’s sacred beneath the surface.