LaoChaofengI know a little bit of everything, but I don't belong anywhere
The more my skill tree grows, the further I drift from “ordinary people.”
I understand Python and Node.js, yet I can’t seem to fit into the world of “ordinary people.”
I once thought I was somewhat “special.”
Not that I was exceptionally capable, but the skills I had—Python, Node.js, CSS, PHP—allowed me to handle both frontend and backend, build websites, and write scripts.
That wasn’t all. I also did self-media, and I believed my video editing was better than most.
Transitions, color grading, timing—any random clip I edited looked more refined than those casually shot ones.
I even tried running a company myself—from registration, building the website, running operations, to eventually shutting it down. I went through the entire process.
I thought I was someone who had “substance.”
And those “ordinary people”—working long hours, scrolling short videos after work, sleeping in on weekends—what could I possibly have in common with them?
Until I actually sat among them.
What I thought was difference was really just a difference in skills
It started with a gathering organized by a friend. The people there were his colleagues and friends.
From a conventional perspective, they were the most ordinary group: working on construction sites, delivering food, working night shifts, doing physical labor.
Before going, I was mentally prepared, even carrying a sense of “downward compatibility.”
I thought, if we couldn’t talk about anything deep, I’d just treat it as experiencing life.
But when I got there, I realized I couldn’t join the conversation at all.
They talked about who had the best luck playing cards, what kind of beer tasted good lately, which short drama was addictive and how many episodes they binge-watched last night.
I couldn’t engage with any of it.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—it was that I genuinely didn’t know how.
I tried to steer the conversation toward something I was familiar with—I mentioned I had been using Python to write a script to automate data processing,
and the air went silent for two seconds,
someone politely replied, “Oh, you work with computers,”
and then the conversation went right back to where it was before.
That was when I realized,
it wasn’t that they were rejecting me,
it was that I had lost the ability to connect with “ordinary life.”
The more skills I have, the narrower my circle becomes
I thought carefully about this.
The things I know—Python, Node.js, CSS, PHP—
each of them took a huge amount of time and effort to master.
I can use them to do many things—automate reports, scrape data, build small apps—
but fundamentally, these are all things one person can do alone in front of a screen.
The same goes for self-media and video editing.
From topic selection, script writing, filming, editing, to publishing,
I can handle the entire chain myself.
I enjoy this sense of control,
but it also means I increasingly don’t need to collaborate with others.
Even when I ran a company,
it was mostly me carrying everything alone—writing code, building pages, solving problems, thinking about growth.
It looked more “social,”
but in essence, it was still isolating.
The more my skill tree grows,
the further I drift from the lives of “ordinary people.”
It’s not about who is right or wrong,
but rather two completely different paths of growth.
Their lives revolve around daily physical labor, after-work distractions, and real-life pressures;
my life revolves around screens, code, and editing timelines.
There is no interface between these two systems.
Who am I, really?
That night, I sat alone for a long time.
I suddenly realized that the “experience” and “skills” I had always been proud of
were completely insignificant in another world.
Not because they are bad,
but because they only have meaning within a specific circle.
I had placed myself in an awkward position:
In the tech world,
I’m just a self-taught outsider,
not as good as those formally trained;
In the self-media world,
I’m neither influential nor a big name;
And in the world of “ordinary people,”
I feel like an alien.
I know many things,
but I don’t seem to belong anywhere.
This isn’t self-pity,
it’s a real confusion.
Skills gave me the ability to survive,
but not a sense of belonging.
I know Python,
but Python won’t accompany me to eat hotpot.
I can edit videos,
but editing won’t tell me “it’s okay” when I’m down.
Maybe the problem isn’t “difference”
Later, I realized something:
The problem isn’t that I’m different from others,
but that I treated “difference” as a source of superiority.
Deep down, I believed that
being able to code, edit videos, and even having run a company
made me somewhat “above” those who “just work a job.”
But when I sat among them,
that illusion of superiority collapsed instantly—
because in the most fundamental aspect of human connection,
I was actually the more awkward one.
They talk about playing cards,
because that’s how they relax;
They talk about what beer to drink,
because that’s their outlet after work;
They talk about short dramas,
because that’s the easiest way for them to get emotional stimulation.
And me?
My life consists only of code and videos.
What I call “experience”
is mostly information,
not life.
In the end
I will still continue writing code, editing videos, and creating content.
These are the things I enjoy,
and they are how I make a living.
But I won’t use them anymore to measure how “different” I am from others.
Skills are just tools,
not badges of identity.
A person who knows Python
and a person who drives for ride-hailing services
are essentially the same—
both are just trying to find their place in this world.
Not fitting into a certain circle
doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong with me,
nor does it mean something is wrong with them.
It’s just that my skill tree hasn’t grown branches that reach toward them.
And branches
can grow, slowly.
Next time I sit with them,
I won’t talk about Python.
I’ll ask what short dramas they’re watching lately,
or what kind of beer tastes good,
and just spend some time together.
That works better than any skill.
