A Misfit’s Quest for Belonging
Growing up early, people pleasing as a trained habit, and learning to belong as myself.
When my favorite baseball team, the San Francisco Giants, embraced the nickname miSFits during their 2010 World Series run (emphasis on the “SF”), I latched onto it like it was tailor-made just for me. I was fifteen, nerdy, awkward, and convinced myself “misfit” wasn’t just a phase. It was the true embodiment of who I was at my core. I went to a private high school in San Francisco surrounded by students from affluent families whose lives looked nothing like mine. I also didn’t exactly have what people mean when they describe “a regular childhood,” whatever that is.
My parents separated when I was four and eventually divorced. My younger brother Chad was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) when I was six and never learned how to speak. For five years, my paternal grandparents were my legal guardians. Most of my extended family, especially cousins around my age, lived either in Los Angeles or the Philippines. I felt alone and different. “Misfit” felt like the easiest explanation for why.
The kid who became the backup parent
I can’t speak for everyone, but when you grow up as the older sibling of a brother with ASD, you learn early that love can look like responsibility. Feeding him. Bathing him. Making sure he didn’t reach onto someone else’s plate at a restaurant. Keeping him regulated and well-behaved. Ensuring he was calm, safe, and not overwhelmed. Doing all of that while you’re still a child yourself. Even when I was eight, I knew this wasn’t a universally shared experience. I also know it shaped me in ways I’m grateful for. It taught me responsibility. It taught me how to care deeply for someone outside myself. However, that doesn’t mean there weren’t drawbacks. As an adult, I sometimes struggle to advocate for my own needs. I avoid conflict and I people-please. With hindsight, it’s hard not to notice how early those habits were instilled. How do you learn to say, “I can’t do this, I’m eight years old,” when the adults around you are stressed and asking you to help? Maybe it really could have been as simple as saying that. But the narrative in my head didn’t sound like that at all. It sounded more like: Mom/Dad/Patricia (my stepmom) are already under a lot of pressure. Don’t add to it. Be the “perfect” kid. Do well in school. Don’t ask for more than you need. Make life easier for everyone else. I tried to act like a little adult. But the truth was: I was just a kid who wanted to be a kid.
Belonging as an adult is harder than I expected
I’ve worked on myself a lot since then. I’ve made real progress toward healing and forming more secure attachments (shout out to my therapists over the years). Still, there are challenges that remain. I often want to be alone, and I hesitate to make new friends. “Putting myself out there” still feels like touching a hot stove: I can do it, but a part of me expects it to hurt.
Since moving back to the Bay Area in late 2023, I’ve gone to over 100 events connected to the SF tech/AI world such as hackathons, company launch parties, networking events, and happy hours. I’ve met some brilliant and inspiring individuals, and I’m grateful for the friends I’ve made along the way. Yet I’m still trying to understand how to be an active participant in a community that’s constantly in motion. San Francisco is the AI capital of the world, full of startups, venture capitalists, founders, and influencers. That energy can be exciting. It can also feel transactional. Sometimes it feels like people are scanning the room for leverage, not genuine connection, and that just isn’t for me. At the end of the day, I’m not an AI entrepreneur, venture capitalist, futurist, or a tech bro. I’m just a nerdy guy who loves science, likes staying current with AI and making YouTube videos, had a difficult childhood, and wants something that’s simultaneously both simple and surprisingly hard: A sense of community in the city where I was born and raised (SF).
Putting my name back on the front
Last year, I changed my username on most social media platforms from “AstronoMisfit” to “kylekabasares.” I’d used that handle for years, and letting it go felt weirdly emotional. I did it because of a few questions I finally asked myself: Am I a misfit because I truly am one, or because I’ve spent years fixated on that identity? What if I chose to accept myself, flaws and all? It sounds a little silly that it took me 7+ years to ask those questions, but “misfit” felt safe. It provided a ready-made explanation: Of course, you feel out of place Kyle, you’re a misfit. My full name didn’t feel safe, and I didn’t even like saying it loud for others to hear. “Kabasares” is not a name most people pronounce correctly on the first try. (For the record, it’s Kab-uh-SAR-rez.) I won’t bore you with the endless mispronunciations I’ve heard in my life, but I got tired of hearing my name butchered so often that I started avoiding it altogether. Ironically, switching to my real name online made me more comfortable in my own skin because with a high degree of certainty, I’m the only person in the world with my exact name. That means I get to set the example and just be me. Sure, it comes with a little pressure, but it also feels like an honor. (Also: putting a “Dr.” in front of it doesn’t hurt.)
To the younger me and to anyone who’s worn the word “misfit” as armor
If I could talk to a younger version of myself, I’d want to offer the following pieces of advice.
1. Being unique doesn’t make you a misfit. You might not fully understand or appreciate the parts of yourself that set you apart yet. Some of those parts might even hurt. But your experiences, especially the painful ones, can still be valuable. Not because pain is noble, but because it teaches you what you care about, what you notice, and what kind of life you want to build.
2. Be yourself, but also give yourself permission to become a better version of yourself. Sometimes that looks like therapy. Sometimes it looks like practicing honesty, learning to ask for help, or letting people get close without needing to “earn” your right to belong.
3. You don’t have to prove you deserve connection, and you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.
The Giants’ miSFits nickname from 2010 will always make me smile. But these days, I’m less interested in donning that nickname and more interested in belonging as myself.
