I Used to Think I Was the Strangest Person in the World…” — A Letter to the Lost and Lovely

“I Used to Think I Was the Strangest Person in the World…” — A Letter to the Lost and Lovely

#JoanBaez

There’s a quiet comfort that lives in those words:

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do…”

It reads like a confession. Or a prayer. Or a love letter written in the dark to no one and everyone at once.

The quote, often misattributed to Frida Kahlo but widely embraced across generations of misfits, artists, and dreamers, captures something sacred: the raw ache of isolation paired with the fragile hope that we are not truly alone. And today, it finds a new echo in the words of Joan Baez—folk legend, activist, and eternal voice for the beautifully out-of-place.

The Strangeness We Hide

Most of us, at some point, carry the weight of feeling alien. We live in a world that worships polished surfaces, predictable outcomes, and palatable emotions. But inside? Inside we are wild. Complicated. Unfinished. Strange.

“I would imagine her,” the quote continues, “and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too.”

This is where it shifts from despair to magic—from loneliness to longing. It dares to believe that our weirdness, our sadness, our fierce, unshapely love… might be mirrored in someone else.

For Joan Baez, whose life has been an act of public vulnerability—standing on picket lines, singing for justice, crying in front of presidents—this idea isn’t just poetic. It’s political. It’s spiritual. It’s necessary.

The Hope That He or She Is Out There

To hope that someone out there feels the same is a radical act. It means believing that, beneath the noise and fear and cruelty of the world, there is still room for tenderness. It means imagining a mirror that stretches across miles, lifetimes, or even galaxies, reflecting our strangeness back at us like a gentle affirmation.

Maybe you’ve never quite fit. Maybe you cry too easily, laugh too loud, love too fiercely. Maybe you’ve been told to shrink. To soften. To blend in. But maybe, like the quote says, you’ve started to imagine that someone out there—unknown and unfinished—is thinking of you too.

“Yes, It’s True—I’m Here”

This is the heartbeat of the message: not just the wondering, but the declaration.

“Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this, you know that, yes, it’s true—I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.”

It’s an open hand in the dark. It’s an invitation, not just to be seen, but to be known. For every person who ever felt like too much or not enough, this is your anthem. Your reminder. Your proof.

Joan Baez spent her life singing the truth—even when it hurt, even when it was unpopular. And that same brave truth lives in these words. Strangeness is not a flaw. It is a fingerprint. It is how we find each other.

So if you’re reading this, and your heart stirs in recognition, know this:

You are not the strangest person in the world.

You’re just one of the most beautifully human.

And someone out there—maybe even reading these same words—is just as strange as you.