It’s an embarrassing truth to admit. There are billions of people on this planet who breathe, dream, and ache the way I do — and yet I still believe, in some quiet chamber of my mind, that I am special.

Psychology would call it ego; marketing might call it a “unique selling point.” Philosophy calls it existence.

1. The Ordinary Paradox

I used to think being “special” meant having something others didn’t — talent, intelligence, beauty, a rare way of seeing. But over time, I realised what I was really chasing was differentiation: the fear of being indistinguishable. Ordinariness felt like death — not biological, but symbolic.

In a world obsessed with visibility, we all compete for differentiation. We build personal brands, philosophies, and aesthetics to convince ourselves — and others — that we are distinct. And yet, beneath those layers, we share the same hunger: to be seen, to matter, to leave a trace.

2. The Anatomy of Difference

Science says we differ by nature and nurture — our DNA, temperament, upbringing, and life experiences. Philosophy adds a third dimension: choice.

Kierkegaard called it “authentic choice” — the act of deciding, despite uncertainty, how to live. Two people can share the same background, but diverge completely in how they respond. That, perhaps, is the only real uniqueness left: not what happens to us, but how we metabolize it.

Our biology sets the stage, our psychology writes the script, but our choices determine the performance.

3. The Ego’s Double Edge

To believe you’re unique can be both a delusion and a survival mechanism. Ego protects — it gives structure to experience, motivation to endure. But the same ego also distorts: it turns growth into competition, expression into performance.

I used to oscillate between self-deprecation (“I’m no one”) and grandiosity (“I could be someone extraordinary”). Both were masks for the same insecurity: the terror of invisibility.

4. The Shift

I’ve stopped trying to prove my uniqueness. Instead, I observe how I live — what I choose, what I sustain, what I refuse. My difference, I realise, isn’t in my appearance or credentials, but in the pattern of my responses.

Some people seek love through submission, others through control; I seek it through understanding. Some use pain to harden, I use it to think. That’s not superiority — just configuration.

Maybe this is the mature form of ego: not the urge to be better than others, but the commitment to become unmistakably oneself.

5. The Quiet USP

In marketing, a “unique selling point” must be simple, memorable, and persuasive. In life, it’s the opposite — complex, inconsistent, sometimes impossible to explain. But I think mine is this:

I question everything, especially myself — and still choose to continue.

Perhaps that’s all anyone’s “USP” ever is: not what we sell, but what we refuse to trade away.