Are You an Otrovert?What Belonging Means and What It Doesn’t—A New Trio of Beings

By Jennifer Finch, M.A., LPC, NCC, SEP

September 9, 2025

So, I’ve come to know myself as an “otrovert.” A what? You might ask. An otrovert. A word coined in 2023 by Dr. Rami Kaminski, a psychiatric savant out of Mount Sinai in Manhattan. I remember exactly where I was when the word otrovert had first carved itself into my consciousness, and I can’t remember the last time a word had burrowed that deep or that immediately. Those eight letters quite literally detonated in my head, and changed everything.

What is an Otrovert?

[noun, adjective ot-truh-vert; verb ot-truh-vert]

Definition (as taken from the Otherness Institute):              

An “otrovert” embodies the personality trait of “otherness,” remaining an eternal outsider amidst humanity’s shift from solitude to social connection through language.

Unlike clinical relational disorders (i.e., autism, Asperger’s, ADHD, neurodivergence, or personality disorders), most otroverts don’t have a psychiatric diagnosis or neurodevelopmental difference or condition that would otherwise explain why they move through life feeling incapable of fitting in. They are rarely shy or introverted; they are not socially maladjusted or even socially anxious. Their experience comes from a different way of relating. “While most people forge a sense of self in their relation to others—they identify first and foremost as a husband or a mother, a teacher or a leader—these patients experience life outside of the communal hive.”

Otroverts have a unique relational style, and naturally lean toward empathy and friendliness. Yet their sense of being out of place and the “dissonance between looking and acting like an insider while feeling like an outsider is tiring, leading them to withdraw from the group in favor of one-on-one relationships and avoiding unnecessary social obligations.”

Otrovert is born from the Spanish (etymologically inherited from Latin), “otro” meaning “other” and the Latin-rooted “vert” meaning “to turn” as in “directions.” Quite literally, otrovert means “one who is facing a different direction.”

Having never really fit into either, it seems Dr. Kaminski, as well as I, had gotten fed up with Carl Jung’s binary concepts of introvert (“one who faces inward”) and extrovert (“one who faces outward”). It’s as if Kaminski decided to split the difference, then market it with a brand-new portmanteau. And now, thousands are flocking to his website: https://www.othernessinstitute.com to take the quiz to see if they, too, fit the mold as an otrovert.

Despite their struggle to fit in entirely in any one place, otroverts are not sad about it; in fact, once they understand themselves as an otrovert, they enjoy their oddness and are then liberated to fit in everywhere. They dance on the line between introverts and extraverts, but unlike ambiverts who also do this, they are free from the strings that tether them to a group. They are contentful non-belongers.

They are not joiners by trait—book clubs, spin classes, PTA meetings, charity boards, networking groups, group projects, anything that thrives on one mind steering the collective. Otroverts will not join. It’s not in them. They tend to shy away from organized religion, political tribes, or any cause that demands allegiance, because they don’t understand the logic of sacrificing a differentiated mind just to conform to the hive. To them, that surrender of individuality is the real heresy.

They make a game of staying at the frayed edges of social groups and communal thinking. To avoid the hive mind, which they completely do not understand, they flit between many groups. But they can count their close friends on one hand.

Paradoxically, the larger the crowd, the more profound their sense of isolation becomes. However, eventually, the trick becomes a sort of muscle memory, and they can blend into any setting, a kind of party trick for the soul. The way they do this is if at a party, they pluck through myriad conversations until a thread comes loose and they find the one or two people with whom they can intimately connect; this is their comfort zone. Depth and breadth. Small talk is for the birds.

They are at ease in the margins, content to be a footnote rather than the star, though, when circumstances call, they can just as easily hold the spotlight, even doling out the comic relief. However, they prefer the narrative of the background, which appeals to them in a lopsided way. There is a certain relief in that off-centered space. There is no expectation this way, no heavy, sticky eyes fastened to them.

In this way, they master the art of occupying a physical space with the barest expenditure of energy. They cultivate invisibility as a kind of skill, and when that isn’t possible, they retreat into the deep well of solitude, always choosing their own company over the noise of false belonging or superfluous conversation.

Counterintuitively, this very stance is what makes them remarkable leaders and powerful keynote speakers, great independent thinkers, and creative savants. They have no allegiance to any group, so standing apart grants them a vantage point. Presence, after all, doesn’t require visibility. One can be fully there, guiding, shaping, sensing, while moving through negative space, free of the need to command.

And rejection doesn’t land the same way, it doesn’t carry the same sting as it might for introverts or extraverts, because belonging was never the goal. They inherently know they never truly longed to belong in the first place. They are free to create and think, and color outside the lines. They aren’t waiting for the group’s embrace; they don’t measure their worth by acceptance or exclusion.

This, of course, is also what got them into trouble. Societies built on conformity don’t always know what to do with those who won’t merge. History is littered with outsiders punished for seeing differently—visionaries branded as heretics, eccentrics dismissed as irrelevant, originals misunderstood until much later. Otroverts live in that territory. Often, they are perceived as “aloof” and “guarded,” perhaps even “unpredictable,” because they can shift between introvert and extravert, which is disruptive to the illusory, stabilized cohort of communal people.

Their strength lies in refusing the gravitational pull of the group, even when it costs them. Kaminski calls us “meek rebels,” as it is never our intention to rock the boat. But what must be done will be done. If truth asks to be spoken, we speak it. If a boundary needs to be held, we hold it. The rebellion isn’t loud or showy, but it is principled by an inner moral compass that remains unwavering. Therefore, if the boat is upside down and on top of us, we will not hesitate to rock it.

In my case, I crossed more than a few lines long before I knew I was an otrovert. I got in trouble often, mostly for pushing buttons that no one else dared to push. I couldn’t stop myself when it came to calling out hypocrisy, questioning authority, sticking up for the underdog, or naming social inequalities that everyone else seemed willing to swallow. And in my own life, I was typecast as the troublemaker. The one who wouldn’t play along. Yet alongside that label was another truth: I carried an old soul, a kind of premature wisdom that never quite fit with my peers. What others called defiance was, for me, simply refusing to abandon that inner compass that wanted to, and still wants to, right the ship, bringing it to full equanimity of all people.

Otroverts Make Good Meditators and Empaths

To them, thoughts are just thoughts—and feelings are just feelings, not anchors of identity or verdicts on who they are. Their core is independently strong by its very nature, untethered and unshaken, and it’s from this steadiness that their real freedom flows.

And in that position, they notice the smallest details, the overlooked edges. All the while, they remain tethered to themselves, never abandoning that inner connection. Their self-other distinction is clearly demarcated, never confusing the two. Their empathy in this way remains clean and clear and because of that, it takes on a different register. It isn’t merely the common act of stepping into another’s shoes; it stretches further. They can inhabit another’s perspective as if viewing the world through that person’s own lens, shaped by their history, their circumstances, their hardships, and suffering. They can read their inner weather, so to speak. It’s a kind of meta-empathy that comes with a pronounced self-other boundary. Not just imagining what it feels like to be you, but glimpsing how you feel being you. This is what makes altruistic compassion and empathy possible without getting muddled in the mire of distress and emotional contagion.

An otrovert is many things, but, predominantly, their sense of self is defined through difference, not by the crowd nor in opposition to the crowd, but by standing just outside the expected, neither in nor out. Not introverted or shy, not quite extraverted—they are “pseudo extroverted,” Kaminski calls it. Something about that liminal edge feels correct.

Otroverts rotate neither inward nor outward; they rotate elsewhere. They inhabit an otherness that’s neither detached nor hungry for the hive. They recharge by thinking their own thoughts, resisting what Kaminski calls the “Bluetooth phenomenon,” that auto-pairing circuit that tugs most of us toward the emotional group.

The Urge to Merge Holds No Meaning

What I have come to understand, as a self-identified otrovert, is how I can see introverts and extraverts more clearly now. And it causes me deep pain. I somehow want them to disconnect from the hive, that urge to merge, so that they can feel freedom. However, in asking them to do so, I can now see how that might trigger a survival threat response. They don’t know themselves, yet, as independent and separate from the communal connection they desperately seek. That urge to merge, back to a womb of oneness, seems primal and primordial to them.

Introverts deeply long for belonging and crave soulful connection, but on their terms. They are not refusing to join the party, but joining the party is hard for them. At their core, they replenish energy in solitude. They reflect before they act and prefer in-depth relationships over a thousand handshakes. An otrovert can resonate with that, but they don’t feel the pang of social anxiety keeping them from a party, should they choose to go.

On the flip side, extraverts, by Jung’s spelling, graze on energy from the world’s buzz. Their thoughts often run out loud, their smiles flood large rooms, and their joy is in the shared roar of gatherings. They feel seen, heard, belonged by connection itself. Not necessary to any one person at the party, but they derive energy from the vibrancy of the external atmosphere itself. They, too, like the introverts, are communal and crave attachment, belonging, and connection. But unlike the otroverts, they feel drained by solitude and aloneness. In many ways, silence and stillness—it is unbearable. They require outside energy, noise, even if the TV is on, it might feel better to them.

The Gigantic Fallacy of Belonging

Our society places a tremendous amount of emphasis on the benefits and virtues of community and belonging. Many of my trainings in compassion and psychology align with this chorus, insisting that every and all humans—introverts, extraverts, ambiverts, whichever-vert you choose—are wired for belonging. To no avail, we will do what we need to do to fit in. The claim runs deep. It’s part of the kinship research, also rooted in secure attachment theory, and thousands of studies tie belonging to survival, nervous system regulation, and the meaning-making process itself.

But to an otrovert, this framework feels off. The narrative of universal belonging doesn’t quite fit. For them, wholeness isn’t found in the collective embrace—it’s found in the autonomy of their own thought, their vivid imagination, and creativity, in the clarity that comes from not needing to merge with the crowd.

This explains why the secure attachment theory never made sense to me; it even left me exasperated. Did survival really depend on secure attachment or community? Of course, in the beginning, as infants, it does. It is innate. We couldn’t survive without attachment as a helpless baby.

But long after we become independent beings, the idea that our wholeness still hinges on constant connection and belonging feels questionable. For some of us, the deepest sense of safety and aliveness comes not from merging with others, but from standing apart, anchored in the clarity of our own presence. Part of me has always longed for people to be free of this relentless hunger to belong, because it runs headlong and collides so violently into my own need not to. Every attempt I’ve made to fit in has felt suffocating, as though belonging tightens rather than opens.

Kaminski voices this beautifully (p. 68):

“The truth is that we all arrive in the world alone and leave the world alone. Unlike many communal animals, human newborns remain helpless for so long that failing to connect with or attach to a caregiver greatly decreases their chances of survival. However, most scientific considerations of the attachment impulse conflate it with the desire to belong. And while the initial impulse to attach is innate—evolution’s way of ensuring our affinity to parents and other important providers—anything beyond it must be taught.”

This liberates us, allowing us to “innately” attach just “enough” to get our needs met, but then not feel the “pressure” or “high expectations,” to conform or belong to any group, family, community, etc., especially if it is causing harm. Don’t long for it, be free of it. Attachment and belonging are NOT the same thing. This is wonderful news to an outsider who inherently does not belong, nor do they strive to.

Even Abraham Maslow placed “love and belonging” just above physiological and safety needs in his hierarchy. And neuroscience today claims that the brain’s social pain circuits overlap with physical pain circuits, suggesting that rejection hurts in the same way as a stubbed toe. So, to both introverts and extroverts, feeling left out actually hurts. For me, though, it lands differently. Watching everyone else organize their lives around belonging can feel like a constant reminder that I’m wired otherwise. And yes, sometimes, that hurts too. But mostly I hurt for them. This endless ache to belong feels like a burden they can’t set down. Part of me just wishes they could be free of that longing, free enough to stand whole without it.

Tribalism is another term used frequently today, referring to the communal “impulse that evolution has supposedly equipped us with.” But Kaminski goes on to say (p. 10), that it does NOT make us feel safer, less alienated, or more content with our lives. In fact, this constant craving for connection and community is what might be fragmenting us even more, especially when we try to keep up with the Joneses, or the influencers (who, to my suspicion, feel tremendously alone). Kaminski states there is no actual proof that we are more likely to survive, be happy, or feel free in a tribe. In theory, of course, our mind might adhere to this because it counters our deepest fear of being alone, or worse, lonely. However, in practice, the communal mind is actually one of the biggest fallacies we cling to. We are born alone, and we will die alone, and the community will just keep parading down the street. If we want to live and die in peace, that is the more complicated and harder truth we must face.

“Otroverts are not communal. They don’t feel a sense of belonging or allegiance to any group… They energize themselves "‘by thinking their own thoughts.’”  It’s not that we don’t belong, we just have a profound choice in the matter. We can belong, or choose not to, and that is freedom. Our sense of self doesn’t pivot, and we can relinquish the constant subtle adjustments to others to belong, as my mentor Dr. Bemister suggested, (also an otrovert).

Kaminski argues that being an otrovert is not an affliction of disconnection—but a gift of independence, a position outside the group’s fused-mind chamber that allows clarity, originality, and emotional resilience. Think Frida Kahlo, Kafka, Einstein, Orwell—all brilliant soloists who looked in directions no one else was roaming. Or even got shunned, penalized, or ostracized by their off-the-wall ideas.

These are the warm, empathetic souls who escape FOMO because they quite genuinely don’t care what everyone else is consuming or posting. They are thoughtful listeners, quietly hilarious, often found leaning into a deep conversation rather than holding court.

As I just wrote in one of my creative fiction short stories: “She doesn’t need to be with you—she wants to be with you,” says one portrayer of an otrovert in praise of their emotional self-sufficiency.

The Gift of Not Belonging

I devoured Kaminski’s book, “The Gift of Not Belonging: How Outsiders Thrive In a World of Joiners.” In fact, all the bullet points read like a psychic’s cold reading. It catalogued all of my ticks and tells. Every line was highlighted with glassy-eyed reflections, “Yes, exactly! This is ME! It’s like you’re describing my entire adolescence.”

Then I took the quiz through Kaminski’s Otherness Institute, and the results spit out OTROVERT in their all-caps glory, and something in my chest unlatched. It scratched an ancient itch I have been searching for.

Now, I want to incorporate this into my work. I can see how everything I have done has contributed to my current situation. I can say assuredly that my work in the Realization Process has deeply solidified my confidence and comfort as a newly claimed otrovert. I can feel separate in my non-belonging, as well as connected to fundamental consciousness that does not require anything from me in return. So, it is a win-win, and it dropped me into a depth of bliss and freedom that I hadn’t experienced before.

I would love to help other otroverts find this and embrace their non-belonging. This is not about teaching us how to belong. That is what we struggled with in a society obsessed with belonging. It is about feeling our otherness as a strength. And once it’s named and trusted, it can become the very ground for confidence, personal contentment, and professional success.

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