The Company of Outsiders

There are certain friendships that never make sense to most people. They don’t spring from shared hobbies or after-work drinks or the easy comfort of belonging to a group. Instead, they come from recognising something familiar in someone else, such as a quiet resilience, a kind of loneliness, or perhaps just the way a person carries themselves against the grain of office life. When I think about the friendships I’ve made at work, they are not the loud, effortless ones that gather around lunch tables or spill into group chats. They are quieter, lonelier, sometimes complicated connections that feel, to me, like finding kindred spirits in unexpected places.

Take the attorney, for instance. She is a woman whose credentials could make most people shrink. Highly qualified and specialised in her field, she belongs in rooms where expertise is not only valued but sought out. Yet here she is, occupying a role that was sold to her as professional, only for her to discover it is a watered-down version of the work she is capable of doing. She deserves more, but she does not walk away. Instead, she turns in work that is not just good but excellent. She raises the bar every time, setting standards higher than anyone expected. That, of course, makes her unpopular amongst those sitting close to her. People whisper about her and skirt around her presence, as if her knowledge and capability expose something lacking in them. The more she proves herself, the more they retreat, threatened by how quickly she has become a favourite of those in charge.

To me, though, she is not intimidating. She is admirable. I see in her the grit it takes to be excellent even when the world around you refuses to acknowledge it. Our friendship is not loud or flashy; it’s the kind built over shared moments of honesty and her quiet exhale when she speaks about her frustrations, with my nod that says I understand. She is not a misfit because she is incapable. She is a misfit because she shines in a place that prefers to dim the light.

Then there is the accounts worker. For almost twenty years she has sat at her desk, doing the job that no one else wants to understand, the kind of job that makes or breaks a company even if no one remembers to say thank you. She is quiet, always has been, and she doesn’t volunteer her opinions at meetings and doesn’t join in office banter. Her head stays bent toward her work, and in that stillness, you can tell she has seen it all. The company has shifted, reshaped, stumbled, and risen again, and she has remained through it all.

There’s a love-hate in her voice whenever she speaks about it. She loves the work, and she knows it inside out, and she knows exactly how to navigate its puzzles and routines. But she hates the politics, the endless games played by those who see her as a cog rather than a person. Two decades, and still she is often unseen. Her family commitments, her personal struggles, and the very human parts of her life seem to inconvenience the machine she has helped keep running. To me, that quiet devotion wrapped in weariness is deeply moving.

Our friendship is perhaps the simplest of all. It doesn’t need much from either of us. Sometimes it’s a small smile across the room, or a brief exchange about work, or even silence that feels companionable rather than cold. She doesn’t let many people in, but when she does, it feels like something earned. To be trusted by someone who has built a shell out of necessity is its own kind of gift. She, too, is a loner, and it is not because she wants to be, but because it is the only way to survive a system that has never valued her fully.

Then there’s the young mother. She is easy to miss if you are not looking carefully. She doesn’t blend into the office crowd, not in her appearance, not in the way she avoids after-hours socialising, and not in the way she carries herself. She doesn’t belong to the cliques that form so naturally when people spill into bars or birthday gatherings. Her evenings belong elsewhere – to her child, to her home, to a life that demands her attention in ways most of her colleagues cannot or do not understand. Because of this, she is set apart, treated as though she is less approachable and less part of the group.

Her relationship with her boss doesn’t help. There’s a tension there, an unspoken discomfort that makes others reluctant to stand beside her. Yet in all this isolation, she continues to show up. She works, she does what is asked of her, and she does it while carrying the invisible weight of motherhood that so many are quick to dismiss. She is someone who deserves more solidarity than she has ever been given. She does not need rescuing; she is capable on her own. However, in a workplace where exclusion can feel like a slow erasure, it matters to have at least one person who sees you and acknowledges your place.

Then there is the courier. He moves through the office with a friendliness that makes him easy to notice, the kind of person who greets everyone, and who always has a quick word or a smile. Yet beneath that cheer, there is something heavier – an unhappiness that lingers. He is weary of his job with the endless errands and the lack of respect that comes with a role few ever think twice about. He wants more – more pay, more dignity, and above all, more control over his time. If he could choose, he would work around his family commitments, carving out a schedule that allowed him to be present where he feels he is most needed.

He is also trapped in the company of the wrong friends. Those who laugh with him do not truly stand with him, and though he believes himself well-liked, the truth is more complicated. People tolerate him, but few take him seriously. It is a kind of quiet heartbreak to want so much to be respected and to instead feel invisible and misunderstood. Still, he stays, because he hopes that one day, the bosses and the ones with real influence will see him and use their connections to open doors for him. That hope is what keeps him here, balancing frustration with endurance and unhappiness with the fragile promise of something better.

Our friendship is not loud. It’s built in those moments when he lets down the mask of cheer and admits, in his own way, that he is worn out. In those moments, I see not just the courier running endless errands, but a man trying to hold together a life that demands more from him than this job can ever provide.

Then there is the last friendship – the one that feels both tender and telling. A twenty-one-year-old, barely stepping into adulthood, somehow landing a job she is, by all accounts, unqualified for. I wondered at first how she even managed to find herself here. Her inexperience was obvious, and her mistakes were almost expected. Yet, what was just as obvious was her willingness to learn. She doesn’t pretend to know what she doesn’t. She absorbs, asks, tries, and tries again.

I found myself taking her under my wing without really planning to. Maybe it’s because I see in her the version of myself who once stumbled through unfamiliar hallways, unsure and eager all at once. Or maybe it’s because I know how harsh workplaces can be to those who do not yet know how to shield themselves. She listens, she grows, and slowly, she is learning how to hold her own. To end on her story feels fitting, because it is not just about her; it is about what happens when one misfit recognises another and chooses not to let them stand alone.

All of them – different ages, different lives, and different circumstances – share one common thread. They are loners in a world that rewards conformity and politics. They are the people who do not quite fit into the office fabric, who do not smooth themselves into the easy fold of the crowd, and somehow, those are the friendships I’ve made. They are not the loud ones, not the popular ones, but the ones that remind me of what it means to be human in spaces that often forget.

I sometimes think about how strange it is to have this small constellation of people who orbit around me in quiet ways. The attorney, brilliant and set apart. The accounts worker, steadfast but weary. The young mother, excluded but enduring. The courier, friendly but misled and burdened. The young hire is learning and growing. Each one of them carries the qualities of an outsider, and each one has found a place in my life.

Maybe it says something about me, too; that I am drawn to misfits, that I feel at home among those who don’t belong. Perhaps it’s because, in some way, I’ve always felt like one myself. I’ve learnt that there is a kind of beauty in these bonds. They are not friendships of convenience. They are friendships of recognition, of seeing and being seen in spaces where so many look the other way. To me, that is worth more than any office camaraderie that fades with the next reorganisation or the next round of goodbyes. These friendships are unlikely, imperfect, and sometimes invisible to others, but they are the ones that will take you through each day at the office and offer to make it more meaningful.