When I turned six, my parents enrolled my sister and me in a very expensive primary school. Both worked as healthcare providers, but they came from hardworking families with no inheritance or financial support. In a country where it is extremely difficult to build or plan a future without belonging to a wealthy family or having fair skin, my parents believed that a good education was the best gift they could give us. They sacrificed a lot to afford the initial payment required for our admission.

This prestigious school had been founded by British owners, and most of the children who attended came from wealthy families in Lima—children of diplomats, CEOs, politicians, and even presidents. One of my classmates was the daughter of a twice-elected president.

But at six years old, all I wanted was to have fun and play with my new friends. I wasn’t yet aware of the social and racial context that surrounded me. At that time, my family didn’t own a house, and we lived in a rough neighborhood. Our building was home to sex workers, some drug dealers, and mostly working-class families. I played in a nearby park with few trees, where I learned how to avoid being mugged and to drop to the ground if we heard a car bomb—those were the years of terrorism in Peru. We barely had running water, so every couple of days we filled containers with water for cooking and bathing. For me, all of this was normal.

That changed drastically once I started first grade. I realized that not everyone had to collect water or go to public parks to play. Many of my classmates had large backyards or were members of exclusive clubs.

It took me time to understand the deep social, class, and racial differences between me and the rest of the school. As a sensitive kid, it hurt deeply. I realized that children could be cruel, that social pressure was powerful, and that prejudice could be ingrained from a very young age. I would need to learn how to navigate it.

At first, I was lucky: I had one friend. His family was incredibly kind and treated my sister and me as their own. But this little paradise lasted only two years. His father suddenly passed away, and his mother decided to relocate far from Lima. I was devastated. I cried for days, knowing I had lost my best and only friend. I was about to start third grade, and I knew things wouldn’t get better. I was right.

Year after year, I tried to fit in, but I failed. I was bad at sports, overweight, brown-skinned, wore braces (my dad was experimenting on us while becoming one of the first orthodontists in Peru), and I was an Evangelical Christian instead of Catholic—the norm in Peru at the time. On top of that, I was middle class, which to them meant “poor.” We ate quinoa for lunch, which, at the time, many wealthy Peruvians dismissed as food for the poor and uneducated.

School became unbearable. More than the classes, it was the constant exclusion. Every day, every hour, I felt like an outsider. I later learned that this would become a recurring theme in my life: even when I achieved personal and professional success, I would still be an outlier, an outcast.

Through all of this, my mother was my anchor. I begged her to transfer me to another school, but she always said: “You have to learn to deal with these circumstances. Life is not easy. The solution is not to run away from your problems, but to face them.” She never backed down. Mom, I love you so much—you taught me resilience.

Still, I desperately wanted friends. That’s when my mother had two brilliant ideas: she enrolled me in the National Music Conservatory at age ten and took me to Bible study for teens when I turned thirteen.

Music school was amazing. I wasn’t particularly talented, but it didn’t matter. Students came from all backgrounds, and in those classrooms, what counted was how well you played—not your clothes or your last name. Music was our common ground, a kind of Switzerland of schools. I met amazing people—students and teachers who cared about others and valued talent. The only sad part was knowing that I would have to return to my regular school the next morning. But at least I had found a space where I could belong.

I also found refuge in drawing. Since I didn’t have much of a social life, I focused on my homework and studies. Out of boredom, I became a good student.

Bible study came next. My mother dreamed that I would play piano at church. At first, I resisted—I didn’t like the music—but eventually it grew on me. I became engaged with the church for two reasons: they wanted me to play piano on Sundays, and I finally found friends. After Bible study, people would hang out together, and I loved that. The crowd was diverse: former thieves, business managers, musicians, athletes, and people from all walks of life. Unlike at school, people made an effort to welcome others.

But these experiences were limited to a few hours each week. I grew more involved in the Music Ministry, where I found another community through music. Eventually, though, I realized that my musical interests didn’t quite fit the church’s traditions. When I entered college, I ended up leaving both my faith and the church behind.

Looking back, music saved me. The Conservatory and the church gave me the tools to cope with exclusion. But it was college that finally gave me the sense of belonging I had always longed for.

The six years I spent at art school were the most amazing of my life. For the first time, I was surrounded full-time by people like me: weirdos, nerds, artists, and thinkers. It was the only place I knew in Lima where people from different backgrounds mixed so freely.

We didn’t care about money, survival, or practicality. We just wanted to create, to do cool things, and to enjoy life. There were no cellphones, no internet—our joy and freedom were tangible and shared. Those years gave me the sense of fulfillment I had been searching for since childhood.

As the years went by, I realized that the sense of being an outsider never really disappeared. What changed were the reasons behind it. As a child, it was mostly about my skin color, my family’s economic circumstances, and my religious background. As an adult, it became more about how I think, what I value, and how I see the world. My background and identity still play a role, but the differences are no longer as obvious as they once were.

I’ve learned to navigate professional and social environments, to work with people, and to build a career. But I’ve rarely found the same sense of belonging I experienced during my years at art school. Perhaps that’s what made those years so special. For once, I didn’t have to try to fit in. I could simply be myself.

All these years later, my mom still asks me every now and then why I chose art school. I think she sometimes feels guilty for not being closer to us during our teenage years, for not having had more influence over our professional decisions.

Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had pursued a different path. But one thing has become clear to me after all these years: I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I wouldn’t have met my wife or had the wonderful children I have.

Art saved me. It kept me sane, gave me balance, and made me a better person. More human.

One thing I miss about being surrounded by fellow artists is something I rarely encounter elsewhere: their ability to enjoy life, to find happiness in the smallest things, to appreciate the moment without constantly worrying about what comes next. There is something wonderfully serendipitous about the way many artists live. They don’t necessarily have much, but they know how to make the most of what they have.

And yes, Mom, I don’t make millions. I work hard, and sometimes money is tight. But I have so much more than many people. I am sane. I am happy. I love where I live. I have two wonderful, healthy children and a great marriage with an amazing woman.

I still have only a handful of friends. That hasn’t changed much. And perhaps I will always feel a little different, a little out of place, regardless of where I go or what I accomplish.

But I have a happy life.

The outcast is still an outcast, even as a grown-up. The difference is that now he’s surrounded by a family who loves him, and he finally has a place where he belongs.