Belonging?

The idea of belonging has always been slippery to me. It is a word we think we understand until we attempt to define it. Is belonging simply to tie ourselves to another person, a group, or a cause until the knot becomes indistinguishable from who we are? If that is so, then what happens when the threads fray—when the people we depend upon change, leave, or fail to understand us?

Stories tell us that a happy ending is when the hero finds home, finds love, or finally arrives at the place that completes them. But life doesn’t seem to obey that script. There is no curtain falling at the exact moment of triumph. Instead, even after reaching milestones, the silence that follows can feel strangely hollow. Perhaps there is no single “drop scene,” only a series of acts that fade into one another.

And yet, human connection is still the thread that keeps most people tethered to meaning. The question is whether investing in it is futile, especially when so much of it feels shallow. When you outgrow the surface chatter, you start to crave depth that few can offer. Silence, then, becomes more honest than speaking. But silence can also harden into solitude so complete that it risks turning into exile.

The danger of loneliness is not its presence but its comfort. To withdraw from shallow exchanges is understandable. But if withdrawal becomes the only rhythm, you might lose the muscle memory of connection. Belonging, maybe, isn’t about merging identities—it’s about finding rare spaces where you don’t need to explain yourself, and still, you are seen.

So perhaps belonging isn’t something to chase desperately, nor something to abandon entirely. It might be more like a garden: some seasons are barren, some flowers never take root, but occasionally—unexpectedly—something blooms, and it doesn’t demand you sacrifice yourself to be part of it.