There was a time when belonging was not something we questioned. It existed in the quiet fabric of daily life — in the rhythm of familiar streets, in the nods exchanged with neighbours, in the unspoken understanding that we were part of something beyond ourselves.
Then, without fanfare, something changed. We became preoccupied with independence, mistaking it for strength. We prized self-sufficiency but overlooked its cost. We withdrew, ever so slightly at first, until distance became the norm. Belonging was no longer assumed; it had to be curated, managed, explained. We speak now of connection, yet we skim the surface of relationships, hesitant to wade too deep.
And yet, belonging has not disappeared. It lingers in the spaces between our hurried lives, waiting to be recognised. It is there in the warmth of a hand steadying another, in the kindness that expects nothing in return. It exists in the simple, human acts we too often dismiss — preparing a meal for someone else, listening with patience, staying when it would be easier to leave.
To belong is to step beyond oneself, to surrender a little autonomy in favour of something shared. It is not an inconvenience, nor a limitation, but the quiet foundation upon which lives are built.
We do not need to reclaim belonging, for it was never truly lost. Instead, we must turn towards it. We must soften the edges of our separateness and lean into the certainty that we were never meant to walk alone.
Make belonging great again — not by seeking it in the past, but by forging it in the present. In small gestures. In shared burdens. In the quiet, unwavering truth that none of us can exist in isolation.
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