Belonging

Good morning, world.

Here I am, 5.30 in the morning, and guess what? I’m off to yoga. Anyone who has read previous blog before is probably thinking that’s all I do all day long. Maybe one day. But yes, early morning for now it is.

Before getting out of bed, I received a beautiful message from my mum over in Germany. Because of the time difference, I had sent her a voice message earlier, and she replied with something that stayed with me. She reminded me of a practice she once learned through a meditation. This person suggested beginning each day with nine words, said quietly before we properly wake up, before we get out of bed and move into the day.

I can’t remember all nine exactly, but I remember the essence. They began with I am. They included thank you, presence, gratitude, now, here. And they carried this idea that every day may be a gift, that each morning can feel like a kind of rebirth. That we are, in a way, born again.

I find myself really liking that idea. That every day could be a gift.

And I also know for myself that it doesn’t always feel like that. Some days feel heavy, uncomfortable, or painful. And still, when I step back a little, I notice that I would rather have all of it, even the suffering, than not be here at all. In challenging moments, I sometimes remind myself of that. Gratitude may not cancel pain, but it can, at times, hold it within a wider context.

Early in the morning, before the day properly begins, feels like a gentle time to reflect on this.

What also came up for me yesterday was the idea of negative core beliefs. Those often frightening ideas we can carry about ourselves, formed early in childhood, consciously or unconsciously, and held for a long time. They seem to become more active when life feels difficult, or when something touches an old wound.

In my work, I notice this often. People waking in the middle of the night, their nervous system alert, and these beliefs suddenly very present.

I’m not lovable.

I’m not good enough.

These beliefs often develop when our awareness and experience are still limited. As children, our brains haven’t yet developed the capacity to understand complexity. We don’t yet grasp context, systems, or adult limitations. We haven’t had enough experiences, time, or integration. Meaning can become very self-referential.

If something feels wrong, it can easily feel as though it must be us.

Even when, as adults, our understanding deepens, when we can look back and see our parents more clearly, or recognise how complex relationships really are, these early beliefs may still live quietly in the unconscious. Some may soften, some may shift, but many tend to resurface in moments of stress, grief, or vulnerability.

Often alongside these beliefs sits another layer, one that can feel quieter but just as demanding. A sense that there is no real resting place. That it always has to be better, more, improved.

I see this pattern often in my work. This inner pressure to keep striving, to keep lifting the bar, without ever quite arriving at a place where it feels like enough. And the question that can eventually arise is a tender one: Is there ever a plateau? Or does it always have to be better, better, better?

Sometimes we gently explore whether there might be room to let something be enough, even at ten percent, or fifty percent. Not as giving up, not as stopping growth, but perhaps as loosening the idea that striving is the only way to feel worthy.

Can I feel okay about myself if I do less?

Can I feel good enough without earning it?

Alongside the old beliefs, I’m not lovable or I’m not good enough, there may be moments where an opposing truth begins to be sensed. Not as a forced affirmation, but more as a quiet remembering.

That I may be lovable, just as I am.

Not because of what I do, achieve, or become, but because I exist.

That I may be enough.

Not because I meet a standard, but because I am human.

Somewhere underneath all the striving, there can be a faint memory of that. Of something essential that was there at the beginning. And perhaps part of the work, part of living, is finding our way back to it.

I was also reminded of someone, and this is a very common story, who was bullied in early primary school. It happened for several years. She’s an adult now and doing well, and yet something in her still becomes activated when life feels hard.

She notices that she starts comparing herself to others. Looking around and thinking, I’m not as good as this person. Why am I not like her?

When we looked more deeply, it didn’t seem that the comparison was really about appearance or achievement. It felt more like longing.

The longing to be pretty.

The longing to be active.

The longing to have the right job, the right car, the right life.

And beneath all of that, a quieter question waiting underneath: What might that give me?

Validation?

Success?

Belonging?

To be seen?

In my experience, both personally and professionally, it often seems to come back to belonging. To being seen. To being witnessed.

As children, especially when there has been a developmental, emotional, or physical injury that later becomes psychological, the system may be trying to solve one essential problem: How do I belong?

Who do I have to be to stay connected?

Who do I have to become to not be rejected?

That question can become particularly alive in adolescence, but for many people it doesn’t entirely disappear in adulthood. It may simply become more subtle.

Who do I have to be to belong here?

Which version of myself feels acceptable?

I often work with people around gently shifting that question. Not how do you belong, but where do you belong.

Not as a concept, but as a felt sense.

Where do you feel seen?

Where do you feel accepted?

Where do you feel heard?

In my own journey, of course I want to belong. I don’t like rejection, and I never really have. But over the years, something has softened. I’ve begun to notice that where I feel good in my body, that may be where I belong. Where people listen, where there is kindness, where there is support, that’s where belonging seems to emerge for me.

And there are also places where that doesn’t happen.

When I was younger, I worked in hospitality. I often felt like I didn’t quite fit, but I tried. In many different ways. And still, there was usually something missing. Now I can see more clearly that this simply wasn’t my place.

Loud environments, drinking, dancing, those things don’t bring me joy. For some people they do, and that’s completely fine. This isn’t about everyone belonging to the same thing. It feels more about honesty. About noticing where we come alive, and where we don’t.

Sometimes I find myself thinking about belonging in its more extreme forms. I recently read an article about gang members, and the question stayed with me. Why might people want to belong there? Are they born into it? Or is it the only place where a sense of belonging is felt?

And if that’s the case, what might that say about the human need for connection? And how might someone move from a place that harms others, and often themselves, toward something more sustainable, more caring, more loving?

For me, the beginning was never about pushing parts away. It felt more like acknowledging them. Listening. Trying to understand where they came from.

And equally, returning to the body.

Learning to inhabit a body that once didn’t feel safe. Learning not just to believe that I am safe, but to feel it. To feel grounded. To feel rested.

That, for me, has been a whole other journey.

Further to this, I found myself wanting to sit with the idea of belonging a little longer.

This question of belonging to a group or a community, of feeling good, safe, welcomed, and seen, often seems to bring another question with it. Where do I need to belong first?

Is belonging something that begins inside, belonging to myself first, and then extends outward into relationships and community? Or is it sometimes the other way around, that a safe, attuned, wider network helps me learn how to belong to myself?

I don’t think there is one clear answer.

For some people, community and relationship are deeply nourishing. For others, they can feel complicated, overwhelming, or simply not where safety is felt most easily. Some people may genuinely prefer a quieter belonging, one that lives largely within themselves. And there may be nothing wrong with that, as long as it feels right, sustainable, and caring of self.

What feels more central to me is the question of how we access ourselves in a way that feels welcoming. How do I meet myself with softness rather than demand? With kindness rather than judgment? With care rather than correction?

And if I can learn to do that, even imperfectly, then perhaps that way of being can slowly extend into the world. Into relationships that reflect it back, or at least don’t require me to abandon it.

Of course, difficulty still arises. It’s not all harmonious or neat, and it’s certainly not a constant state of calm. But if there is a felt sense of anchoring inside, something steady enough to return to, then over time and with practice, it may become possible to move out into the world and back again.

To reach.

To connect.

And to know when to drop anchor.

So that no matter how far we go, or how big the waves become, there may be a place within us that remembers how to find safety, stability, and connection again.

***

Word - Belonging

Belonging comes from the Old English 'belongan', meaning to relate to, to concern, to be appropriate to. It didn’t originally point to ownership or membership in the way we often use it now, but more to connection, to having relevance, to being in right relation.

Over time, belonging has come to carry a much deeper emotional meaning. It may refer to being part of a group, a family, a community, or a place. But it can also feel quieter than that. A sense of being seen, or accepted, or welcomed without having to perform, adapt, or become someone else.

Belonging may not only be something that happens between people. It can also refer to belonging to oneself, to inhabiting one’s body, values, and inner world in a way that feels steady enough. In that sense, belonging may be less about fitting in, and more about being in relationship, inwardly as well as outwardly.

Perhaps belonging isn’t something we earn or achieve. Perhaps it’s something we lose touch with at times, and then slowly, gently, remember again.