Belonging 

This morning we were eating our breakfast when our neighbor grandma walked out from her place, strolled through her small yard, and went back inside. I felt a sudden surge of relief at seeing another human being—a surprising sense of kinship with this woman I’ve never spoken to. We are not alone in this world. 

Of course we’re not! Eight billion people share this planet. Yet here on this island, just the two of us with our occasional gatherings with very new friends, it can feel like we’re marooned on some remote outpost of existence. 

It makes me wonder: where do we belong? 

The Rooted and the Roaming 

Some people never leave. They stay where they were born and raised, keeping the same childhood friends, living among family who remember their first steps, their teenage heartbreaks, and every damn thing they experienced in minute detail. They don’t need much explanation about your life. They just know. Their belonging is as solid as the oak trees in their backyard—deep roots, steady growth, seasons of change within the same enduring landscape. 

Then there are the rest of us, like Håkan and I, who have lived most of our lives away from where we began. We visit family in brief, intense bursts—offering updates in condensed paragraphs, joining their daily rhythms for a fleeting moment before disappearing again. We’ve left our original herds and chosen a life of roaming. 

The Strange Displacement of Home 

Tomorrow, we fly back to Vancouver, and it feels oddly disconnected to call it “home.” The word sits uncomfortably in my mouth, like trying on clothes that used to fit but somehow don’t anymore. (Well, this is literally true as well at my old age 😉) Other than our dear friends whom we’ll joyfully reconnect with, nothing much tugs at us there with the gravity of true belonging. 

So what is belonging, really? 

Finding Ourselves Between Places 

Perhaps belonging isn’t about geography at all. Maybe it’s not the address on our driver’s license or the place where our mail arrives. Sitting there in this Jeju kitchen, watching a stranger grandmother tend her morning routine, I wonder if belonging is something far more portable and intimate. 

Could it be that moment of recognition when you see yourself reflected in someone else’s simple humanity? The relief I felt watching our neighbor wasn’t about place—it was about connection, about remembering that beneath all our surface differences, we’re all just people moving through our days, tending our small yards, seeking comfort in familiar rhythms. 

The Paradox of the Roamers 

We roamers carry a different kind of belonging. We’ve learned to find home in temporary moments: in the eyes of a friend who truly sees us, in conversations that crack us open just a little, in those rare places where we can be exactly who we are. Our belonging is less about roots and more about connection. 

We walk a lot here. We walk trails, shorelines, and among mandarin groves through the small snaking doldam (stone fence ubiquitous on Jeju island) alleyways. And we say hello to pretty much every single person we share the paths with: “Annyeonghaseyo!” often startling those who seemed a bit intimidated by our foreignness and had resolved to pass by us unnoticed (if that was even possible). The simple act transforms everyone—and I mean everyone, no exaggeration! A huge smile spreads across their faces as if we’ve just unlocked something wonderful. They echo the same greeting back to us. There, in that moment, we are all connected. There, we feel belonging. 

Home as a Verb 

I’m beginning to think that for people like us, belonging isn’t a noun—it’s a verb. We don’t simply have a home; we make home wherever we land with intention and open hearts. The grandmother disappeared back into her house, but something lingered—a reminder that everywhere we go, we carry the capacity to share humanity with others, to find connections, brief or everlasting, and to feel at home in the vast shared experience of being beautifully, imperfectly human. 

Perhaps that’s enough. Perhaps that’s everything.