Belonging is a compass of the soul, always seeking its true north. But what happens when that compass spins endlessly, unable to find its steady point? This is the question I carry as I drift, feeling like a ship unmoored, searching for a harbor that can hold all of me—the cracks, the triumphs, the storms, and the calm seas.

The excitement of moving, the thrill of new beginnings—they are as intoxicating as they are fleeting. Each place whispers the possibility of permanence, of finally finding home. But as soon as the whisper grows loud enough to hear, the dread follows. The anticipation of leaving again, the ache of detaching yet another root before it has even had time to burrow deep.

I feel like a paradox—a wanderer who longs for stillness, an explorer yearning for a map that leads to the ultimate destination. Where do we stop, and how do we know when we’ve arrived? Is home a place, a person, a moment in time? Or is it something we carry within us, waiting to be unlocked by a feeling of security, support, and unconditional acceptance?

Building this drifting boat feels overwhelming. Every plank of courage and every nail of persistence seems fragile, as if it might splinter under the weight of the next wave of doubt. Yet, giving up isn’t an option. To stop exploring would be to abandon the hope of finding that elusive harbor—a place that embraces my imperfections, steadies me when I stumble, and celebrates me when I soar.

I am reminded of Darwin’s scribbled note: “Never say higher or lower. Say more complicated.” Perhaps belonging, too, is not a linear journey but a web of connections—some fragile, some enduring, all intricate. There is no right way to navigate this web, no wrong way to feel your way through it. It is a process of trial, of heartbreak, of discovery.

Sometimes, the world’s vastness feels like a balm. Standing in its otherness—the rustling fields, the starlit sky, the crumbling pages of a book—can remind me that my confusion is not an anomaly but a piece of the larger puzzle. It tells me I am part of something greater, that even the worst-stung heart can find dignity in this shared existence.

But what about the moments when I am caught between love and anger, between yearning and knowing better? The moments when belonging feels like chasing something elusive, like an addict desperate for a fix of something—or someone—I know may hurt me again? It’s in these moments that I long for something substantial, something that exists for me alone, answerable to no one but my own need to belong.

As children, we begin our journey of belonging by searching for reflections of ourselves in the world. We seek voices that recognize us, that validate our presence, that say, You are enough. That search never truly ends. And yet, perhaps the answer is not in the search at all, but in the stillness—in allowing ourselves to feel rooted wherever we are, even in the chaos.

Belonging is not always a destination. Sometimes, it is the courage to keep building the boat even when the storm feels endless. It is the resilience to navigate the waves of rejection and self-doubt, to trust that somewhere, someday, there will be a harbor that not only accepts us but celebrates us.

Until then, I will hold onto the beauty and the mystery of the world, the antidote to my confusion. I will keep exploring, keep learning, and keep building. Because to belong, in all its complexity, is the most human thing of all.