Belonging Redefined

I belong to a family of three brothers, five sisters, and all the relatives who are part of our lives. We share birthday group texts and Tapbacks, rides to doctor appointments—and the annual conversation over who’s making the kapusta for Christmas Eve. For me, a sense of belonging started with my family, and it’s been part of me ever since.

As life marched along, and me with it, I also found a steady connection from my job at a large law firm, where for forty years I felt part of another kind of family. There was the daily lift of the receptionist’s “Good morning”, the surprise Starbucks when I needed it most, the shared hallway buzz of TGIF, the satisfaction of supporting the firm’s annual election of new partners. It all made me feel welcomed, part of something, even needed. I felt at home.

But after retiring, that kind of belonging wasn’t built into my daily routine anymore. I missed it, and I knew I’d have to find it again. Like most people, I assumed that searching out a position with a company or volunteer group that valued my skills and experience was the way to go. As it turned out, it wasn’t.

So I recently changed my approach by flipping the script. Instead of asking, “Do I matter here?” the question I asked was, “Does this matter to me?”

I discovered that it’s quite possible to find your place within something without needing to be recognized, instead trusting that your presence counts as it hums beneath the surface. And that realization came from something as unassuming as sorting vegetables.

I’d been toying with the idea of volunteering at a food bank for some time—vegetables have always been my thing—but I worried the work might feel too monotonous or not quite a match. Perhaps my attitude was shaped by an earlier volunteer experience working with a nonprofit board, familiar work in a familiar setting, that left me feeling more like an outsider than a contributor. So, I decided it was time to try something different, less from the resume, more from the heart.

As my first volunteer shift began, I reminded myself why I’d been drawn to the food bank: its mission, the dedication of the staff I’d met, and, yes, the vegetables. Besides, I’ve learned that almost anything can be engaging if you approach it the right way. So, I stepped in.

Whether I was picking avocados, shallots, or shiitakes, I wanted to make each bag appealing, something you couldn’t wait to take home and start cooking. I began with bell peppers, combining different colored ones with onions and tomatillos, imagining the meals someone might make from my curated mix. Then bunches of parsley caught my eye, so fresh they almost screamed to be used for more than a garnish.

But my enthusiasm wasn’t only about the bounty or about earning a gold star for being the best or fastest packer. It was about doing the work to help, not for credit, or even the camaraderie of being part of the day’s crew, but for the quiet satisfaction of being part of the background. Small yet essential, like one piece in the kids’ game of Mousetrap: the whole contraption supporting others in a way they may never know, but feel.

Soon enough, I noticed my fellow volunteer—coincidentally named Judi (hello, good karma!)—starting to clean up her station, so I followed her lead. I also noticed that stopping felt a bit odd. I suppose it was because I was used to work that didn’t finish just because the clock said so. Driving home, I couldn’t help but make other comparisons to how I used to work.

There were no team meetings to prepare for, no hours spent perfecting PowerPoints with the just-right font, no tailored fashion choices that helped me feel ready for the day. There wasn’t even much conversation. It wasn’t that I missed those routines, even though I enjoyed them. I wasn’t erasing them, either; they were ways I’d learned to feel useful and belong. But it turned out they were only part of my story.

Working in a stripped-down warehouse was basic in the best way. It also made me think about how I’ve been working in my retirement: the constant strategizing, monitoring, and adjusting myself to find what I imagined would be the right fit.

But after three glorious hours of engagement making the best vegetable packages I could, I simply let the momentum carry me. I didn’t need to push myself, not even a step. And yet, I felt more belonging than I have since retiring. Not because I’d researched it well, planned it perfectly, or found the group that matched my interests and experience to a tee, but because what I was doing felt like it mattered.

I also hazily remembered a much earlier moment: a summer day spent with my mother, planting my first garden of string beans. I couldn’t have been more than four years old. Funny how the memories come back. Maybe belonging takes root in memory. But this time, it came from inside me. No affirmations required. Just a box of parsley and a reason to show up.