Belonging Redefined

I belong to a family of three brothers, five sisters, and all that comes with them. So, as you might guess, feeling a sense of belonging wasn’t something I had to look for growing up. I was lucky to have it ready-made—where everybody knows your name, your birthday, and all the little things that make you feel part of something.

As life marched along—and me with it—I always found community, whether through shared circumstances or interests. The longest connection was from my job, where for forty years I felt part of another family. Then, after retiring, belonging wasn’t automatic anymore, and I knew I’d have to look for it again. But it turned out to be hard to find.

I thought I needed to find a spot where what I offered mattered—where my skills and experience would be recognized and welcomed, maybe even affirmed. But recently that changed. Instead of asking myself, “Do I matter here?” the question shifted to “Does this matter to me?” I discovered belonging can come in a new way—not only from how I fit in, but in how something fits me. It’s also about finding your place within something, even when no one else sees you. And that realization came from something as unassuming as sorting vegetables.

You see, I’d been circling the idea of volunteering with a food bank for some time—vegetables have always been my thing—but I worried the work wouldn’t be a good match and might be too monotonous. Perhaps I was also hesitant to trust my instincts, based on an earlier volunteer experience, where I was working with a nonprofit board to help enhance the organization’s online membership. It seemed perfect on paper: familiar work in a familiar setting—things that once made me feel I mattered, and belonged. But, surprisingly, that experience left me feeling more like an outsider than a contributor. This time, I reminded myself why I was drawn to the food bank: the 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. And as I surveyed the variety of incredible produce ready to sort, things quickly fell into place.

Whether avocados, shallots, or shiitakes, I wanted to make each bag appealing and just right. I started with bell peppers, combining different colored ones with onions and tomatillos, imagining the meals someone might make from my curated mix. Next, bunches of parsley caught my eye—so fresh they almost screamed to be used for more than a garnish. But it wasn’t about being best; there was nothing to prove, not even to myself. It was about doing the work to help—not for recognition or even the friendly camaraderie of being a part of the day’s crew, but to be part of something more enduring.

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 how it felt a bit odd to stop—I suppose some residual autopilot from working in an environment 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 just the right font, no tailored fashion choices that helped me feel prepared for what the day demanded. There wasn’t even much conversation. It wasn’t that I missed those routines, even though I often enjoyed them. And I wasn’t erasing them; they were the ways I’d learned to feel useful, and to belong. But it turns out they were only a part of my story.

The warehouse was different. It was stripped down. Basic, in the best way. And it was satisfying. I also thought about how I’ve been working in my retirement—the weight of expectations to find the right/acceptable fits. The constant strategizing, monitoring, and adjusting myself to meet imagined expectations.

Except that day when I felt 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. Yet I felt more belonging than I have since retiring—not because I had researched it well, planned it perfectly, or found the group that matched my interests and experience to a tee. But because I felt like what I was doing mattered.

I also hazily recalled 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.