Between Homes: When You No Longer Fit and Don’t Know Where You Belong
What if belonging isn’t where you fit, but where you are faithfully found, even in the dissonance?
When Belonging Feels Like a Memory
There are seasons in life when belonging feels like a memory.
You try to trace it back—when you last felt seen, understood, deeply connected. Maybe it was in your hometown, before the years of study, work, and migration. Maybe it was during university or early adulthood, when friendships formed naturally and spiritual communities seemed to arise with ease. But somewhere along the way, something shifted.
The places you once called home now feel distant—not just geographically, but emotionally. You’ve changed. And so have the people you used to belong with.
The Ache of Displacement
This isn’t simply about missing a place. It’s about a quiet disorientation, a sense that you no longer fit neatly anywhere. The people who know your past don’t quite recognize who you’ve become. The people around you now don’t know the stories that shaped you. You walk through familiar streets as a stranger and sit in new spaces wondering what it would take to truly feel at home.
It’s tempting to imagine that the solution is to return—to revisit the places where the friendships once flourished, where the rhythms once felt right. But often, when you do return, something feels off. The world kept turning in your absence. And so did you.
“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth.”
— Hebrews 11:13–14
Even the heroes of faith lived with a kind of homesickness. Their trust in God didn’t always bring them back to the familiar, but carried them forward into a homeland still unfolding.
Longing for Spiritual Belonging
Lately, there’s been a persistent ache in me—a longing for community. Not just to be around people, but to belong. To be part of a spiritual circle where I can show up as I am, wrestle with Scripture honestly, and not feel the pressure to perform or conform.
I’ve considered joining Bible Study Fellowship. I’ve heard from others how meaningful it can be—a structured rhythm, thoughtful material, and mutual encouragement. But it doesn’t seem right for me in this season. The daily assignments and steady pace feel like more than I can carry. What I long for is space to read Scripture slowly, to reflect without pressure, and to sit with questions without needing to reach conclusions too quickly.
I’ve also thought about rejoining the small group in my church or finding a new one. But I haven’t gone in months. If I’m honest, I often feel out of place. The expression of faith I see around me is something I used to share and embrace. But now, it feels like a garment I’ve outgrown—still recognisable, but no longer fitting quite right. I don’t know where I fit anymore.
Life Doesn’t Return; It Moves Forward
There’s a deep grief in realising that some things—some seasons, some relationships—don’t return to what they once were. Friendships drift. Spiritual communities change. Cities shift. And so do we.
We’re not the same person who left. And perhaps we’re not meant to be.
But this brings a haunting question: If I don’t belong where I came from, and I haven’t found belonging where I am, where do I go from here?
Reimagining Belonging
Perhaps belonging doesn’t always arrive in familiar forms. We often associate it with shared history, similar life stages, or cultural closeness. But maybe it can also be shaped by shared values, honest conversations, and the slow unfolding of trust.
It might not be about finding a ready-made circle that fits. It could be about gently and intentionally creating one, even if it starts with just one or two people. Perhaps it’s not about being fully understood from the beginning, but about staying long enough to be known.
Sometimes I wonder what I’m missing, but maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe I’m not missing anything. Maybe what I need is permission to grieve the things that no longer nourish me, to desire a gentler pace of discipleship, to trust that God honours small beginnings, and to believe that hunger, not mastery, can also be a starting point for faithfulness. Perhaps I can begin to build something new—something that doesn’t require a title or a structure, only presence.
I haven’t given up on spiritual community. But I am learning that it doesn’t have to look like what it did before. Maybe it begins not with a program, but with a question. What kind of community am I truly longing for? What parts of my past experiences gave life? What would it look like to invite one or two others into Scripture—not to lead them, but to walk with them?
I don’t have to start a group. I can begin a gathering. Not as an expert. Not as a leader. Just as a fellow traveller.
If something grows from there, I can discern the structure in time. But for now, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep listening. I’ll keep reaching out.
Even Here Is Holy Ground
Even here—this place of uncertainty, of longing, of not yet arriving—I believe is holy ground. It may not resemble the structured communities or spiritual rhythms I once knew, but it’s where I continue to seek, to listen, to show up.
Like Moses in the wilderness, I’m learning that holiness does not always come dressed in the familiar or the formal. Sometimes it finds us in the in-between, where we least expect it. And that, too, can be sacred.
“Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”
— Exodus 3:5
So I’ll keep showing up here, in this in-between, barefoot and listening—because even this could be holy ground.