Coming Home Isn't the Same as Belonging

I joined the Army when I was 18 years old.

At eighteen, most people are still figuring out who they are.

I was handed a uniform.

There was something strangely comforting about that.

The military tells you where to be, what to wear, what your job is, who your people are, and what is expected of you. You become part of something larger than yourself almost overnight.

You don't have to wonder where you belong.

It's sewn onto your chest.

I served with XVIII Airborne Corps. I deployed in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. I learned how to operate inside a world with its own language, traditions, expectations, humor, hierarchy, and sense of family.

And then, eventually, I came home.

We talk a lot about veterans "coming home."

We celebrate homecomings. We hang banners. Families wait at airports. There are hugs and photographs and flags and this enormous collective exhale:

They're home.

But here's something I've learned in the years since:

Coming home and belonging somewhere are not the same thing.

Leaving the military is strange because you aren't simply changing jobs.

You're leaving an identity.

For years, there was an answer to the question, Who are you?

A soldier.

There was an answer to, Where do you belong?

Here.

There was an answer to, Who are your people?

Them.

And then suddenly you're standing in the cereal aisle at Target wondering why everyone is moving so slowly.

Civilian life doesn't necessarily have formations or battle buddies or a clearly defined mission.

Nobody hands you your next identity.

You have to build it.

For some veterans, that transition happens fairly naturally.

For others, it can take years - or maybe never.

And sometimes, from the outside, nobody knows you're struggling with it at all.

You go to school.

You get a job.

You get married.

You raise children.

You build a career.

You accomplish things.

You look completely reintegrated.

And still, somewhere underneath all of it, there can be this lingering question:

Where do I belong now?

I know that question because I've asked it.

It's interesting to look backward and realize that so much of your life has been shaped by a question you didn't know you were asking.

Mine has been belonging.

After the Army, I kept finding myself drawn toward work that brought people together.

Veterans.

Women veterans.

Politics.

Students.

Communities.

People whose voices weren't always included in the rooms where decisions about their lives were being made.

Eventually, I studied community engagement deeply enough to earn a PhD in it.

And underneath all the theories and research and frameworks is something remarkably human:

People need to know they matter.

They need to be heard.

They need people who notice when they aren't there.

They need opportunities to contribute.

They need relationships that aren't dependent on a title, a uniform, a job, or what they can do for someone else.

They need somewhere they can show up as themselves and still be wanted.

Maybe that's why I've spent so much of my life creating things that bring people together.

Maybe, in some ways, I've been trying to recreate belonging ever since I took the uniform off.

The more I've thought about this, the more I've realized this isn't only a veteran story.

There are a lot of ways to lose the place where you thought you belonged.

Leaving the military.

Leaving a marriage.

Losing a job.

Becoming a parent.

Losing a parent.

Moving somewhere new.

Leaving a church.

Changing careers.

Surviving something that changes you.

Sometimes life changes and suddenly the person you used to be doesn't quite fit anymore.

So you have to meet yourself again.

And you have to find your people again.

That's why I think conversations about veteran wellbeing need to include more than what happens when someone reaches a crisis.

We need to talk about what happens long before that.

Connection.

Purpose.

Community.

Friendship.

Identity.

Belonging.

The ordinary things that give people reasons to keep showing up.

Over these next 71 days, I'm going to talk about some difficult things.

Trauma.

Military sexual trauma.

Suicide.

Relationships.

Women veterans.

Things I've experienced.

Things other veterans have experienced.

And some stories I've spent a very long time deciding whether I was ready to tell.

But I don't want to begin this project with trauma.

I want to begin with belonging.

Because trauma is part of my story.

It isn't the whole story.

And I don't believe healing begins when someone finally figures out how to "fix" us.

Sometimes healing begins much more quietly.

Someone remembers your name.

Someone saves you a seat.

Someone asks the second question instead of accepting "I'm fine."

Someone notices you've disappeared.

Someone invites you anyway.

Someone listens without immediately trying to solve anything.

Someone keeps showing up.

Maybe that's why I called this project 72 Days of Showing Up.

Yes, I'm literally showing up every day and putting one foot in front of the other.

But I'm beginning to think that's also a pretty good description of what community is.

We keep showing up for one another.

Even when it's inconvenient.

Even when someone's story is complicated.

Even when we don't know exactly what to say.

We show up.

And eventually, somewhere along the way, people begin to believe:

I belong here.

Now It's Your turn.

I want these 72 days to include more voices than mine.

So today I'm asking you:

Where have you felt like you truly belonged?

Maybe it was a team. A church. A military unit. A neighborhood. A classroom. A group of friends. Your family. A workplace. Somewhere completely unexpected.

Tell me.

I have a feeling the answers might teach us something about what we're all looking for.