In some parts of the country,

community happens without a formal invitation.

Neighbors wander over for a backyard bonfire,

kids run barefoot between houses,

and someone always brings an extra chair

just in case a new friend shows up.

But here — at least where we live —

it’s different.

People are friendly,

but gatherings tend to happen in designated spaces,

often tied to church.

Sunday services, potlucks, and holiday events

are where you’re likely to see people come together.

Outside of that,

it’s rare to see an unplanned circle of lawn chairs

and laughter spilling into the night.

I’ve wondered why.

Maybe it’s tradition —

church has long been the center of social life here,

and everything else orbits around it.

Maybe it’s about roots —

in small Southern towns,

relationships often go back decades,

and social circles are already full before you arrive.

Or maybe it’s simply habit —

a rhythm of life that prizes home as a private space

rather than a shared one.

For someone who grew up where “community”

meant porches and open doors,

it can feel like an invisible wall.

You can wave,

you can smile,

you can even join in where you’re welcomed…

and still sense that you’re not woven into the fabric.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

It’s a strange kind of loneliness —

to be surrounded by people,

to make every effort to belong,

and still feel like a guest in the place you call home.

That’s part of why we’ve decided

to return to the place we came from —

back to family,

to old friends,

to a kind of community

that doesn’t need a calendar to bring people together.

A place where you can stop by someone’s house

without calling first,

where a backyard fire can turn into

an evening of stories,

where kids drift in and out like the breeze.

A place where we are known —

not just recognized.

Leaving here isn’t about rejecting this place.

It’s about returning to the parts of life we’ve missed —

the laughter around a kitchen table,

the shared casseroles when someone is sick,

the easy knowing that you belong.

Because in the end,

home isn’t just where you live.

It’s where people expect you to stay awhile.

⸻

Maybe the work is to notice the ache in ourselves —

the quiet longing to be welcomed in —

and to remember that someone else is feeling it too.

Sometimes the belonging we crave

is the belonging we’re meant to offer.

A chair pulled up to the fire.

A casual “stop by anytime.”

An invitation that doesn’t need an occasion.

With All My love,

-J

⸻

Journal Prompt:

Think about a time you felt like you truly belonged somewhere.

What made it feel that way?

How might you extend that same welcome to someone in your life right now?