Fitting In Isn’t Belonging. Finding Your Way Is

I did everything I was told.

• I learned the language until my mouth could shape sounds that were not mine.

• I studied a bachelor’s, a master’s, and then a doctorate, stacking degrees like proof.

• I worked. I contributed. I paid my dues. I followed the rules.

And still… I was afraid.

The instant I saw police lights flash behind us, my body responded before my mind could catch up. My stomach dropped. My chest tightened. I stayed calm for the girls. I kept my voice steady. I tried to make it feel normal.

The officer had not spoken. We had not done anything “wrong.” But fear showed up anyway. Nothing happened in the end. Everything was fine. And yet the feeling didn’t disappear when we drove away. It stayed with me, quiet, heavy, and hard to explain.

Then came the Super Bowl halftime show.

I watched it more than once, eager to relive the moment. I saw people from different countries moved to tears, and I found myself crying too. It surprised me how quickly the emotion rose, how physical it felt.

I kept asking myself…

• Why did this hit me so deeply?

• Why did I feel a rush of emotion when I saw my flag waving?

• Why did I jump with joy when Panama was called out?

And then it clicked: this was not just entertainment. It was recognition.

It was a rare moment of seeing a piece of my identity reflected back, publicly, unapologetically, on a stage that felt bigger than any one person. It reminded me: I am seen. I matter.

But it wasn’t only pride. It was longing, too. Because for many of us, “home” is not a single location anymore. Home becomes a reconstruction; rebuilt in an environment that is different from the one we knew, while carrying the ache of what we left behind. We build it in fragments: a song, a phrase, a recipe, a flag, a name spoken correctly, our country named out loud.

And that’s when I understood something about the fear I felt earlier.

I was not nervous because I had not done enough. I was nervous because, after doing all the “right things,” I understood that belonging isn't automatically earned, especially in an environment that can become suspicious toward people who look like me, sound like me, or come from somewhere else.

Many migrants live with emotions so close to the surface you can almost touch them, not because we are weak, but because we are constantly negotiating our place. 

We learn how to adapt. We learn how to blend. We learn how to fit in.

But fitting in is not the same as belonging.

• Belonging is safety without performance.

• Belonging is not having to rehearse your worth.

• Belonging is being able to exhale.

• Belonging is moving through the world without bracing yourself for judgment.

And successful integration doesn’t come from individual effort alone. It also requires environments and systems that embrace people, not ones that reject, isolate, or keep them in a bubble.

So if you cried too… if you rewatched it too… if you’ve ever felt your heart split, holding fear and happiness at the same time, please know:

You’re not overreacting.

You’re responding to the reality of building a life inTransit. A life “in-between” two worlds.

Adapting to a new cultural environment can be a demanding journey. Many of us experience anxiety as we navigate transitions and realize how elements of our identity, our accent, our name, our appearance, or even our documentation, can shape the way others perceive us, regardless of our accomplishments.

…and maybe this is the real question we should be asking: Are we designing communities where people can truly belong or just places where migrants learn to survive by blending in?

If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you: When was the last time you felt truly seen—and what made that moment possible?