When Belonging Has Strings Attached

Inclusion Without Care Isn’t Community

Belonging has sometimes felt complicated to me. When I moved back to Cincinnati after college, I learned quickly that the question wasn’t “What do you do?” it was, “Are you an Eastsider or a Westsider?” or “What high school did you go to?” It was one of many reminders that belonging was less about who you are, more about whether you fit the clique.

My dad was in the Air Force, so I grew up moving to different places, going to different schools, and experiencing different cultures. It was easy for me to enter new spaces and adapt, because I have been doing it since I was a little girl.

Lessons of belonging cut deeper in high school. The last two years, I was one of two Black girls in my school, and when I graduated, I was the only Black girl in my entire class. Being the only or othered has happened a lot growing up and carrying the weight of it is exhausting. Before I graduated, I talked to my counselor who suggested I apply to a few HBCUs in addition to local colleges, and that is exactly what I did. I was accepted into every college I applied to, but I chose a historically Black college because I wanted to belong to myself again and not be one of few who looked like me.

The myth of work as community

What I didn’t know at the time was that this same dynamic would repeat itself in the workplace. I can’t count how many jobs I’ve had where “community” was dangled like a carrot. They tell you, “we’re like a family here.” They build the lie into onboarding. They want you to believe your colleagues are your friends, that the job is more than a paycheck, that the office is where you’ll find your people.

But it never lasts.

I’ve seen insecure managers sabotage me because my presence made them feel small. I’ve heard, “you don’t have enough experience” used as an excuse to keep me out of leadership, as if anyone can get “experience” without someone first opening the door. At one point, I finally landed the kind of job I’d worked my whole career to get, leading creative storytelling and narratives, only to lose it during the pandemic. Not because of performance, but because of poor business decisions and the quiet ageism that makes older employees expendable.

I was on a team of eight or nine. When I was let go, one person reached out. Just one. All the others? Silent. The “work family” evaporated as soon as the paycheck did. That’s not community. That’s performance.

Pandemic clarity

The pandemic revealed how fragile most people’s sense of belonging really was. For the first time, everyone felt isolation by way of an empty calendar, the absence of casual connection, and the fear of being forgotten.

I had already lived that reality. I had already built muscles for solitude. Watching people scramble under the weight of it made me realize two things:

1. I am stronger than I realized.

2. I don’t always want to have to be strong.

People I thought were friends never checked in. People I’d shown up for couldn’t be bothered. I saw clearly how transactional many of my relationships were. You’re useful until you’re not. You’re included until you’re not. You’re shelved until someone needs you again.

One woman admitted she didn’t invite me to a celebration because she thought I couldn’t afford the meal. She didn’t want to “be embarrassed.” She assumed I’d expect her to cover me. That moment told me a lot: her version of friendship had never been about belonging. It had always been about utility, about what she projected onto me.

Usefulness as the price of entry

That’s the thing about belonging in a lot of spaces: it’s tied to usefulness. You’re in as long as you don’t disrupt the power dynamics. As long as you don’t threaten the wrong people. As long as you perform the script.

As a Black woman, that script is heavy. I’ve been told I’m intimidating when the truth is I’m simply unwilling to play small. I’ve watched colleagues weaponize class against each other, dismissing someone as “trash” because of where they lived, even when their own homes weren’t much different. Race and class weave together in ways people don’t always want to name.

What I know is this: belonging that requires performance is not belonging. It’s an audition.

At some point, I decided I wasn’t auditioning anymore.

I stopped trying to prove myself to companies that would never see me. I stopped twisting myself into someone else’s comfort zone.

Now, when I’m invited into spaces, I pay attention. I notice how people treat not just me, but others who don’t look like them, or who come from different classes. I can spot the difference between people performing community and people actually building it. And once you’ve seen the difference, you can’t unsee it.

Belonging is easy. It doesn’t require effort or contortion. It doesn’t require me to shrink, dim, or prove. It feels like kindred spirits, like reconnecting with someone years later and realizing no time has passed. It feels like walking into a room and exhaling because you know you are seen as whole.

That’s the only standard I accept now.

I stopped auditioning for community. Now I choose it, build it, and protect it.