Honesty, fitting in and the small things that help us know we belong
- Jul 28
- 7 min read
This tree of thoughts began growing from a WhatsApp exchange with my friend Vicky.
I had asked her for ideas for a future blog topic, and she suggested honesty. She said being more honest had helped her understand what she wanted and take less responsibility for other people’s feelings. She wrote:
“I think the tricky part here was to trust others to handle my honesty and accept it, because if I’m being honest it means I’m being my true self and in some ways that makes me vulnerable.”
I found this really inspiring. A bit too inspiring, really!
When I am exploring a topic, my brain turns octopus, with tenacular, tree-like wanderings. A thought heads off in eight directions and each branch finds another five. As you can imagine, this gets a bit tangled when I try to fit it neatly into a linear format by getting it down on paper or screen too soon.
After a bit of thought wrangling, I remembered this about myself and gave myself permission to stop writing until it was ready.
(Hilariously of course, within an hour of doing this, I started writing and haven't been able to stop).
The rules we absorb
Recently, I read Convenience Store Woman, and it entertained and rattled me in equal measure.
The central character struggles to understand her place in the world. She consciously studies and copies other people, finding a recognisable role that helps make her acceptable. The book highlights how much human beings want to fit in, what strange forms that can take in our modern settings, and how little we may notice the ways wanting to fit in shapes us.
It got me thinking about how most of us learn from the beginning to behave in ways that other people will accept. We eventually stop throwing ourselves on the floor to get sweets, learn to wait our turn, stop at traffic lights, think about other people, fulfil roles and keep things moving. We also absorb unspoken yet LOUD rules about which versions of ourselves will be welcomed.
Some of the rules I learnt were that good girls are kind, smile and look nice, have friends, are calm, useful and tidy, avoid selfishness and do not make other people uncomfortable. (As I write this I realise with a wince that fifty years old, and I am still subtly trying to be a good girl).
I am full of ideas, chat and passion. I can be enthusiastic, distracted, intense, excited, frustrated and full of questions and emotions. In some environments, I have felt the need to soften these parts of myself.
Sometimes I use one part of myself to cover another. I picture it like a hostage situation: “Shoot me and the nice girl gets it!”
I can feel the programme kick in when I am unsettled and become extra cheerful, or when I am unsure and suddenly appear very calm and capable. Underneath it is a fear that people might like me less, see me as difficult or too much, or decide they do not want to join me in something.
Much of this feels old and, frankly, a bit boring now, especially when I look at the actual conditions of my life.
I am in a privileged position. Although I carry a very human fear of rejection, (possibly born from my ancestors only surviving from fitting into the group), right now I am unlikely to face the danger, harassment or exclusion some people experience because of their identity, appearance, beliefs, gender or sexuality. We do not all have the same safety or the same choices.
I have also been fortunate enough to shape a life with a great deal of freedom. My husband genuinely accepts me and encourages me to be myself. My friends are beautifully quirky, and we have room to express ourselves together. I can be a good deal of myself with my family, including my son. The professional mask I once wore is no longer required in the same way.
And still, the old programme runs on with itself in the background.
If it goes unchecked for too long, it takes energy and leaves me tired. Sometimes I feel resentful towards people when I have hidden parts of myself around them, even though they may have had no idea I was doing it.
I can get lost trying to work out whether something in the room is limiting me, whether I am responding to an old fear, or whether both things are happening at once.
Becoming more aware of this helps me remember the choices I do have. It also helps me think more carefully about the pressures and risks other people may be carrying.
What do I mean by honesty?
Sometimes I am pleasant to people I do not particularly like. Sometimes I am civil when somebody is getting on my nerves. Sometimes (!) I keep a thought to myself.
Does that make me dishonest?
Clearly not. Every feeling does not need to become an action. Thoughts are often fleeting, confused or private, and they change.
However, for years, I could have a negative thought and then question whether it made me a terrible person. I still do this sometimes, though I am also learning that honesty can begin inside me.
I can admit that I am bored, irritated, anxious, tired or uncomfortable. I can let the feeling exist for a while and decide whether to share it, who to share it with and how. Privacy can still contain truth, maybe it even helps to grow it.
The particular kind of honesty I am aching for has room for uncertainty, change and relationships. It allows me to know what I feel while another person has their own experience and response.
It is connected to boundaries. I love this quote by Prentis Hemphill:
“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously.”
It reminds me that do not have to disappear or push someone away to be safe. There can be a balance. Maybe this kind of honesty is something we cultivate together, like a garden that needs tending.
None of us does this in isolation
We are shaped by family, school, work, culture, community, relationships and the human need for connection. There are good reasons why belonging matters so much to us.
This has come up in several community conversations I have been part of recently.
At a Stories of Our Lives session about belonging, someone described the subject as “intricate”. People said they found belonging in different places, including family, neighbours, familiar faces, shared routines, local places and having a role or contribution to make.
At the Art, Faith and Wellbeing Hub, where I lead a wellbeing through connection session on Tuesdays, I recently asked people what they wanted from future sessions.
The room filled with ideas about books, travel, food, nature, movement, laughter and lessons from life. The conversation became more alive as people brought their interests, humour and experience into shaping what we might do together.
Perhaps true belonging grows through moments like these. We have a say in what happens. We are listened to. We can contribute. We can also say when something is too much.
Small signals of safety
There is one moment that feels like a distilled version of all this.
At a retreat last year, we did a group meditation for about half an hour. Afterwards, I looked around the room and noticed that we all looked absolutely knackered. Nobody was polished or glowing like the people in adverts for wellbeing. We looked gloriously exhausted, even the young ones.
I found this visual honesty deeply reassuring. Seeing other tired people gave my nervous system a clear message: tiredness is allowed here. They were still welcome in the room, so perhaps it was okay for me to be tired too.
Nobody needed to explain this or announce that they were being authentic. I saw it, and something in me understood.
I think we are always reading the room and gathering clues from each other.
What happens when someone admits they are unsure, says no, changes their mind, brings an unusual idea, gets excited or says that something is too much? Are they listened to? Does the conversation carry on? Can the room adjust?
There may also be times when someone honestly says they do not have the capacity for what another person is bringing. Can that be shared as a truth about their own limits, without turning it into a rule about how the other person should be?
Each response tells us something about what is welcome. When the connection holds and nobody is suddenly ejected from their seat like a fighter pilot in a comedy sketch, the rest of us notice. Uncertainty can be here. Tiredness can be here. Enthusiasm, difference and need can be here too.
Maybe this is how some of the old rules begin to loosen. We see someone bring more of themselves into the room and discover that the connection can hold it.
Safety and belonging are patchwork. They are made up of different people, places and experiences. No single person or group can provide all of it, and I am not suggesting that they should.
I would love us to piece together more of that patchwork.
Where have you felt able to exhale and bring more of yourself?
What was present in that relationship, group or place that helped?
What small part might each of us play in helping other people feel that more of them is welcome, while remaining honest about our own needs, limits and capacity?
Has this post brought up anything else that you would like to share?
WhatsApp me a voice note or email me by 11 August. With your permission, I may include your contribution in the next episode of The Joy Ethic Show.
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