Who Do You Belong to?
““I am a part of all that I have met.”
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This is an actual picture I took of my hometown, Sala Consilina, a few years ago. This view is from my grandmother’s town, Teggiano, on the hill on the other side of the valley, called Vallo di Diano.
Growing up in a small town in Italy, I felt that everybody always knew who you were, no matter where you went. And if they didn’t know you personally, they certainly knew who your mother or father was.
There’s a common expression in dialect I heard countless times from adults and elders, “A chi appartieni?” Literally, “to whom do you belong?” It was their way of placing you in the web of family and community.
As a child, I resisted that question…by answering, I had to identify myself through my father, and that always opened another can of worms. More than that, it rubbed against my desire to be my own person. I (always) wanted to belong to myself.
So when I left for Milan for college, I loved the freedom of walking through streets where no one knew my name. It felt exhilarating to be anonymous, to escape the watchful eyes of neighbors. And yet, even in Milan, I never felt disconnected. Italy carries an organic sense of community, whether in a piazza, a café, or at evening aperitivo, belonging is something you stumble into naturally, without having to force it.
Here in the U.S., things feel different. Suburban streets are quiet, houses stand apart, and community isn’t automatic; it’s something you must intentionally build. After two decades, I still found myself craving that effortless sense of being part of a bigger picture….
That longing is why, earlier this year, I chose to move with my family into a small town just outside Philadelphia. We left the single-family home and the isolation it represented, for a smaller place in the center of town. Now, when I open my front door, I am immediately interrupted by the noisy streets, the bustle of routines, the simple presence of others… and I find myself exhaling.
In those moments, my problems don’t vanish, but they soften. I am reminded that I am not the only one carrying burdens or joys. That nothing is purely unique or special (no matter the perception), and that the ordinary is far from boring. The ordinary is warm, kind, predictable in the most beautiful way, like the embrace of someone who loves you, steady and always there.
“The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.” — Thomas Moore
Sociologist Ray Oldenburg described this need as “the third place” neither home nor work, but the shared spaces where life’s hum finds its center stage. Cafés, libraries, churches, and parks where we don’t just pass time, but pass through each other’s lives. Places that remind us we belong, even if no one is asking, “A chi appartieni?”
Did you have a place growing up where you could always find someone you knew? A place where people recognized your name, or at least your face? Remember Central Perk in Friends or Cheers, “where everybody knows your name?”
In Italy, I took that for granted. The café, the piazza, the bakery, they weren’t just stops for espresso or bread; they were stages where everyday life unfolded. People didn’t just buy their coffee; they lingered, they spoke, they noticed one another. Community wasn’t something to schedule, it was the background and soundtrack of life. We romanticize these spaces on screen because they represent something many of us are missing in real life. But the third place isn’t just for extroverts. It’s for the quiet observer too, the person who sits with a book, a notebook, or simply their thoughts, while life unfolds around them. It’s the art of being alone without being lonely.
This, to me, is also at the heart of La Dolce Vita. The sweetness of life isn’t in luxury or escape, but in these ordinary rituals of belonging. The pause for coffee, the nod to a familiar face, the background murmur of lives unfolding around you.
Now I know what I didn’t understand as a teenager: Belonging doesn’t erase individuality, it deepens it.
It roots us in the shared fabric of humanity, reminding us that while our stories are our own, the sweetness of life comes from living them together; and just maybe, the cure to our existential anxiety can only be found in our common humanity.…
Journaling Prompt:
Where is your “third place”?
If you don’t have one right now, what might it look like, a café, a library, a park, a kitchen table, a space where you can feel both yourself and connected to others?