We talk a lot these days about “finding your tribe” or “belonging” as if it’s something you can order online or stumble across during your lunch break. But for me, it came in the least likely place—and involved some questionable chanting, terrible pies, and those little popping hand warmers. This is a little story about football (don’t worry, I won’t get too technical), but more than that, it’s about finding your place in the world—when you never really felt like you had one.
I’m not going to say which team it is, because I might lose half of you before we get past the first paragraph—and frankly, I like you too much for that. Let’s just say they wear a kit, occasionally play 90 minutes of heart-stopping drama, and have given me more grey hairs than I care to count.
I didn’t grow up in one place. We moved house a lot when I was a child, and with every new school, every unfamiliar neighbourhood, I’d start over. Again. It got to the point where making friends felt a bit pointless. Why open up when you knew you’d be packing up before long? And this was before the age of texts, group chats and blurry video calls. When you moved, you moved. You left people behind in every sense of the word.
So I became a bit of a loner. I didn’t mind my own company, and I still don’t. But I didn’t realise how much I was missing—until the day I walked into a football stadium for the first time.
It was one of those ‘click’ moments, you know? The minute I took my seat (which, to be clear, was never the most comfortable experience—I’ve had more legroom in a Ryanair middle seat), something shifted. Suddenly, I was part of a crowd of 40,000 people. And we all cared about one thing. Not world peace, not the price of eggs, but whether eleven strangers on a pitch could put the ball in the back of the net more times than the other lot.
It was electric. It was wild. It was perfect.
That day, I found my tribe.
They didn’t know me and I didn’t know them. But we were together on the same emotional rollercoaster. I cheered when we scored, groaned when we missed, screamed when the ref made thatdecision (we all know the one). And 36 years later, I still do.
That team has taught me more about belonging than any textbook or seminar ever could. Because belonging isn’t about being the same as everyone else—it’s about caring deeply about something, together. It’s about showing up, rain or shine. It’s about the small rituals and shared language that feel like home.
These days, I’ve built other communities too. I’m more settled (for now?), and I’ve found places and people who know my name and my story. But it was my football team who first lit that spark of what it feels like to belong—really belong.
And that makes me wonder:
What communities are you part of?
What do you love so much you’d cheer and cry over it?
Where could you find that sense of connection, if you’re still looking?
Belonging changes us. It reminds us that we don’t have to do life alone. And sometimes, it starts in the unlikeliest of places—like a plastic seat in a freezing stadium, with strangers who shout and chant and love the same ridiculous, glorious thing you do.
If something in this post resonates, and you’d like to explore it more deeply in a safe, supportive space, I’m here.
There are gentle ways forward — and you’re never alone on the path.