Belonging isn't something you earn. It's something you give — to others, and first to yourself.
I have never been the "popular" girl. I was never the one with a best friend waiting to walk to class, never the first name on anyone's party invite list.
And honestly? I was fine with that. I was focused on my goals, where I was going and what it would take to get there. Belonging was for everyone else. I had places to be.
What I didn't realize was that the hunger for belonging doesn't disappear just because you ignore it. It goes underground. And then it comes out sideways.
For me, it came out in romance. I poured everything into relationships, hoping someone else could finally make me feel like I fit.
I was married at 23. By 24, I was divorced.
So I did the only thing that made sense to my aching heart: I strapped on a backpack and booked a 30-day trip across Europe — the trip where I'd turn 25. I told myself I was going to fill that void of belonging once and for all.
What I actually needed to learn was how to belong to myself.
On that trip, I found belonging in a place I never expected: the hearts of three women I had never met before.
We were all wandering Europe trying to fill the holes in our own hearts, each of us for different reasons. None of us said that out loud at first, of course.
We met as strangers. After two days, we were making polite small talk. After a week, we were laughing over too much wine. And on day eight, the walls came down. We opened up — raw and honest — about the things in our twenties that felt too big to carry.
That's the thing about travel. When you strip away your routines, your roles, and everyone who already has an opinion about who you are, you're left with just you. And so is everyone sitting across the table from you.
One afternoon in Verona, just steps from the house of Juliet, I slipped away from the group. There was something I wanted to do.
I'd passed a little engraving shop on our walk, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. When I came back to the café with painted paper bags, the girls laughed — of course the shopaholic found a boutique. But what was inside wasn't for me.
I handed each of them a silver half-heart, engraved with one Italian word:
Amato — loved, for Anna.
Inteso — understood, for Rosie.
Accettato — accepted, for my friend who would later write it all down.
Abbastanza — enough, for me.
Those words weren't random.
They were what I had heard each of them say they were missing, in all those late-night conversations.
And the one I kept for myself was the one I needed most.
Years later, I still carry what that friend wrote in her diary that day. She described the moment my "splurge" turned into something else entirely:
"In that moment, the three of us on the verge of tears, her moment of splurging evolved into a moment of listening… Brie is listening."
I read those words and cried. For the first time in my life, someone had truly seen me — not the goal-chaser, not the girl on the outside of the circle, but exactly who I was. And being seen like that was its own gift of belonging.
I've thought about that afternoon in Verona for years. Here's what it taught me:
Belonging starts with vulnerability. My friend quoted C.S. Lewis in her entry: "To love at all is to be vulnerable." His point is that a heart kept safe from every risk doesn't stay whole — it hardens. We only belong to each other when we're willing to let a sliver of light in.
Being seen is a gift you can give. I didn't have a grand speech that day. I just listened, and then I said back what I'd heard. Belonging often begins with something that small: paying attention long enough to see someone's heart.
We're all carrying the same things. Loved. Understood. Accepted. Enough. Four women, four different stories, and underneath them the same longings. When we finally said them out loud, we could look across the table and say, "You too?"
Travel speeds up the unguarded part. Away from home, there's no reputation to protect and no script to follow. Strangers become a circle in days instead of years. The trip ends — but what you saw in each other doesn't.
Our half-hearts make each other whole. As my friend wrote, what we're missing in our own lives can often be found in the friendship of another.
I went to Europe looking for something to fill the void. I came home understanding that belonging is a gift we give to others — and, more importantly, a gift we give to ourselves.
I engraved abbastanza on my own half-heart for a reason. Before I could fully belong anywhere, I had to believe that I was already enough. The circle didn't make me enough. It helped me see that I always had been.
This month, I'd love for you to sit with a few questions:
Where in your life have you been searching for belonging outside yourself?
Who has truly seen you — and have you ever told them?
Whose heart could you see this week, just by listening a little longer?
If you engraved one word on your own half-heart, what would it be?
You don't have to cross an ocean to find your circle. But sometimes stepping out of your everyday life is exactly what lets you see — and be seen.
The trip ends.
The sisterhood doesn't.
If this stirred something in you, we’d love to hear it!
What has grown in you over the past year?
What are you noticing or remembering about yourself?
Share your reflection with us HERE, or post a video of your own on on Social Media and tag @honestheartjourneys so we can honor what has grown together.
As Chief Growth Officer for Honest Heart Journeys, Brie’s mission is to help cultivate a community where women can experience deeper connection, greater clarity, a place of belonging and lasting personal growth.
She believes transformation isn't about becoming someone else—it's about remembering and reclaiming who you've been all along. Learn more about Brie >>
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