Parable of the Belonging: Giving Space
Song Of The Week
If you’ve ever found yourself tangled in that messy web of youthful uncertainty and tender chaos, Arlo Parks’ "Euguene" is basically your new anthem. This track is a shimmering slice of indie-soul that stitches delicate storytelling with a dreamy vibe — think diary entries set to music, sprinkled with soft guitar riffs and Arlo's smoky, honeyed vocals.
What makes "Euguene" stand out is how it captures the electric yet awkward energy of friendship turning into something more — that quietly intense moment where emotions swirl but words fail to catch fire. The lyrics feel like a whispered secret, raw and authentic, yet wrapped in a soothing melody that feels like a warm hug after a long day.
If you want a song that’s equal parts introspective and effortlessly cool, "Euguene" is your go-to. Perfect for late-night drives, rainy afternoons, or just that mood when you’re caught between nostalgia and hope. Arlo Parks doesn’t just sing; she paints your feelings in soft pastels. Dive in and let the heartfelt vibe sweep you away.
Crushing My Year
As this year began, I gave myself one simple mission: to enjoy each moment and make the most of it. I set a goal to attend at least two events each month and make two new friends along the way. So far, I’ve stayed right on track. My book club has become a consistent part of my routine, and for my second event each month, I keep things open—I either catch up with a friend one-on-one or join different clubs and gatherings around Sacramento.
While most of my connections have been one-on-one, I’m starting to grow more comfortable in group settings. With that growth has come a new idea: maybe it’s time I start building a community of my own.
But before I dive in, I need to ask myself what kind of community I actually want to build. It’s one thing to find like-minded people—it’s another to find those who are willing to commit, to sacrifice, and to show up for something greater than themselves.
The Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler has been lingering in my thoughts. Set in a dystopian California ravaged by climate collapse, economic instability, and societal breakdown, the story feels eerily close to home—especially considering it was written in 1993 and set in the “future” of 2025. We follow 18-year-old Lauren Olamina, a young Black woman living in a gated neighborhood constantly under threat. As the world outside descends into chaos—marked by drugs, violence, and a complete erosion of trust—Lauren begins to form her own philosophy, called Earthseed, centered on the belief that “God is Change.” And throughout the novel, she meets people of all ages and backgrounds for the purpose of building an Earthseed community.
What struck me most wasn’t just the environmental and social decay, but the desperate need for real community. The novel shows how fragile, yet essential human connection is and how survival depends not only on shared beliefs, but on the willingness to sacrifice, to trust, and to build something bigger than ourselves. It made me realize that while finding like-minded people is important, what I’m really searching for are people who are willing to grow something together. People committed to nurturing a space where we all feel safe, challenged, and supported. Because without that commitment, we risk falling into the very dystopia Butler describes: a world where people live in constant fear of one another, where trust is rare and fleeting, and being closed off is the new normal. Being able to trust someone or provide kindness with nothing more than a word, a smile, or a shared laugh is a privilege—one I’m starting to recognize more and more.
So, before I take that next step toward building community, I need to pause and reflect on what kind of presence I want to be in that space. In the past, I would have described myself as very anti-social, living in fear of what others thought of me. But over time, I’ve found myself chipping away these characteristics little by little. Lately, I have been intentional about seeking community and opening lines of conversations with strangers.
Power of Reading
What does it even mean to truly be open to people? I don’t mean just the theory, because sure, body language is a good starting point. A relaxed posture, eye contact, a genuine smile—those things send signals that say “I’m safe, you’re welcome here.” But I think real openness goes beyond that. It’s a mindset, a kind of internal permission to let people in and allow ourselves to be let in.
It’s the difference between performing friendliness and actually creating space for someone to belong. I’m learning that being receptive isn’t passive—it’s active. It means softening your guard even when you’ve been hurt before. It means allowing yourself to exist in the space just as much as the next person. It means not considering yourself a burden to others because we are trying to protect their peace. Preformative wellness has made us cautious about others feelings and energies at the individual level. Really, we need to aim higher together, and need to depend on each other to uplift ourselves.
Belonging doesn’t just happen because someone else invites you in. Sometimes, it begins when you believe you deserve to be there in the first place. When you carry that belief, you start to show up differently—not desperate, not guarded, just grounded. And that energy? People feel it. They respond to it.
I’ve never been as receptive as I am now. For so long, I moved through the world with hesitation—guarded, unsure of how much of myself to offer, unsure if I even belonged in certain spaces. But lately, something’s shifted. I’m gaining more and more confidence in myself, and with that, I’m learning how to socialize again—not out of obligation or performance, but out of genuine interest and ease.
This growth is quietly reshaping the way I imagine community. It’s no longer just about finding like-minded people to fill space or pass time with—it’s about building something rooted in mutual care, where everyone feels seen and heard. As I become more comfortable in my own skin, I’ve started to crave spaces where that same ease exists collectively. Where vulnerability is welcomed, where support goes both ways, and where laughter and honesty can coexist.
My vision for community now starts with intention. I want to help create a space where people can exhale, where they don’t have to prove themselves to belong or prove everything is fine. And maybe the first step toward building that kind of space is simply continuing to be that kind of person myself. Being open.
It feels good to want connection instead of fearing it. To walk into a room and not immediately search for the exit or a quiet corner. I’m starting to trust that I have something to offer. And that kind of trust—both in myself and in others—is new. It’s fragile, but it’s growing, and I couldn’t be more excited to see how the rest of the year will shape up to be.
I have a Dream
There’s a quiet ache in Eugene that mirrors the kind of emotional honesty I’m trying to move toward—gentle, raw, and full of unspoken longing. Arlo Parks captures the complexity of feeling close to someone while still feeling worlds apart. It reminded me how fragile connection can be, and how much courage it takes to admit what you feel, even to yourself. The softness of her voice feels like the exact space I’m trying to create: one where tenderness and truth can live side by side.
Enjoy This Journey With Me
° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °
Enjoy This Journey With Me ° 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 °
This isn’t the end—just a bookmark in the conversation. Stories don’t really close; they unfold, shift, and find new voices. If this one stirred something in you, let it breathe. Leave a thought, challenge an idea, or carry it forward in your own way. And if you ever feel like wandering through more unfinished thoughts, you know where to find me. Let’s keep the conversation alive. ~XOXO
