The Word That Changed How I See Belonging

I recently joined an online event about Kigali and African traditions — mostly out of curiosity, but also with the hope of bringing more living culture into the books I’m writing.

What I didn’t expect was to walk away with a word that hasn’t left me since.

Teranga.

It’s a Senegalese word that doesn’t translate neatly into English. People often call it “hospitality,” but that barely touches it. Teranga is a way of being — an invitation, a responsibility, an openheartedness that begins long before the door opens. It’s about how you receive someone, how you make space for them, how you help them feel at home even when they’re far from theirs.

After the event, I made tea and wrote the word on a Post-it. Seeing those seven letters in my handwriting made it feel less like a concept and more like a promise.

Coming from Brazil, it felt familiar. Like a cultural cousin you recognize by instinct: the friend who insists you stay for dinner, the neighbor who sends you home with leftovers, the generosity that arrives before the words do. In Brazil, we might not call it teranga, but we understand it deeply — the stretch of the table, the shared laughter, the quiet assurance that no one leaves unseen.

Maybe that’s why the word stayed with me.

Lately I’ve been thinking about what it means to create connection across borders. I’ve lived in several countries — each one reshaping how I understand welcome. In some places, hospitality means offering help; in others, it means respecting distance. I’ve felt embraced and invisible, sometimes within the same week.

Belonging shifts shape wherever you go.

And yet, every time I encounter genuine kindness, it feels like teranga.

The world moves faster than ever. We automate, schedule, and streamline nearly everything — even connection. We “welcome” new followers, “engage” with comments, “build” online communities. But sometimes it feels as if the warmth has drained out. We’re all talking, but who’s truly inviting anyone in?

That’s what struck me about teranga: it asks for presence, not performance. You can’t fake it or outsource it to an algorithm. It’s the difference between being included and being cared for.

As a writer — and as a mother raising a child far from home — I think about that often. What does teranga look like on the page? How do I make sure my words hold space for someone else’s story, not just my own?

When we first move abroad, we think belonging is something we find. Over time, we learn it’s something we offer. Sometimes, it’s as small as learning to pronounce someone’s name correctly or remembering the snack that reminds them of home. Other times, it’s giving your attention fully — listening, even when the silence stretches a little too long.

There’s quiet power in that.

So when I sit down to write now, I think of teranga. I think of the strangers who made me feel like family, of the dinners where laughter bridged what words couldn’t. And I try to do on the page what those people did in real life: make space, extend grace, let others belong here too.

Because the stories we tell — and how we tell them — can either keep the door closed or hold it open.

I want mine to hold it open.