The Word That Changed How I See Belonging

Recently, I joined a virtual event about Kigali and African traditions. I signed up out of curiosity, hoping to bring more living culture into the books I’m writing. What I didn’t expect was to walk away with a single word that has stayed with me ever since: teranga.

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

After the event, I made tea and wrote the word on a sticky note. Seeing those seven letters in my handwriting made it feel like more than a concept — it became a quiet promise to myself. Coming from Brazil, it felt familiar. Like a cultural cousin you instantly recognize. The friend who insists you stay for dinner. The neighbor who sends you home with leftovers. The kind of generosity that speaks first without saying a word. In Brazil, we might not call it teranga, but we understand it — the stretch of the table, the shared laughter, the quiet reassurance that no one leaves unseen.

Maybe that’s why the word stayed with me. I’ve lived in several countries, and each one has reshaped how I understand welcome. In some places, hospitality means offering help. In others, it means giving space. I’ve felt deeply embraced and completely invisible, sometimes within the same week. Belonging looks different wherever you go. And yet, every time I experience real kindness, it feels like teranga.

The world moves quickly. We automate greetings, schedule meetings, build digital communities. We “welcome” followers, “engage” with comments, and do our best to stay visible. But often, the warmth feels lost. Everyone’s talking, but who is truly inviting? That’s what struck me about teranga. It asks for presence, not performance. You can’t fake it. You can’t outsource it to a caption or 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 this often. What does teranga look like on the page? How do I use my words to hold space for someone else’s story, not just my own? When we first move abroad, we believe belonging is something we find. But over time, we learn it’s something we offer. Sometimes, that means remembering the snack that reminds someone of home. Or learning how to pronounce their name the right way. Other times, it means staying quiet long enough to really listen.

There is a quiet power in that. So now, when I sit down to write, I think of teranga. I think of strangers who made me feel like family, of dinners where laughter did what language could not. And I try to do on the page what those people did in real life — make space, offer care, and remind others they belong.

Because the stories we share can do one of two things. They can close the door. Or they can hold it open.