Seven Doors Down: Finding Your Way In

I still remember the thrill of it, sharing a thought and having someone engage, argue with it, and expand it. Sharing an interest and having someone´s eyes light up in return. Dropping a fun fact and watching it spark a conversation and ripple into connection

That was my first real taste of community. I was sixteen, freshly arrived at university on the other side of the country, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged.

I grew up in a small town on the outskirts of Algiers. My family was loving, but we had little in common. My sister and I were two years yet worlds apart, both in temperament and taste. At home, I was the black sheep, endlessly curious about music, history, geography, languages. I have always felt like my parents, in another life, would have shared that with me. The interest was there, but their circumstances never allowed it to expand.

School wasn’t much different. Whenever I shared what fascinated me, I was met with blank stares, sudden subject changes, or mocking smirks. Back then, my passions were “nerdy,” my interests alien.

But everything changed when I moved to Oran. The business school I got into was filled with people from bigger cities, many even nerdier than I was. Instead of shrinking, my curiosity finally had room to breathe. For the first time, difference felt like connection.

What I didn’t know then was that this was only the beginning of a life of constant new beginnings.

Six cities, five countries, and four continents later, I’ve built communities that stretched across borders and languages.

Looking back now, I see belonging as the doorway into life itself, a doorway I may have uncovered the keys to. In this essay, I want to distill both my lived experience and my coaching work into what I’ve come to call the seven keys of belonging.

Identity Anchoring

In my hometown, I only knew myself in contrast to others: the rebellious kid, the black sheep, the advice-giver friend. My identity was reactive, defined by adaptation. Growing up in a religion-bound society, my values and beliefs were inherited, not chosen.

It wasn’t until I left, with space to express and decide for myself, what I liked, what I wanted to stand for, what I believed in, that I began to feel grounded.

That grounding, the sense of who you are, is the first key. Without it, every community feels borrowed and every city foreign, even the one you’re from. Without it, you drift: choosing people who don’t fit, staying in places that drain you, living lives that aren’t yours.

You can only connect with the world outside to the depth you’ve connected inside.

The mistake many of us make is believing identity is fixed, when in truth it never is. We’re evolving beings with shifting needs, values, and priorities. That’s why reconnecting with someone from the past can feel strangely awkward, like two people who no longer quite recognize each other. It can even feel guilt-inducing, as if you’ve betrayed who you once were. Especially in cultures where “you’ve changed” is thrown as an accusation, rather than acknowledged as the most natural fact of being alive. Of course I’ve changed, I’m not eighteen anymore. If you haven’t, maybe that’s the problem,

Identity anchoring is not only about assessing who you are now, t’s also about remembering who you’ve always been, integrating the fragments of yourself that still fit.

This is where constants come in: the shows you’ve rewatched for years, the verbena tea you carry everywhere, the book that’s followed you through three apartments, the family and friends you still FaceTime no matter the distance.

When everything else is changing: streets, faces, routines, these constants remind you that you’re not starting from nothing.

They’re proof your story stretches backward as well as forward.

For me, that constant was watching FRIENDS.

I know that show by heart. For over fifteen years, I carried six familiar voices with me into every new chapter. In cities where everything and everyone was new, in countries time zones away from everyone I loved, the show was a thread tying me back to myself. It kept me company before I had any. It helped me feel anchored.

And once I touched base internally, the next step was my space.

Creating Your Sanctuary

Every time someone visits my place, they say the same thing: “Your house looks like you.” And they’re right. It’s not just a house; it is my home, my sanctuary.

A sanctuary doesn’t have to be an entire house. It can be a single room or even a corner. What matters is the intention: filling it with your favorite colors, textiles, photos, art, and objects that carry meaning. Even if you don’t choose the big pieces, you can add small ones that reflect you back to yourself.

And what is a sanctuary if not a place for rituals?

Rituals ground us because they offer rhythm, comfort, and a sense of control. If that is true in ordinary times, it is even more so during transition.

Rituals breathe life into your space, but they also do something deeper: they act like reference lines in sketching your new life. They weave the unfamiliar into the fabric of an ongoing story instead of making it feel like you’re starting over.

Constants ground you inward; rituals root you outward.

For me, morning café journaling is one ritual. Whether I’m on my terrace at home, in a hotel in New Orleans, on a beach in the Maldives, or surrounded by loud cousins in the Algerian mountains, the ritual is the same: pen, page, coffee. The setting shifts, but the act ties mornings together, turning each day into a continuous thread of the same life.

Another ritual is my sushi-and-movie candlelight night after every trip. Simple, predictable, deeply mine. No matter where I’ve been or how long I’ve been gone, that ritual is the moment I exhale and say: I am home.

Like identity, rituals evolve. My Sundays used to mean salmon toast, coffee in a Friends mug and being a couch potato. Now it’s coffee at the café with the swing next door watching people, then the gym with Trevor Noah’s podcast in my ear.

Priorities shift, and rituals shift with them.

It’s not about the thing you do. It’s about the attention you give it. Living on purpose roots you more deeply than anything else.

Mapping Your City

I lived in Budapest for two years and fell in love with every corner by walking it into memory. I don’t know it by street names or bus numbers; I know it through cafés.

The city unfolded between double espressos and delicious cakes. Each café became a cardinal point, and together they drew the map of my Budapest.

Mapping a city this way builds a personal geography. It’s not about knowing every street; it’s about finding the places that pull you out the door. Cafés, bookshops, parks, bars, whatever sparks curiosity becomes an anchor. These places turn the overwhelming mass into a constellation of meaningful points, until the city begins to feel like yours.

The past three summers, I carried this practice into working remotely from New York, Paris, and London. Each time, I watched it unlock a sense of home away from home. Every day, I’d go out with a mission: find the cutest café to work from. Life happened in that quest; the things I saw, the conversations I stumbled into, the people I met

These personal maps give you calm and direction in the middle of chaos, making the unfamiliar not just livable but lovable.

Third Place Regulation

On my first day in a new Barcelona neighborhood, after leaving a painful living situation that had shaken me to my core, I went out to find a café. I stumbled into a tiny bar with the kindest barista. I asked her name: Valeria. I ordered a flauta and a double espresso and sat down to work.

From that day on, every time I walked in it was the same: Hola Valeria. Hola Leila, la flauta como siempre?

That “as always” is the essence of the key. That’s what you want from your third place.

Third places are informal public spaces: cafés, bars, gyms, coworking spots, where you shift from stranger to regular. When you’re recognized, remembered, it matters. Especially if you’re a remote worker landing in cities where you don’t know a soul. Sometimes, that one simple interaction is the thread of human connection you need.

Trust me. Or ask Deniz, the barista from Art Café London, who still has my copy of Rebellious Spirits.

Joining a Ready-Made Community

When I moved to Atlanta, it was for a program at UPS Headquarters that gathered professionals from all over the world. Same age, similar backgrounds, shared appetite for adventure, and most importantly, none of us knew anyone. The friendships formed almost inevitably. Eight years later, many are still my closest friends.

That group was essential. Atlanta is massive, not walkable, and most social life happened at private pool parties and barbecues. Without that community, I’d have been adrift.

You won’t always land in a ready-made network, but you can find them: workout groups, classes, coworking spaces, even climbing cults!

They cost money, but think of it as an investment. In Bowling Alone, Robert Putnam calls it social capital: you invest, you grow it, and it gives back in safety, opportunity, and belonging.

Being a Bridge

Joining a group doesn’t guarantee connection. It only gives you the opportunity. To unlock it, someone has to take the first step.

When I first joined Les Amis, a women’s club in Barcelona, every event ended the same way: awkward silence until someone broke it. More often than not, that person was me: “Do you want to grab a drink?” And just like that, most of the room said yes.

That’s what being a bridge means: turning potential into reality.

It’s rewarding, but it can also be draining. If you’ve been the “host” friend, you know the weight. My advice: practice being the bridge by choice, not obligation. That difference protects your energy and keeps your connections genuine.

Cultural Curiosity and Fluency

The keys above help building belonging, but they can also get you stuck in the expat trap: living in a bubble disconnected from the local community.

I see it in Barcelona, where many expats never learn Spanish, let alone Catalan. I see it in Algerian enclaves in Paris, in Dubai where foreigners live for years without crossing paths with locals.

At least in Barcelona we know where to find them, Catalans are north of Diagonal, waiting for you to step out of your bubble!

I chose Barcelona because my values, lifestyle, and priorities aligned with life here. That means there’s no excuse not to connect with locals. except language. I speak Spanish fluently, but here that’s not enough. I have a theory that locals may filter out foreigners who don’t speak their language because it signals something deeper: that you’re not invested enough in their culture, or that you don’t plan to stay. Both are fair reasons not to let you in the inner circle.

So this year, I started Catalan classes. I’ll let you know if it grows me beyond the two Catalan friends I currently have.

Cultural curiosity is more than learning a language. It’s about showing respect, stepping into the community you live in, and proving your commitment is real.

And that, in truth, is what every key has in common: The commitment, through Intentional, proactive, deliberate acts that turn the unfamiliar into home.

I once thought belonging was a matter of luck, a rare alignment of people, places, and timing. That I was born in the wrong place, and I would know when I find the right one for me, but after a lifetime of constant arrivals, I know better.

Belonging is not found; it’s built.

The seven keys are not rules but tools. small ways of claiming space until a city lets you in. With them in hand, no place is truly foreign, and no life is ever lived alone.