The quiet isolation of Valentia Island still resonates within me, a memory etched in time like the rugged cliffs that tower above the Atlantic. At 24, as I stood on its windswept shores with my friend, I was struck by an unsettling feeling – one that would alter my perception of myself and my place in the world forever.
Our week-long sojourn at the beach hut was a deliberate attempt to escape the chaos of our lives, to immerse ourselves in nature and tap into our creative wellsprings. The island's unforgiving landscape, with its wild rainforests and icy waters, seemed almost surreal – a stark contrast to the familiarity we'd known back in Leicester.
It was during one such exploration that I stumbled upon a convenience store, and it was there that my eyes met those of a young woman who looked up from behind the counter. Her expression betrayed a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as if she'd never seen anyone like me before – someone from outside her narrow bubble of experience.
In that instant, I felt an unfamiliar sense of visibility, a feeling of standing out in a way that was both exhilarating and unnerving. It was a sensation that would stay with me long after we left the island behind.
Growing up in Leicester, I'd always assumed that I belonged to a larger group – that the city's "super diversity" made it an exemplary model for England. But our time on Valentia Island forced me to confront the limitations of my own perspective. We were surrounded by nature, and yet we couldn't help but feel like strangers in a strange land.
I began to wonder what it would have been like for those who came after us – my grandfather, who arrived in England from Africa in the 1950s; my mother, who moved to India in the early 60s. Did they ever feel invisible? Did they ever find themselves standing out?
Those questions, I realized, were not so different from the ones that haunted me during my trip. Why did I feel like an outsider on Valentia Island when it was such a tranquil and beautiful place? And what did that say about my own place in the world?
As I navigated those questions, I started to see people as balloons – their sense of self expanding or contracting depending on their circumstances and where they were in the world. I realized that I'd spent my formative years in an environment of expansion, believing I was part of the majority.
But it wasn't until I left Leicester for university and began to travel more widely that I discovered a different kind of visibility – one that came from being among people who were vastly different from me. I found comfort in being able to exist in the middle, rather than expanding or contracting.
And yet, with each new experience, I've come to understand that this sense of belonging is fleeting. There are moments when fear and anxiety can contract our selfs to an almost unbearable degree – as if we're losing our footing in a place we once called home.
It's a feeling I recognize all too well, one that I see played out in the world around me. Beneath the chants and slogans of extremists, I see the fear that drives them – a fear that can be just as paralyzing for those who are trying to find their place in the world.
For me, the lesson of Valentia Island is clear: in order to live a life of meaning, we need to experience both expansion and contraction. We need to feel like we stand out in the crowd, but also know that our sense of self can be fragile and ephemeral.
As I look back on that trip, I realize that it was not just a moment of solitude on a windswept shore – but an awakening to my own power and privilege. It's a reminder that being seen is both exhilarating and terrifying, and that the only way we can truly grow is by embracing our place in the world, with all its complexities and uncertainties.
Our week-long sojourn at the beach hut was a deliberate attempt to escape the chaos of our lives, to immerse ourselves in nature and tap into our creative wellsprings. The island's unforgiving landscape, with its wild rainforests and icy waters, seemed almost surreal – a stark contrast to the familiarity we'd known back in Leicester.
It was during one such exploration that I stumbled upon a convenience store, and it was there that my eyes met those of a young woman who looked up from behind the counter. Her expression betrayed a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as if she'd never seen anyone like me before – someone from outside her narrow bubble of experience.
In that instant, I felt an unfamiliar sense of visibility, a feeling of standing out in a way that was both exhilarating and unnerving. It was a sensation that would stay with me long after we left the island behind.
Growing up in Leicester, I'd always assumed that I belonged to a larger group – that the city's "super diversity" made it an exemplary model for England. But our time on Valentia Island forced me to confront the limitations of my own perspective. We were surrounded by nature, and yet we couldn't help but feel like strangers in a strange land.
I began to wonder what it would have been like for those who came after us – my grandfather, who arrived in England from Africa in the 1950s; my mother, who moved to India in the early 60s. Did they ever feel invisible? Did they ever find themselves standing out?
Those questions, I realized, were not so different from the ones that haunted me during my trip. Why did I feel like an outsider on Valentia Island when it was such a tranquil and beautiful place? And what did that say about my own place in the world?
As I navigated those questions, I started to see people as balloons – their sense of self expanding or contracting depending on their circumstances and where they were in the world. I realized that I'd spent my formative years in an environment of expansion, believing I was part of the majority.
But it wasn't until I left Leicester for university and began to travel more widely that I discovered a different kind of visibility – one that came from being among people who were vastly different from me. I found comfort in being able to exist in the middle, rather than expanding or contracting.
And yet, with each new experience, I've come to understand that this sense of belonging is fleeting. There are moments when fear and anxiety can contract our selfs to an almost unbearable degree – as if we're losing our footing in a place we once called home.
It's a feeling I recognize all too well, one that I see played out in the world around me. Beneath the chants and slogans of extremists, I see the fear that drives them – a fear that can be just as paralyzing for those who are trying to find their place in the world.
For me, the lesson of Valentia Island is clear: in order to live a life of meaning, we need to experience both expansion and contraction. We need to feel like we stand out in the crowd, but also know that our sense of self can be fragile and ephemeral.
As I look back on that trip, I realize that it was not just a moment of solitude on a windswept shore – but an awakening to my own power and privilege. It's a reminder that being seen is both exhilarating and terrifying, and that the only way we can truly grow is by embracing our place in the world, with all its complexities and uncertainties.
Being in a place that feels like home isn't always as it seems... "Home is where the heart is," but what if your heart is also on a journey of discovery? 
i mean i grew up thinking i was part of a bigger group too but being on that island made me realize how limited my perspective is and how much i took for granted growing up in leicester 
what about ppl who came after the 50s or 60s? did they ever feel seen too?
i'm glad this article is reminding me to be more compassionate towards others who might be going through similar struggles
and how we navigate our place in the world 
i've been there too, feeling like an outsider or an outsider-looking-in and it's scary but also kind of liberating?
like, one wrong move and you're contractin' back down to zero visibility 
. for me, it's about embracin' both the feelin' of standin' out and the fear that comes with it 
