Reflection: My absence has been noticed (mainly by me)

I’ve spent decades doing my own thing. I value freedom. I like setting my own pace, shaping my days, and contributing in ways that don’t ask too much of me. I rarely read the news, I’ve moved off social media, and I vote when that comes around. I support a few causes quietly from the sidelines. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve left something important on the table.

I live in two communities (by living in two countries), but I haven’t really shown up in either of them. Not fully. I’ve walked past meetings, ignored invitations, skimmed through calls for input. I tell myself I’m busy, that others are more qualified, that my voice probably wouldn’t change much anyway. But underneath that rationale is a quieter truth: I’ve chosen not to engage.

I’ve chosen solitude over discomfort. Certainty over process. Efficiency over dialogue. I haven’t attended planning sessions, served on committees, or sat in the messy spaces where neighbours try to make something together. And I see now what that costs, not just others, but me.

I’ve mistaken awareness for participation. And participation for sacrifice. What I’m beginning to see is that citizenship isn’t about giving things up; it’s about giving things voice.

We talk a lot about community, but often what we mean is proximity. Living near people is not the same as belonging with them. And belonging, at its root, is a two-way act. We’re not just invited to be included, we’re asked to bring something only we can offer. I’ve withheld that. And in doing so, I’ve also withheld the chance to discover what others might be carrying too.

And perhaps this is the deeper question: how do I honour my own rhythm, my distinct voice, without cutting myself off from the shared work of community?

The polarity: Individuality ↔ Belonging

A polarity isn’t a problem to solve; it’s a tension to hold. It shows up when two values are both true, both needed, and often in creative conflict with one another. We can’t pick a side without losing something essential.

This particular polarity, Individuality and Belonging, runs through every part of civic life. It lives in how we show up, how we speak, and how we decide. It surfaces in the smallest of moments: when I hold back in a group because I don’t quite fit (If I attend), or when I say what’s expected just to blend into the room. Do I protect my independence, or do I risk being part of something?

Citizenship asks us to bring our gifts without surrendering our uniqueness. Individuality disappears when it becomes isolation. Belonging loses its power when it becomes conformity. The invitation is to show up as ourselves while creating space for others to do the same.

Community forms not when we match one another, but when we reveal ourselves. The tension between standing apart and standing with is an ancient human rhythm. When we allow both to be true, we stop choosing between loneliness and obedience. Citizenship begins when we bring our distinctiveness as an offering, not a shield.

Returning to the room: Not to lead, just to be accountable

For a long time, I thought showing up meant taking charge, which often led me to fall into my role as a Certified Professional Facilitator. That if I entered the room, I’d have to carry the agenda, have the right words, and bring the group to solutions. And so, more often than not, I stayed away, drained from a hectic schedule and a heavy dose of introversion.

But what I’m learning, slowly, is that community doesn’t need more experts. It requires more neighbours. People who are willing to sit in the discomfort of not knowing. People who are willing to risk being changed by the people they meet. People who bring their presence, not their performance.

Showing up, it turns out, is not about rescuing anyone or driving the process. It’s about becoming accountable, to a place, to a people, to a shared future that won’t be shaped by policies alone.

This isn’t about obligation or virtue. It’s about participation. And the door is always open, even if you’ve been away a while, even if your voice shakes. Even, and especially, if you don’t yet know what you have to offer.

The answer to “what does it mean to engage?” isn’t grand. It’s almost embarrassingly small. It begins with noticing where I am absent. It continues with choosing to be present, even in hesitant, half-hearted ways. Not because it will fix things. But because presence is itself a kind of offering.

What I can do

  • Attend one gathering I would normally skip: Not because it will fix something. Just to practise presence. To notice who is in the room. To notice who is not. To learn how it feels to sit, listen, and not be the centre.

  • Say one thing in a meeting: Not clever. Not rehearsed. Just true. Something small, like a memory, a doubt, or a question. Not to sway the group, but to signal that voice is welcome, even when it is unpolished.

  • Talk to someone I usually walk past: Someone at the edge of the group, the street, the conversation. Not to network. Just to ask, “What’s something you care about around here?” Then listen, without steering the answer.

  • Ask to be included, even late: Not with apology, but with intention. Most gatherings, whether formal or informal, need more people willing to arrive without credentials and to stay without certainty.

What we can do together

  • Design spaces where showing up doesn’t require expertise: Only presence. Make room for people to come as they are. Let the agenda leave space for the unexpected. Create formats where speaking isn’t mandatory but mattering is possible.

  • Create circles where speaking truth is welcomed, even when it doesn’t align: Hold space for disagreement without requiring resolution. Trust that tension can be creative. Let questions hang. Honour the courage it takes to diverge.

  • Value the newcomer, the doubter, the quiet one: Not as diversity points, but as carriers of overlooked wisdom. Make it possible for them to shape the space, not just be welcomed into it. Assume they have something essential we’ve not yet heard.

  • Reclaim decision-making as a shared act, not a delegated one: Pause before defaulting to officials or leaders. Ask, “What do we want to decide together?” Create the habit of small, local, shared choice. That is the soil of democracy.

The point is not to be everywhere. The point is to be somewhere on purpose.

Community is not built by the most informed or the most confident. It gets built by people who realise they have been standing at the edges and choose to step into the middle, unsure and awake.

For me, it starts with attending a neighbourhood conversation I’ve previously avoided. Just once. Not to lead. Not even to speak. Just to practise presence. To be in the room again.

Questions to sit with

  • Where have I been present in name but absent in practice?

  • What small invitation to participate have I declined, or could now accept?

  • Who might be waiting for someone like me to show up?

  • How would it feel to speak, not to fix, but simply to be heard?

Thanks for reading. If this stirred something in you, let me know!

As always, my thinking here is heavily influenced by Peter Block and, in particular, his books Community and Activating the Common Good.