The Cost of Belonging: How We Learn to Abandon Ourselves (And How to Come Home Again)

Episode Description:

Why do so many capable, creative adults feel disconnected from themselves?

In this episode, Beth Mateskon explores the hidden bargain many of us made long ago: the belief that belonging meant becoming more acceptable, more productive, quieter, easier to love, and less ourselves.

This is a reflection on creativity, identity, self abandonment, and remembering the artist within us. If you've ever wondered why you stopped making art or why you've spent years preparing instead of creating this conversation invites you to look beneath the surface.

If you're longing to reconnect with your creativity, your curiosity, and your own voice, this episode is for you.

Episode Script:

There is a question that has been following me for weeks.

Not loudly.

More like a shadow.

Quiet enough that I could ignore it if I stayed busy.

The question is this.

When did I start believing that belonging was more important than being myself?

I don't remember making that decision.

I don't think any of us do.

I think it happens slowly.

One small compromise at a time.

We learn which parts of ourselves make adults smile.

Which parts earn good grades.

Which parts get applause.

Which parts make us easier to love.

And just as importantly...

we learn which parts don't.

The messy parts.

The loud parts.

The imaginative parts.

The inconvenient parts.

The wildly curious parts.

The parts that ask too many questions.

The artist.

Not because anyone sat us down and said,

"Don't become yourself."

But because children are brilliant observers.

We notice what keeps us connected.

And we adapt.

At first, adaptation is wisdom.

It helps us survive.

But somewhere along the way...

survival quietly becomes identity.

And that's where something precious begins to disappear.

I wonder if you've felt this.

You become incredibly competent.

Reliable.

Responsible.

Productive.

People admire you.

People depend on you.

You check every box that adulthood asks of you.

And yet...

there's this strange feeling.

As if you've become very good at living a life that no longer feels like your own.

It's difficult to explain because nothing is obviously wrong.

Your life might even look beautiful from the outside.

But underneath...

there is an ache.

Not because you've failed.

Because you've forgotten.

Forgotten what delighted you before it had to be useful.

Forgotten what your hands reached for before someone measured whether it was good enough.

Forgotten what your soul sounded like before it learned to ask permission.

I think about art a lot.

Not because I believe everyone should become an artist.

But because art asks something almost impossible of us.

It asks us to show up without knowing whether anyone will approve.

To make something before we've been told we're qualified.

To trust our own hands before we've received a certificate saying we can.

That's terrifying.

Especially if you've spent your whole life believing that your value comes from being useful.

Or agreeable.

Or exceptional.

Or needed.

Because then creativity isn't just creativity.

It becomes exposure.

It becomes vulnerability.

It becomes the terrifying possibility that if people see who you really are...

they might decide you don't belong.

And so many of us respond in the same way.

We become experts at waiting.

Waiting until we're better.

Waiting until we're clearer.

Waiting until we're more confident.

Waiting until someone notices us.

Waiting until someone gives us permission.

But here's what I've been realizing.

Permission is one of the most expensive things we can spend our lives chasing.

Because the people we're waiting for...

don't actually have it to give.

No teacher.

No mentor.

No parent.

No audience.

No algorithm.

No institution.

Can hand you the authority to become yourself.

Only you can do that.

And maybe that's why so many adults feel exhausted.

Not because they're working too hard.

But because carrying a version of yourself that was designed to earn belonging...

is incredibly heavy.

What if the exhaustion isn't asking you to become more efficient?

What if it's asking you to become more honest?

I don't know exactly what coming home looks like for you.

Maybe it begins with picking up a paintbrush again.

Maybe it's writing the story you've carried for years.

Maybe it's planting a garden.

Learning an instrument.

Taking a walk without trying to optimize it.

Saying no.

Saying yes.

Crying.

Laughing louder than feels appropriate.

Making something no one will ever buy.

I don't think coming home always looks dramatic.

Sometimes it looks incredibly ordinary.

A woman sitting at her kitchen table with a lump of clay.

A man sketching after the kids go to bed.

Someone choosing curiosity over performance for the first time in decades.

Maybe that's where healing begins.

Not with becoming someone new.

But with remembering the person you were before you believed you had to earn the right to exist.

If there's one thing I hope you carry with you today, it's this.

You were never meant to trade yourself for belonging.

Real belonging has never required your disappearance.

It has always required your presence.

So wherever you are...

whatever part of yourself you've been hiding...

whatever dream you've been postponing until you feel worthy...

I hope you'll stop waiting for permission.

I hope you'll become the kind of person who quietly gives it to yourself.

Because the world doesn't need another polished performance.

It needs more people who remember who they were before they forgot.

Until next time...

Create more than you destroy.