Following a Feeling

When a long held feeling begins to take shape.

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For as long as I can remember, I’ve said the same thing: England has never felt like somewhere I want to stay forever.

Even as a child, there was always this anchoring sense that something didn’t quite fit, or even perhaps, that I didn’t quite fit. The weather, the food, the rhythm of life, none of it has ever felt entirely natural to me. At the time, I assumed this was my curious imagination, a deep longing for adventure, or the result of growing up too quickly and dreaming of a life elsewhere.

And yet, in contradiction, my personality is unmistakably British. Dark humour, wit and emotional reserve - unless I feel deeply about something - in which case, the passion spills over.

For years, I left it at that: a quiet sense of not fully belonging but accepting that I didn’t have an explanation for it.

But when I place that feeling alongside what I now know, it becomes harder to dismiss;

DNA pointing consistently towards Spain and Portugal. Sephardic Jewish heritage, with traces of Iranian and Northern African ancestry - that repeat across maternal lines. All of this, whilst, a Star of David was sat in my grandmother’s jewellery box - not displayed, not explained, just simply kept.

I don’t necessarily see this as proof. I see it as alignment.

Perhaps that sense of not fitting in wasn’t restlessness or fantasy at all. Perhaps it was memory carried forward in the body rather than the mind, a recognition without language. A belonging that didn’t disappear, just relocated.

Not everyone understands this kind of work. Some question it, sometimes casually, sometimes through opinion alone. However, I have never lived my life by following the crowd and I have certainly never felt comfortable ignoring something that feels quietly right. If anything, doubt has always sharpened my focus rather than softened it. When something pulls strongly enough, I follow it, not to prove anything to anyone else but because I trust the instinct that led me there.

If ancestors moved by necessity, survival, or by choice, wouldn’t it make sense that their descendants might feel pulled towards something they can’t yet name? Not dissatisfaction with where they are but a subtle orientation towards somewhere or something else.

I’m not trying to claim an identity or rewrite history prematurely. I’m simply open to the possibility that belonging isn’t always learned, sometimes it’s inherited.

So I’m starting here.

With the Star of David. With the DNA. With the feeling that existed long before the evidence. Not because I know where it will lead but because it is the most honest place to begin.

Something kept, long before I knew to look for it.

Following the footsteps of migrated ancestors feels like the most obvious and adventurous path to try. To walk streets they may have walked. To sit in places they may have known. To let geography speak where records fall silent.

If it leads somewhere, I’ll learn something true and if it leads to a dead end - well, it would still have been an adventure worth taking.

Paying attention to what calls you, even when you don’t understand why, is never wasted.

Sometimes a feeling comes first. Then the meaning simply follows.

When a path begins to reveal itself, the only thing left to do is step forward and see where it leads. That one step forward might be all the courage you need.