The Gap Between Knowing and Belonging

Lately, as I have been unlocking my genealogical history, I have discovered something I didn’t know was missing.

A gap.

Not a gap in names or dates.

Not a gap in records.

A gap in identity.

A gap in belonging.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt connected to Country.

Not intellectually.

Not through research.

Not because somebody told me I should.

I simply felt it.

The land spoke to me.

Not in words, but in feelings. In quiet moments. In that strange sense of knowing that life could not continue the way it had always been.

Something needed to change.

At the time, I had no idea how profound those changes would become.

I did not know that transition awaited.

I did not know that becoming the woman I had always been would ask me to shed so much of the life I had constructed.

And I certainly did not know that another ripple was waiting further down the path.

The discovery of my cultural roots.

The discovery that I am Wiradjuri.

The understanding that I am Sistergirl.

Words that somehow felt both new and ancient.

Not because they created me.

Because they recognised me.

And with recognition came something I hadn’t expected.

Longing.

Not just curiosity.

Not just pride.

Longing.

A longing to understand.

A longing to connect.

A longing to learn.

A longing to belong.

And perhaps that longing exists because somewhere deep inside, something remembers.

Perhaps the heart remembers before the mind understands.

Because the truth is, I feel disconnected.

I have reached out.

I have asked questions.

I have extended my hands in hope.

And sometimes those hands have not been held.

That hurts.

There is no point pretending otherwise.

There is grief in standing at the edge of something beautiful and not knowing how to enter.

There is sadness in wondering whether you are welcome.

There is vulnerability in saying, “I want to learn,” and hearing silence in return.

And in those quiet moments, old fears begin to whisper.

Am I enough?

Do I belong?

Am I claiming something that isn’t mine?

Questions that feel strangely familiar.

Questions I have carried before.

Questions I carried when I first acknowledged I was transgender.

Questions I carried when I finally allowed myself to say the word woman.

Questions I carried before surgery.

Questions I carried when I stood trembling in spaces where I feared I would be seen as too much by some and not enough by others.

And perhaps this is why the ache feels so familiar.

Because identity often arrives before belonging.

Sometimes we know who we are long before we know where we fit.

Yet there is another truth that quietly sits beside the pain.

Country knew me before I knew myself.

The land spoke to me long before genealogy gave me names.

Long before I discovered family lines and histories, something inside me already recognised home.

Perhaps my ancestors have been walking beside me all along.

Not demanding perfection.

Not asking me to prove myself.

Not keeping score.

Simply waiting.

Waiting for me to turn around and recognise that I had never truly been alone.

I wonder if every homecoming begins with questions.

Some people return carrying language.

Some return carrying stories.

Some return carrying family.

And some return carrying only longing.

Perhaps longing itself is sacred.

Because longing means something matters.

Longing means love exists.

Longing means the spirit recognises something precious.

And maybe those of us who are reconnecting are not outsiders.

Maybe we are simply people walking home.

Slowly.

Uncertainly.

Sometimes awkwardly.

Sometimes alone.

But still walking.

As a Wiradjuri Sistergirl, I know something about becoming.

I know what it means to carry truths that existed long before I had words for them.

I know what it means to discover that identity is not something created.

It is something remembered.

So perhaps I do not need to have all the answers.

Perhaps I do not need to know every story.

Perhaps I do not need somebody else’s permission to begin learning.

Perhaps I only need the courage to keep walking.

To keep listening.

To keep reaching.

And to trust that one day, somewhere along this journey, hands will reach back.

Until then, I will hold my own hand.

I will listen to Country.

I will honour those who came before me.

I will remain curious.

I will remain humble.

And I will continue walking this path with gratitude.

Because maybe belonging was never something I had to earn.

Maybe belonging was always something waiting to be remembered.

And perhaps my ancestors are simply smiling softly and saying,

“There you are, girl.

We’ve been waiting.”

Live your truth. Walk gently. Keep coming home.