I met a woman during one of our McDonald’s visits.
Just two mums standing near the play area, watching our kids chase bits of sunlight across the floor. It could have been one of those easy, natural moments where two people share a smile, a comment, and maybe a gentle beginning of a friendship.
But it wasn’t.
She asked me who I was.
Then where I was from.
Then where I worked.
Then exactly *where* my workplace was located.
Not in a warm, curious, getting-to-know-you way.
But like she needed to place me.
To measure me.
To decide if I met some invisible criteria before she could simply… talk to me.
As if our children playing together required my CV.
And I felt this familiar weight — the pressure some environments create where identity is a checklist. Where your value as a human being is filtered through what you do, where you live, or what your partner does. Where connection is conditional.
But then I remembered something from another part of my life, in another part of the world.
I once had friendships built on nothing except joy.
We met through a shared hobby — and that was enough.
No one asked what my degree was.
No one asked how many square meters my house was.
No one cared.
We met, we laughed, we made plans, we saw each other almost every day. We explored cafés, walked for hours, shared our stories slowly, naturally, over time — like humans are meant to. Trust built itself. Presence was enough.
There was no interview before belonging.
Some people — some cultures, some communities — connect the way children do.
Kids never ask,
“Where are you from?”
“Where do you work?”
“What school did you go to?”
They look at each other and say,
*“Do you want to play?”*
Simple. Human. True.
I found myself wondering:
Why do some of us forget how to be like that?
Why do we grow up into people who require proof of worth before offering kindness?
Connection doesn’t need qualifications.
Belonging shouldn’t ask for permission.
Friendship does not require a resumé.
Sometimes the best relationships in our lives are the ones where we didn’t have to *earn* a seat at the table.
We were simply invited.
— forget ME nots…
for every version of you, still here.