In the earlier chapters, I shared my experiences of exclusion, confusion, and hurt during my time at Oulu University of Applied Sciences. Now, before going forward in my story, I want to take a step back and reflect on what these experiences meant — both for me and for anyone who has ever faced something similar.
WE WERE MADE TO BELONG
Humans have a deep, natural need to belong. We’re wired for connection — to be seen, accepted, and valued by those around us. This isn’t weakness; it’s part of being human. And in a setting like a classroom, that need grows even stronger.
When we come together in groups — whether as students, coworkers, or friends — we don’t just gather to share tasks or space. We seek a place in the social fabric. We need to feel like we are part of the circle, that our presence matters, and that we are welcomed for who we are.
Belonging shapes how we see ourselves. From a young age, we understand who we are by how others reflect us back to ourselves. Do they listen when we speak? Do they invite us into shared moments? Do they celebrate our successes and stand by us in struggles? These signals teach us: I matter, I am worthy, I am part of something larger than myself.
When we feel securely connected in a group, it gives us a foundation to take risks and grow. We can express opinions, try new things, make mistakes because we trust that even if we stumble, we won’t be pushed away. That sense of psychological safety is essential for learning, creativity, and emotional resilience. But when belonging is missing or feels uncertain, everything becomes harder.
It doesn’t just hurt emotionally. It unsettles our entire sense of self. Humans evolved as social beings; isolation and rejection were once literal survival threats. Even today, exclusion triggers powerful stress responses in the brain. We become hyper-alert, anxious, and unsure, constantly watching for social cues and worrying about where we stand. This is why belonging matters so much in spaces like classrooms, workplaces, and teams. It’s not just about “getting along”. It’s about creating an environment where everyone has the grounding they need to learn, contribute, and succeed. So belonging isn’t just about comfort or social ease. It’s a basic emotional need that affects everything: our self-image, our courage, and our ability to thrive.
It’s completely natural to want to belong to a group, and when you’re pushed out, it’s normal for that to hurt — or even make you feel afraid.
What made my situation even painful wasn’t constant rejection — it was the inconsistency. Some days, I was included, laughing and sharing moments with classmates. Other days, I was dismissed or shut out. That unpredictability created a kind of emotional confusion that slowly wore me down.
When you don’t know whether you’ll be accepted or excluded, you become hyperaware of every interaction. You start second-guessing your words, your presence, even your right to be there. Over time, it becomes hard not just to trust others but to trust yourself.
THE TOLL ON IDENTITY AND MENTAL HEALTH
These small but repeated moments of exclusion slowly accumulate. They chip away at your confidence, your sense of belonging, and your trust in your own perceptions.
Eventually, I began to internalize these patterns. I stopped seeing them as the group’s behavior and started seeing them as evidence of something wrong with me. I wondered if I was boring, too emotional, or simply unlikable
What strikes me now is how deeply these patterns can sink in, not just into your memories, but into your sense of self. When you’re repeatedly left out or dismissed, you start to absorb the message: Maybe I’m not worth including.
But here’s what I want to remind both myself — and you, if you’ve felt this too: these experiences say more about the environment you were in than they do about you.
You were never the problem.
The problem was the system, the unhealthy group dynamics, the unspoken rules that made belonging conditional and exclusion so easy.
THE HEAVY WEIGHT OF RACISM AND WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE TOLERATE IT
Looking back, I see now that what happened to me wasn’t just about awkward social moments or misunderstandings. There was another layer running through it all, shaping the tone from the very start: racism.
In Chapter 2, I shared one of the clearest examples. A senior teacher used his authority to single me out because of my Romany background
That moment wasn’t just a passing sting; it was a loud message to the room:
This person is different. This person can be singled out. This person’s identity is open for judgment.
And the group silently received that message. No one spoke up. One person even laughed.
That silence shaped the social rules in the room:
Who gets invited, and who is left out?
Whose voice matters, and whose is dismissed?
And especially in my case (which I’ll explore in more detail in later chapters):
Whose mistakes are excused, and whose are amplified?
These questions always exist under the surface, but when racism is part of the picture, they cut deeper.
Later exclusions weren’t just about personal disagreements; they were layered with the earlier message that my very identity was suspect, laughable, “other.”
So when classmates used racial slurs near me, calling me manne like it was a joke, it wasn’t “just words.” It was a deepening of the line already drawn.
When they casually discussed negative stereotypes about Romany people, right next to me, fully aware I was there. It wasn’t accidental. It was another quiet reinforcement that I didn’t truly belong.
The weight of racism isn’t just about big dramatic moments. It’s about the quiet, daily layering of small exclusions, silent dismissals, casual prejudices — until you begin to carry not just the pain of being left out, but the heavier question:
Do I even deserve to be here?
What hurt almost as much as the racism itself was the silence around it.
I understand now that my classmates may not have known what to say or how to step in. Maybe they were scared, unsure, or simply caught off guard.
But silence, even when uncertain, has power.
It tells the person being targeted: You are alone here.
It tells the group: This behavior is normal.
It allows harm to spread quietly, shaping the group’s dynamics far beyond just one moment.
That silence deepened my isolation. It made it harder to ask for help, harder to trust, harder to believe I had allies or deserved support.
What happened in that classroom wasn’t just social awkwardness or occasional meanness. It was a pattern of exclusion, fueled by racism and upheld by silence.
And it left real marks
but it did not erase my worth.
And if you have faced something similar, please hear me:
it has not erased yours either.