I genuinely thought I’d be writing something lovely tonight.

The event was about belonging. I thought it might quieten the narrative in my bipolar brain for a couple of hours. I thought I’d leave feeling lighter than when I’d arrived.

Instead, I left through the back door.

On a day where I’d felt utterly unremarkable, quietly fading into nothingness, this felt like exactly the tonic I needed. I wanted to learn more about the community I now call home, hear people’s stories, understand what goes on around here and, if I was lucky, find out how I might become part of it.

If there’s one thing I believe, it’s that everybody has a story worth telling. That’s why I drag myself to these things, even when every fibre of my being would rather stay at home.

I spend a lot of time going to events on my own.

Not because I enjoy it. Mostly because if I waited for someone to come with me, I’d never go anywhere.

The strange thing about community events is that they’re brilliant at bringing communities together.

They’re not always very good at welcoming people who don’t already belong to one.

Nobody was rude.

Nobody told me to leave.

Nobody ignored me on purpose.

Everyone was simply talking to the people they already knew, catching up, laughing and picking conversations back up as though they’d only been paused yesterday. That’s completely normal.

The problem is that if you’re the person who walks through the door alone, it can feel like you’ve accidentally wandered into someone else’s family reunion.

I found myself doing what I always seem to do. Looking around the room, pretending to be interested in whatever was nearest while waiting for a conversation that never really presented itself.

Of course, the bipolar brain insisted it was all my fault. Apparently I should have walked into the room already clutching a glass of something, yarping and noping my way through exquisitely artistic conversations about absolutely nothing until somebody took the slightest bit of interest.

Whether any of that was true almost doesn’t matter. That’s the conversation I was having with myself.

Then the technical difficulties began.

For the first time all evening, I felt relieved.

They gave me an excuse.

I slipped quietly out through the back door.

The thing that upset me most wasn’t missing out on networking.

It was missing the stories.

There were photographs hanging on the walls that clearly meant something to someone. There were conversations I would have loved to hear. There were people whose experiences might have changed how I see the place I live.

I left before I heard any of them.

Walking home, I couldn’t help wondering whether we’ve got community events slightly backwards.

We spend months organising speakers, exhibitions, venues and refreshments. We think about what people will hear once they’re in the room.

We spend almost no time thinking about the first five minutes after someone walks through the door on their own.

Loneliness isn’t exactly a secret. We tell people to get out more, join clubs, attend events and find their community.

But nobody ever talks about what happens when they arrive.

Belonging isn’t something you discuss from a stage.

It’s something you practise at the door.