SLOVENIA'S 5 CORE VALUES

I see the hands that held me. I see the people who accepted me before I even knew who I was. I see the beginning of belonging.

This photograph captures a moment that I myself don't remember, but carry within me. My family is there: my mother Lidija, my cousins, and my aunt Milena, who always knew how to create warmth from simple things. Her kitchen wasn't just a place for cooking – it was the heart of the home. When you stepped through the doors of the family ranch, as we called it, you knew you belonged.

And if I had to describe that sense of belonging with a single event, I would choose that day at Aunt Milena's. It was a cold morning. The kind where you feel like the world quiets down a bit. One of my cousins was going through a difficult time. She spoke more quietly and laughed less; it was as if she had drifted away from all of us a little. No one really knew what to say. Sometimes we think we can only help by saying the right words. 

Aunt Milena wasn't looking for them.

Instead, she rose before the sun. In the kitchen, she turned on the light, shattering the darkness, and began preparing her favourite cake. With feeling. She mixed the dough slowly, as if weaving something more into every movement – care, understanding, and a pinch of silent presence as help in times of distress. The smell of baking cake began to spread throughout the house, and it smelled truly intoxicating.

When the cake was baked, she didn't put it on the table for everyone. She wrapped it in a soft kitchen cloth, as if she were wrapping something precious. And in fact, it was.

Then she went to her.

She always knew how to be with people. She didn't ask questions that dug up pain. She just stood there, handed her a slice of cake, looked her in the eye, and said, »I'm here.«

That moment imprinted itself deeply in my memory. As a child, I didn't know how to put it into words, but today I know it was an expression of belonging in its purest form.

I grew up surrounded by laughter, arguments, hugs, and long Sunday lunches. I remember when we were children, running around the garden, making up games and hiding from each other, but we always found our way back to one another. We always returned to where we felt accepted.

Aunt Milena would often stand by the stove, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat, and call out, »Come and eat!« It wasn't just about the food, but about us sitting at the same table. About us sharing a moment. We knew we were safe here, that we were home here.

Belonging is not something you choose once and for all. It's something that is built through small actions. By listening to someone. By waiting for them. By offering them space.

I remember the day when, as a child, I did something wrong and thought I would be rejected. Instead, I received a hug. And that was when I truly understood for the first time that belonging doesn't mean perfection, but acceptance.

My cousins weren't just family, they were my allies. We grew up together, we learned, we fell and we got back up. When one failed, the others stood by her. When one cried, the others sat quietly beside her. Not many words were needed. It was enough that we were together.

And then there are the memories. Of laughter echoing through the house. Of the smell of freshly baked bread. Of the feeling of lying down tired in bed in the evening, knowing you weren't alone. These memories aren't just pleasant moments. They are the foundation. They are proof that I belong.

Now, looking back, I understand how important that is. In a world where people often feel lost, where they seek validation and a space where they can be who they are, belonging is a gift. And a responsibility.

Belonging doesn't just mean receiving, but also giving. It means being there for others, just as they are there for you. To create a space where someone can feel accepted. To build a home for others too.

Perhaps this is the biggest lesson I've learned - that home isn't just a place, but a feeling and warmth in words, looks and actions. It's someone saying, »You are welcome here.« And they really mean it.

When I look at that photograph today, I no longer just see a baby. I see the start of a story of belonging. I see all the hands that have shaped me. All the people who have made me feel like I am enough.

Wherever I go, I carry this feeling with me.

Because belonging is not a place.

It feels like home.

And sometimes it's an act, the result of which is Aunt Milena's heavenly lemon cake.

Zala Krupljan, 10 March 2025