The ties that bind us
The connections that create true belonging.
James walked into Cathedral School for Boys this week for his first real day of Kindergarten wearing his navy blazer, school tie near-perfectly knotted (took about 20 mins to get that right:), school patch gleaming on the left side of his chest. As I watched him disappear into that sea of identical uniforms, something struck me: this isn’t just a uniform. It is an invitation into belonging.
It silently states: You belong here. You are part of this.
It made me think about how we adults have lost the art of this kind of unconditional connection.
The uniform vs. the avatar
Social media promised us connection but delivered its shadow instead. We spend our days curating avatars of ourselves—posting the highlight reel, crafting the perfect caption, measuring our worth in likes and shares. We've become performers in our own lives, exhausted by the constant work of being "on."
James's school uniform does the opposite. It strips away the performance. There's no competition about who has the coolest backpack (though James does love his new zoo animal backpack!) or the most expensive shoes. Just kids, showing up as kids, ready to learn and play together.
When did we adults forget how to do this? When did connection become a transaction, belonging become a brand?
What we're really hungry for
Real connection has a few key ingredients that our digital interactions often miss:
Presence—the full attention we give when we're truly with someone, not half-listening while scrolling through our phones.
Vulnerability—the willingness to be seen as we actually are, mess and all, not the polished version we think others want to see.
Continuity—the ongoing thread of relationship that builds through repeated, authentic encounters over time.
We're starving for the feeling that we matter to someone simply by showing up as ourselves. We want to be part of stories larger than our own individual narratives. We crave what that school uniform represents: the radical acceptance that comes from being truly connected.
The small acts of daily connection
Connection doesn't require grand gestures. It happens in the margins of our days, in those unplanned moments when we choose presence over productivity:
Making eye contact with the barista and asking about their morning (and listening to their answer!) —not because you need something, but because they're human and they honestly serve you coffee every morning.
Texting a friend not because you need advice, but because something reminded you of them.
Lingering an extra moment in conversations instead of rushing to the next item on your to-do list.
Sharing something real—a struggle, a small joy, a random observation—instead of defaulting to pleasantries.
The revolutionary act of putting your phone down
Maybe the most radical thing we can do for connection is the simplest: when someone is speaking to you, put your phone down. Don't just flip it over—put it away. Let them know that for this moment, they are the most important thing in your world. I struggle myself with this small act - my daughter calls me out multiple times a week: “Mom, put the phone down, I’m talking to you.” <erg, sorry baby>
It's a small act that sends a profound message: You matter. You are worth my full attention.
Connection as a choice
James gets to experience belonging daily now—walking into that building, seeing other kids in the same uniform, sharing rituals and rhythms. As adults, we have to be more intentional about creating these touchstones of connection.
But they're there, waiting in every genuine interaction we choose to have. In every moment we choose curiosity over judgment when someone disagrees with us. In every conversation where we resist the urge to fix or advise and instead just listen.
Connection is always a choice. It's choosing to see the person behind the role, the human behind the persona, the story behind the smile.
In a world that profits from our disconnection, choosing real connection becomes an act of quiet rebellion. It's saying: I refuse to settle for the performance. I choose the messy, beautiful reality of being human together.
James's blazer will get wrinkled. His tie will get lost. But the belonging it represents—that stays. That's the kind of connection worth fighting for, one small, real moment at a time.