Pearl's Story - From Disconnection to Belonging
How Moving 10 Times Led Me to a Simple Truth
The day I stood at the airport waving goodbye to my parents didn’t feel real. It wasn’t until 14 hours later, when I stepped off the plane and the cold air hit my skin, that I truly woke up — not just from sleep, but from the life I was leaving behind.
On my very first day abroad, the landlady kindly met me at the coach station and showed me around the town. But nothing could have prepared me. I was born and raised in a bustling city — always connected, always surrounded by noise and movement. Now, I found myself in a quiet place, slower in rhythm, without internet. Everything felt upside down. I got lost just trying to walk through my neighbourhood. The house I was meant to live in felt empty — unfamiliar, not just in furniture, but in spirit.
It took a week just to get connected — literally. When the internet finally worked, it felt like a lifeline. Without a driver’s license, my world stayed small. So I walked. I explored. I observed. Eventually, school started. I remember watching classmates walk in together, laughing — already bonded by some invisible thread. I stood alone, new to the place, the culture, and the unspoken quiet between people. I wished I could join in, but I didn’t know how.
So I kept trying. I tried to adapt.
Studying abroad also meant letting go. I ended a three-year relationship. I lost my parrot — a chatty companion, a steady comfort. For the first time, I had all the time in the world... and yet I felt like my soul had scattered. Like pieces of me were everywhere — but nowhere I could return to.
From Landscape Architecture to Social Ecosystems
Before all the moves, I began as a landscape architect — designing spaces where people, buildings, and nature interact. I believed physical spaces could shape emotions and behavior. But as life moved me across countries and cities, I realized something deeper: no matter how beautiful or well-designed a place is, it’s the people who make it feel like home.
Despite changing landscapes, my social capital remained unchanged — connections were fleeting, even among locals. This made me see a deeper issue: proximity doesn’t guarantee community.
Jim Rohn said, “Your fears contain the exact opposite of what you desire.” We avoid stepping beyond comfort zones, yet we long for real connection. Just as landscapes shape experiences, the way we design social interactions defines belonging. And being open to learning is being open to change.
Now, my focus is on building social ecosystems that don’t just exist but invite participation — because the most important landscapes aren’t just physical, they’re social.
Proximity ≠ Belonging: What I Learned the Hard Way
That year passed in a blur. I met people from around the world, and one thing struck me: how much personal space people value — and how much harder it is to truly open up. After graduating, I relocated to a small town in southwest England. New environment. New people. Again. And slowly, I began to shrink back into the quieter version of myself I thought I’d outgrown. I didn’t know where to begin — how to start a conversation, or even where I was allowed to.
Then came more moves. More changes. And then… COVID.
In four years, I moved ten times — each time hoping the next place would feel more like home. But with every move, I lost more connections. Festivals came and went, celebrated alone. Some days, I’d count how many sentences I had spoken — sometimes none at all. Even after the lockdowns, I found myself looking forward to chatting with the cashier, just for that one moment of human connection. I didn’t even know who lived next door — though I often wished I could say hello.
Designing for Connection, Not Just Convenience
That’s when something hit me: while everything around me kept changing — jobs, friendships, routines — one thing always stayed the same.
Where I lived.
The house. The street. The people around me. Most of us spent at least 16 hours a day in the house, the neighborhood. For me, yet I didn’t know a single neighbor by name. I started asking myself: What if I had just knocked on someone’s door? What if they had knocked on mine?
What does it mean to have a roof over your head — but no one to talk to?
Why is it so hard to meet people — real people — right where you are?
Why do our neighborhoods feel like places we sleep in, rather than places we belong to?
What If “Home” Was Defined by People, Not Postcodes?
These questions planted the first seed for FrienDoor.
I began researching the emotional cost of disconnection — and came across the work of Danielle Bayard Jackson, a friendship expert. She said something that stuck with me:
“School keeps people around us. But after we leave, life happens — we change jobs, routines, locations. And our friendships fade.”
That was exactly what I was living through. It wasn’t just loneliness — it was the absence of belonging. I realized this was a common experience for so many adults. Once life takes over, building new connections doesn’t just feel hard — it starts to feel unnatural. But deep down, we still crave the same things: to feel seen, remembered, and rooted.
Whether I lived in metropolitan or small towns, people always came and went. I watched colleagues leave. I packed up my own boxes. Friendships, no matter how warm, rarely survived the transition. Most bonds stayed within the workplace. After hours, everyone retreated into their own private worlds.
I tried friend-making apps. I joined Facebook groups. I said “yes” to events. But connection there felt fleeting. If you missed a meetup or just weren’t feeling up to it, that window closed. Conversations started but rarely deepened.
And that’s when I understood something I hadn’t put into words before:
Having a place to live is not the same as having a place to belong.
Because it’s not the postcode or the house itself that makes somewhere feel like home —
It’s the people around you.
It’s the feeling that someone knows you live there. That someone notices when you’re gone, and smiles when you return.
We often say things like, “I live in London, but my home is in Newcastle.” That quiet sentence carries a deeper truth.
Home isn’t defined by location. It’s defined by people.
By knowing — and being known.
So now, I’m returning to what I started with — but with a different lens.
I’m still designing spaces — but this time, they’re social.
I’m not just interested in parks and plazas. I’m interested in how people show up for one another. In how we create cultures of openness. In designing digital and physical tools that help people knock, wave, greet, and stay.
That’s what FrienDoor is about.
It’s for all of us who’ve ever felt a little lost in the middle of somewhere.
For anyone who’s ever wanted to knock on a neighbor’s door — but didn’t know how to begin.
For everyone who has longed for a smile, a shared moment, a memory tied to place.
FrienDoor is here to help make neighborhoods feel like home again —
One wave.
One conversation.
One connection at a time.
Because home is people.
And we all deserve to feel at home.