Jason B.
Photography by Emma Joseph
If you’re reading this, you belong.
When I first stepped onto Wake Forest’s campus, it felt like a movie. Every building was made of red brick, the trees perfectly lined the walkways, and the weather was near perfect. It was beautiful, but it didn’t take long before the beauty started to feel like a backdrop to something more complex. Everyone seemed to look the same, talk the same, and even dress the same. Khakis and five-inch inseam shorts were a uniform I hadn’t gotten the memo on. I looked down at my baggy jeans and wondered if anyone else had missed it too. I felt like I stuck out, like I was the only one who didn’t quite fit the frame. And somewhere deep down, I asked myself a question I would keep asking for a while:
Does someone who looks like me belong here?
I’m from New York City, where every block tells a different story, and style is an extension of language. I grew up around every kind of person, every kind of background. Coming to North Carolina felt like I was stepping into a version of the world I’d only seen on TV. People’s voices twanged. They dressed differently. Thought differently. I noticed almost immediately that my usual baggy jeans and cargo pants didn’t quite match the unofficial Wake uniform.
So I adapted. I swapped out my jeans for khakis and shorts I never thought I’d wear. At the time, I told myself I liked them. Maybe I did. Or maybe I just liked the idea of not being stared at, not feeling like I was constantly flagged as “different.” Wake felt like a place where everything fit neatly into a box — and I was trying to fold myself small enough to fit inside it.
Parties were their own kind of experience. I’m an extrovert—I love people, energy, and finding common ground, but that didn’t make it easy. Walking into a packed room and realizing I was one of the only Black people was more than uncomfortable—it was disorienting. I’d scan the room for someone who looked like me, for someone who might understand. Usually, there wasn’t anyone. So I leaned on charm. I cracked jokes, smiled widely, and did my best to make everyone feel at ease, even when I didn’t. I thought, if I can make people like me, maybe that means I belong here.
But deep down, I was tired. Tired of translating parts of myself, of holding back stories and references that wouldn’t land, of wondering if the real me was too much—or just too different. And still, I kept showing up. I kept saying yes. I kept smiling. Because that’s what you do when you’re trying to belong in a space that wasn’t built with you in mind. You soften the edges. You shift. You hope that maybe, eventually, you’ll find your place.
Over time, something changed. Not overnight, and not because I finally cracked the code to fitting in, but because I stopped trying to. I realized I wasn’t here to perform or prove myself. I was here because I deserved to be. I started gravitating toward people who saw me, who heard me without explanation. I started wearing what I wanted again. Speaking the way I speak. Showing up as the version of myself that felt real, not the one I thought people needed me to be.
If you’re reading this and you’re in that same place — still adjusting, wondering if you belong — just know: you do even when it’s hard, even when you’re the only one who looks like you in the room. You belong, not because you’ve learned to fit in, but because you’ve stayed true to yourself in a space that makes it hard to. That takes strength, and it takes heart.
But here’s what I’ve come to learn: belonging isn’t about performing. It’s not about shrinking yourself or changing your voice or switching your clothes. It’s about feeling safe to be who you are —fully, loudly, unapologetically. And that kind of belonging doesn’t come from fitting in. It comes from being true to your internal self. I still have moments where I feel like the odd one out, but I’ve also found people who embrace me for exactly who I am. I’ve stopped dressing to disappear and started moving like I deserve to be here, because I do.
You already belong — by being you.
Sincerely,
Jason B, Wake Forest University
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