Grounded in Love

Photo by Rachelle Zola taken in Manta Ecuador, April 2026

I’ve been attending more community events lately, connecting with people in much the same way I did when I first arrived in Chicago in August 2019. Seven years later, I find myself returning to those roots—showing up in spaces where most people don’t look like me or share my cultural background, and where genuine connection still emerges. Again and again, I’m reminded that common ground isn’t something we’re born into; it’s something we choose to create, grounded in curiosity, presence and love.

I went to an outdoor concert. A friend invited me after someone else had canceled. I hesitated for a moment before accepting. After all, I hadn’t been invited originally. Then I said yes because I know this person loves me and genuinely wanted me there with her other friends—some I knew well and others I had met but didn’t really know.

I’m glad I said yes.

I attended an event where mostly Black participants were sharing stories. I could have shared one of my own. It would have fit naturally within the conversation, yet I consciously chose not to. I didn’t want to introduce a white voice into a space that wasn’t asking for one. I’m sure my words would have been welcomed, but in that moment, I felt my silence was a better use of my voice. Afterward, I thanked several people for what they had shared, and we exchanged warm embraces.

I’m glad I listened.

I attended a gathering of mostly people from the Bahá’í Faith because I knew some of those who would be there and wanted to learn more about what was on their hearts. A young man I hadn’t seen in at least two years was there. What a magnificent surprise. We only spoke for a few minutes, but gratitude was evident in both of us that our paths had crossed again.

I’m glad I showed up.

I went to a dear friend’s seventy-seventh birthday celebration. Most of the guests were Black, gathered to celebrate someone deeply loved. One by one, people stood to share what she meant to them. I found myself wondering: Should I speak? Or should I stay seated?

Why wouldn’t I speak?

Would the people who didn’t know me—a stranger to their community—hear in my voice and my words how much she means to me? I didn’t want to be seen as a white woman simply offering polite sentiments. In the end, I stood up and spoke from my heart. I even got a laugh.

I’m glad I spoke.

I’ve been to community fairs, Catholic presentations, Bahá’í gatherings, birthday celebrations, storytelling circles, youth symposiums, theater performances and concerts. Every time I walk into a room where I don’t know everyone—or where I wonder whether I belong—I feel that familiar, ever-so-slight hesitation. Every time I leave, I’m grateful I came.

I’m sharing these snippets because I know too many white people who won’t show up—or won’t speak—because they’re afraid of making a mistake or not knowing the right thing to say. It’s okay to feel uncomfortable. It’s okay to feel uncertain.

I realize not all of these stories involve Black communities, and I hope that’s not the point you take away. The point is that every one of these moments invited me into a community that wasn’t automatically my own.

I’ve come to realize, wholeheartedly, that what allows me to move forward when I’d rather sit this one out is that I’m grounded in love.

I keep coming back to this: I am loved, and I am loving.

I choose to trust that.

Even when parts of me insist otherwise—even when the loudest voices inside whisper, No, you’re not—I return to that truth.

I take a breath and remind myself:
I am grounded in love.
And so are you.

Radical love,
Rachelle