You Can’t Brand Belonging

What a very hot, very wet weekend in the woods reminded me about vulnerability, belonging and building brands people actually want to be part of.

I went to my first camping festival this weekend, which feels like the latest chapter in something I’ve been thinking about (and doing) a lot this year: saying yes to things that are a little outside of my element.

I should clarify that I’ve never exactly lived a conventional life. I’ve always tried really hard to live a full one. I look a little different, I dress differently, I probably speak differently, and I tend to think a little differently than whatever we’re calling the standard norm. I’ve traveled to places that aren’t necessarily on everyone’s list, made choices that probably wouldn’t make sense to everyone, covered a significant percentage of my body in art, changed directions when I felt like I needed to, and generally haven’t spent much time trying to build the most predictable version of a life.

But apparently there are layers to this shit.

The more I push myself to experience things, the more I realize how much more there is to experience. It’s not that I woke up this year and decided I finally wanted to start living. I’ve always wanted that, and honestly, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of it. I’m just continuing to redefine what a full life actually means to me. Every time I peel back another layer, there’s more under there. More people to meet, more places to go, more weird shit to try, more things that make me uncomfortable in a good way.

So, camping festival.

I went with two really great friends, and through them was quickly folded into this combination of their blood family, chosen family, longtime festival friends and eventually people none of us had known very long at all. Our collection of tents became this tiny little village, and within a remarkably short amount of time, it just felt like ours.

It was also hot as absolute hell. Then it rained. We were sweaty, muddy, tired, sleeping outside, sharing food and drinks and chairs and whatever else somebody needed. Some of my friends have been going to this festival for more than a decade and kept talking about how this year felt particularly special. It was apparently one of the biggest years they’d had, but somehow our experience of it felt incredibly small and intimate.

At one point we were literally bathing in a creek with people we’d just met, and I remember thinking about how strange it was that it didn’t feel strange at all. Normally, being naked in a creek with someone you’ve known for approximately 48 hours would probably require some discussion. Here it was just like, yep, this is what we’re doing now.

And I think some of that came from everyone being a little uncomfortable together. Nobody looked particularly put together. We were hot and dirty and tired and wet and trying to figure out where we were going next. There wasn’t a lot of room for being polished, and maybe that made it easier to stop performing for each other too.

What was interesting for me is that I didn’t completely blend in there. I don’t think I suddenly discovered that this was secretly my crowd all along. There were plenty of moments where I was very aware that I was outside of my normal environment. Despite already being someone who stands out in plenty of rooms, I still didn’t necessarily feel like I fit the mold of this particular one.

But I felt like I belonged.

That’s different, and I really loved that.

I didn’t have to suddenly become a festival person or look like everyone else or understand everything that was happening. I could feel a little different and still feel completely welcomed. I could be new and still be part of the village. There was something really cool about realizing that belonging doesn’t have to mean blending in.

It also turns out that community can apparently be built with peanut butter M&Ms, lot of glitter and bubble buns… yes, bubble guns (peep the teal and pink fun bubble machines and spray glitter below).

We ate really well all weekend. The food vendors were fantastic, the food we’d packed was fantastic, and there were popsicles that, under the circumstances, I am comfortable describing as life changing. But it was the tiny things that I kept noticing. Someone pulling out a bag of peanut butter M&Ms and passing them around. Sharing whatever snack you had. Offering someone water. Saving a chair. Checking whether somebody needed anything before you wandered off.

None of those things sound particularly profound when you list them out. But together they start to create something.

The same thing was happening emotionally. People we’d just met were hugging and crying together. Someone would share something about their life, their trauma, something they’d been carrying, and suddenly you’re looking at this person you barely knew a few hours ago completely differently. You’re crying because they’re crying. You’re hugging them because now you know something about what it took for them to be standing there with you. You’re watching the way the people who love them respond to what they’re sharing, and somehow you love them a little more too because now you know them differently.

There were a few times that weekend where I looked around and thought, this is kind of fucking incredible.

I’ve thought a lot about vulnerability this year. I wrote about it in my first Substack, mostly in the context of putting myself and my work out into the world and allowing myself to be seen. But I’m realizing vulnerability shows up in a million different ways. Sometimes it’s publishing something you wrote. Sometimes it’s starting a business. Sometimes it’s telling someone you just met something deeply personal about yourself. And apparently sometimes it’s taking a shower in a creek.

I also don’t think it’s an accident that yoga was woven through all of this.

I did my yoga teacher training in Costa Rica 11 years ago, and even then we talked about what Instagram was starting to do to yoga. At the time, Instagram yoga still felt relatively new, but you could already see this ancient practice starting to turn into an aesthetic and eventually an entire industry.

Now we have the expensive leggings, gorgeous studios, retreats, products, influencers, wellness brands and very bendy people doing impressive things in beautiful locations. And listen, I work in branding and I like beautiful shit, so this isn’t me pretending I’m above any of that.

What interests me is what happens when the packaging becomes more recognizable than what’s actually inside of it.

Because yoga was never really about the pose. The physical practice is only one piece of something much larger, and somewhere inside this very modern version of a yoga experience, with music and vendors and camping gear and popsicles and all of the other stuff surrounding it, I kept finding my way back to something incredibly simple. People being present with each other. People being uncomfortable. People being honest. People connecting.

Which is, naturally, where my marketing brain showed back up because apparently I can’t just take a shower in a creek and have a nice weekend. I have to figure out why the whole thing worked.

I think a lot of it comes down to belonging.

Brands talk about community constantly. We want engagement, loyal customers, advocates, people who identify with what we’ve built and tell their friends about it. We want people to wear the shirt, come back again, bring somebody with them and eventually feel like they’re part of something bigger than whatever product or service we’re actually selling.

I wrote recently about Disney adults and Harley tattoos because I’m fascinated by brands that manage to cross that line. At some point the product stops being simply something someone buys and starts becoming attached to identity. Disney isn’t just a vacation. Harley isn’t just a motorcycle. They’re wrapped up in people’s stories about themselves.

But this weekend made me think about the other side of that.

Maybe great brands aren’t always about getting people to identify with you. Maybe they’re about creating enough space for people to remain completely themselves while still identifying with the experience you’ve created.

I didn’t need to become a different version of myself to belong in our little tent village. Nobody handed me the correct clothes or opinions or personality when I arrived. Everyone brought their own weird collection of experiences and histories and personalities and trauma, and somehow the whole thing worked because there was room for all of it.

I think that’s something brands get wrong all the time. They spend so much time defining who their people are that they can accidentally make the definition too small. The strongest communities aren’t necessarily saying, “Look at us. Be like us.” They’re saying, “There’s room for you here.”

And you can’t manufacture that feeling by putting the word community on your website. You can’t automate someone feeling seen. You can’t force someone to care about the little ritual of passing around peanut butter M&Ms. What you can do is create the conditions where those things are more likely to happen.

For a brand, maybe that’s knowing what you actually stand for instead of trying to appeal to everyone. Maybe it’s creating experiences people want to participate in instead of constantly trying to get their attention. Maybe it’s leaving enough room for your customers to bring their own stories into yours. And maybe it’s paying attention to the tiny details that don’t seem particularly important on their own but collectively tell someone that you thought about them.

Sometimes that’s a gorgeous visual identity. Sometimes it’s exceptional customer service. Sometimes it’s remembering someone’s name. And sometimes it’s a perfectly timed popsicle when it’s approximately seven million degrees outside.

The point isn’t really the popsicle. It’s how the popsicle made you feel.

And yes, I think that’s branding too.

The whole weekend also made me think about what I’m trying to do personally right now. Again, this isn’t some dramatic reinvention where I’ve suddenly decided at 41 that I should start living my life. I’ve always tried to squeeze a lot out of this thing. What I’m realizing is that I don’t think I ever want to decide I’ve found the boundaries of what a full life can look like.

I want to keep peeling the layers back. I want to travel to places I haven’t seen, say yes to things I don’t completely understand, meet people I wouldn’t otherwise meet and occasionally be the person who looks a little out of place. I want the weird stories. I want the life changing popsicle. I want to share the M&Ms. I want to have conversations with people I met yesterday that somehow end in both of us crying and hugging. I want to come home from something thinking differently than I did when I left.

I don’t want to just go through the motions of having a life. I want to actually participate in it.

And weirdly, I think that’s what I want from the brands I work with too. I don’t want to make things that simply look like brands are supposed to look. I don’t want to check marketing boxes because somebody decided those are the boxes we’re supposed to check. I want to understand why someone would actually give a shit. What makes them feel something? Where do they see themselves in this? What tiny detail turns a transaction into something they remember?

Maybe that’s the thread running through everything I’ve been writing about lately. Vulnerability, being perceived, identity, belonging. They’re all really about people deciding how much of themselves they’re willing to bring into something.

This weekend I got to stand out and belong at exactly the same time.

I think that’s pretty fucking special.

And maybe one of the best things a brand, a community, or even another person can give us is the space to do exactly that.

About Root Notes: Thoughts on branding, marketing, strategy, creativity, entrepreneurship, travel, dogs, friendship, love, being weird, and building a life and business that feel like your own. Written by Kara Schuler, founder of Trillium Creative Studio.

Until next time,
Kara

Still figuring it out, but at least taking notes.