The Value of Community in an Age of Cultural Closure: A Reflection from Cambridge

1. The journey to a place that wasn’t just a place

A few days ago I attended a theatre performance in one of Cambridge’s colleges. An Italian production, hosted in a surprisingly large hall - over two hundred seats, all filled with Italians, students, researchers, families, curious locals. A small piece of Italy in the heart of a city that has welcomed the world for centuries.

I wasn’t there for literature or music or art - or at least, not only for that. I was there for something simpler and more human: the search for community.

The journey to get there was an adventure in perfect Italian style: wrong directions online, closed gates, wandering around the colleges, that familiar “where on earth is the entrance?” feeling. At one point I crossed the River Cam on the Bridge of Sighs, while punts glided beneath me and the sunlight danced on the water like a promise.

I was with a couple of Italians and an English couple, all of us lost in the same mission: finding that hidden theatre inside St John’s College.

And when we finally arrived, something I hadn’t felt in a long time washed over me: I felt at home.

Different dialects, familiar laughter, cultural references that don’t need translation. The play was telling about Basile, Lo cunto de li cunti, ancient tales and folk music. And for a moment, in that hall, it felt like Europe had never been fractured.

2. Nostalgia as an emotional compass

Nostalgia is a compass. It doesn’t point to the past - it points to what we’re missing in the present.

Psychologists Constantine Sedikides and Tim Wildschut have shown that nostalgia isn’t a sad emotion: it’s a mechanism of emotional regulation. It reminds us who we are, where we come from, and what makes us feel part of something.

In that hall, I realised I didn’t miss Italy. I missed belonging.

Nostalgia isn’t a return to the past. It’s a return to ourselves.

And when we live abroad, this inner compass becomes even more sensitive. Every familiar accent, every shared gesture, every cultural reference becomes a small safe harbour. A place where the heart can rest.

3. Brexit and the invisible loss: not just politics, but collective psychology

After the show, I spoke with old friends and acquaintances. Many have left. Many no longer feel at home here. Many live more in Italy than in the UK, even if their bodies are still here.

And that realisation carried a quiet sadness.

Brexit didn’t just damage the economy - the data shows that clearly. It damaged quality of life.

Not because Italian products are harder to find. Not because travelling is more complicated. But because something deeper has been lost: the human richness of diversity.

Sociologist Robert Putnam calls it social capital: the invisible network of relationships, cultures, languages and ways of living that make a society vibrant, creative, alive.

For decades, the UK has been a laboratory of multiculturalism. A place where diversity wasn’t just tolerated — it was celebrated.

And now? Now there is a void. A silence. A lack of colour.

Cultural closure isn’t just a political phenomenon. It’s a psychological one. When a country closes, people close too. They become rigid. Defensive. Isolated.

And those of us who live here feel it deeply.

4. Community and wellbeing: why we need each other

Social psychology is clear: humans are relational beings.

The need for belonging is one of Maslow’s foundational needs. And according to Baumeister and Leary, the need to belong is as fundamental as food and safety.

When we live abroad, this need intensifies. Not because we’re weaker, but because we’re more exposed.

Every time we meet someone from our own culture, our brain activates a mechanism called social buffering: the presence of someone “like us” reduces stress, lowers cortisol, increases our sense of safety.

That’s why, in that hall, I felt so good. It wasn’t the show (that I enjoyed!) It was the community.

4.1 From collective belonging to the intimacy of daily life

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Leaving the theatre that night, I kept thinking about how community isn’t always found in grand cultural moments.

Sometimes it appears in the smallest gestures - the ones we barely notice because they happen in supermarkets, cafés, fitting rooms, or on the street.

When we live abroad, these micro‑moments become magnified. A smile from a stranger, a kind word, a shared joke with a shop assistant — they carry a weight they wouldn’t have back home. They remind us that belonging isn’t only cultural; it’s relational. It’s built one interaction at a time.

And so, the next day, as I walked through Cambridge, I realised that the same emotional thread that connected me to that theatre hall was also present in the most ordinary parts of my day.

This is where the story continues.

5. Everyday kindness: a revolutionary act

The following afternoon, I wandered through central Cambridge, letting the city guide me. I stepped into the Grand Arcade, half‑distracted, half‑curious, and entered a shop where a young assistant greeted me with a warmth that felt almost unexpected.

Not extraordinary. Not dramatic. Just human.

She helped me choose a product, made a small joke, and treated me with a kindness that felt almost intimate in its simplicity.

And suddenly I realised something: years ago, when I was struggling the most, I didn’t receive that kind of kindness.

Yet that is exactly when we need it most. Why does it feel as though, recently, humanity is losing the very qualities that make us human — the ones that once made us the most extraordinary species on Earth?

Neuroscience confirms it: kindness activates oxytocin, regulates the nervous system, and lowers emotional pressure. It’s a natural medicine with no side effects - and no cost.

In a world that is becoming more suspicious, more hurried, more closed, kindness becomes a quiet form of resistance. A way of saying: “I see your humanity, even if I don’t know your story.”

Kindness is not naïve. It’s radical.

6. Fashion, identity and mood: the power of feeling sexy

After leaving the shop, I wandered into Mango — not really to buy something, but to reconnect with myself. I wasn’t looking for an item. I was looking for a feeling.

A feeling Italians know instinctively. A feeling Spanish women carry in their walk. A feeling English women express in their own understated, magnetic way. That subtle, confident, effortless sexy that has nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with identity.

It’s the kind of sexy that comes from standing tall, from knowing who you are, from feeling at ease in your own skin. It’s not about attracting others — it’s about returning to yourself.

People often dismiss fashion as superficial, but it isn’t. Fashion is psychology you can wear. It’s the quickest way to shift your mood, your posture, your energy. It changes how you walk into a room, how you speak, how you take up space in the world.

Clothes are not just fabric. They are a language — and sometimes, they say what we don’t dare to express out loud.

Psychologist Karen Pine’s esearch shows that clothing doesn’t just cover us — it shapes us.

What we wear influences our:

• mood

• posture

• confidence

• self‑perception

Clothes are not passive. They speak to our nervous system. They whisper to our identity. They remind us of who we are — or who we want to become.

But that day, everything around me was brown. Endless shades of beige, camel, taupe. Beautiful on some people, I’m sure. But for me? Brown is the opposite of sexy. It’s the colour of blending in, of disappearing, of becoming smaller.

And I wasn’t in the mood to disappear.

So I left the shop empty‑handed — but strangely, not disappointed. Because as I walked out, I realised something important: sometimes we’re not searching for clothes at all. We’re searching for the emotional permission to feel alive again.

To feel vibrant. To feel visible. To feel like the protagonist of our own story, not a background character in someone else’s.

Feeling sexy has nothing to do with appearance. It’s not about tight dresses or perfect bodies. It’s about reclaiming our energy, our identity, our presence in the world.

It’s about saying: “I am here. I exist. I take up space.”

And that matters — especially in a world that, in subtle ways, keeps trying to make us smaller. Smaller in our ambitions. Smaller in our voices. Smaller in our joy.

Sometimes, the simple act of choosing a colour, a fabric, a silhouette becomes a quiet rebellion. 

A way of staying open, expressive, and emotionally awake in a society that often rewards the opposite.

7. The red thread: what the world is telling us

As I walked back home, I kept thinking about the theatre, the kindness, the clothes, the colours. And suddenly I saw the red thread connecting everything.

We live in a world that is closing itself off — politically, culturally, emotionally. And when the world closes, we risk closing too.

But closure breeds:

• ignorance

• fear

• polarisation

• loneliness

• suffering

And suffering, when unseen, becomes anger. And anger, when unheard, becomes violence.

Cultural closure isn’t only geopolitical. It’s emotional. It’s the fear of the other becoming fear of ourselves. It’s the loss of trust becoming loss of humanity.

But the antidote is already in our hands. It’s in the theatre halls where dialects mix. It’s in the kindness of a shop assistant. It’s in the confidence of choosing a dress that makes us feel alive.

The world may be closing, but we don’t have to.

8. Conclusion: staying open is an act of courage

Staying open is not passive. It’s not softness. It’s not naïveté. It’s a daily decision — sometimes a difficult one — to keep choosing connection over withdrawal.

We stay open when we:

• seek community

• practice kindness

• listen instead of judging

• allow ourselves nostalgia

• dress to feel alive

• cross bridges, literal or metaphorical

• acknowledge our vulnerability

These are not small gestures. They are acts of resistance in a world that often rewards detachment, speed, and emotional armour.

Yesterday, crossing the Bridge of Sighs, I realised that maybe life is exactly that: a bridge between who we were and who we are becoming. A delicate, suspended space where we carry our past, navigate our present, and imagine our future.

Community isn’t a place. It’s a gesture. A familiar voice. A smile exchanged with a stranger. A dialect that warms your heart. A moment of kindness that arrives when you least expect it. Someone who says, simply and sincerely: “I see you.”

And perhaps that is the essence of belonging — being seen without needing to explain yourself.

In a world that is closing, continuing to see others — and allowing ourselves to be seen — is the most revolutionary act we have. It is how we keep our humanity alive. It is how we stay open, even when everything around us suggests we should close.

Because openness is courage. Openness is connection. Openness is what makes us human.

Gilda Kiwua Notarbartolo

Visual Storyteller & Certified Journalist sharing mindful habits, self‑love and UK lifestyle inspiration.