Having moved between mainland China, Taiwan, and the UK, I often feel suspended—neither fully at “home” nor entirely displaced—dwelling in an in-between space. In each transition, moments of connection were often interrupted by a sudden sense of rupture: a conversation cut short by cultural misunderstanding, or the sudden loneliness of walking alone through a city street. These shifts made me realise that belonging is rarely seamless. It is built as much in moments of loss, hesitation, and readjustment as in moments of comfort and attachment. This ambiguity forms the core of my inquiry, prompting me to ask: what does belonging really mean?

Although much contemporary research acknowledges the fluidity and layered nature of belonging, its analytical focus often remains on connection—— the bonds between people, places, and cultural identities. My research takes a different perspective: rather than simply comparing “single” and “multiple” modes of belonging, it rethinks the structure of connection itself. If connection already contains rupture, could rupture be an inherent part of the experience of belonging?

Gorman-Murray and Dowling (2007) argue that “home” is not a fixed place, but a continuous process of creation. While home is often associated with intimacy, security, and comfort, for those who have experienced identity shifts or displacement, it can also involve oppression, alienation, and fear. Such ruptures often initiate the search for new forms of attachment and belonging. In this view, “home” is neither a stable destination nor a purely emotional connection. It is something shaped through shifting emotions, repeated adjustments, and moments of uncertainty. Every formation of belonging carries within it the potential for rupture. In those moments, what we once held onto slips from our grasp, yet the contours of our deepest longing come into view. As Olivia Laing (2017, p 11) writes in The Lonely City, “Loneliness is by no means a wholly worthless experience, but rather one that cuts right to the heart of what we value and what we need. Many marvellous things have emerged from the lonely city: things forged in loneliness, but also things that function to redeem it.”

My research begins in lived moments—— small conversations, fragments of memory, that hold both connection and rupture. From these, I trace how belonging emerges not as a fixed state, but as a fluid process shaped in the in-between spaces where intimacy and isolation meet.

This research adopts a multi-layered methodological framework that combines autoethnography, informal conversations as a reflective method, and visual practice through illustration and visual poetry.

This research draws on the evocative autoethnography, which emphasises not only what we study, but how we write, feel, and relate to others through writing. I revisited my own experiences by rewriting past diaries in the form of self-correspondence. This method is not only about retrieving past events, but also engaging with memory, emotional shifts, and the experience of belonging across time and space. Through writing, I place myself in front of the reader— not to explain, but to evoke, and to invite resonance.

In addition to self-reflection, I engaged in informal conversations with individuals who had experienced relocation, cultural hybridity, or shifting identities, such as immigrants, international students, or those who grew up in cross-cultural contexts. These communications were served as a reflective method to uncover shared or contrasting experiences, and to expand my understanding of belonging.

The creative dimension of the research involves illustration and visual poetry. Insights that surfaced through self-correspondence and conversations were translated into visual form. Inspired by psychogeographic practice, particularly the dérive method described by Guy Debord. I developed the concept of “Visual Drifting”, a non-linear, perception-driven approach to visual narrative. Visual poetry and images are interwoven through fragmented expression, spatial arrangement, and intentional blank spaces, leaving room for interpretation and embracing emotional ambiguity. In turn, the process of visual practice opened new ways for sensing and thinking about belonging.

These approaches interact with each other in my research, where writing and visual practice are intertwined in a constant search for meaning about belonging.

Where is the border between belonging and displacement?

In moments of rupture, where do we turn our gaze?

When I am “at home”, why do I still look elsewhere?