Ed Sheeran’s Sapphire offered me joy and nostalgia when I first heard it. The blend of Western and Indian sounds stirred something. It wasn’t just the music; it was the meaning behind it. It felt like my culture was being seen, placed at the centre of the composition. This felt personal.

It was a rare meshing of the many identities I carry. The pop-loving teen who memorised Casey Kasem’s Top 40 (and listened to the hits on repeat), and the child who woke to the hum of morning prayers at home. For much of my life, I kept these parts of me separate. Two tracks that didn't feel like they were supposed to play concurrently.

But Sapphire let them coexist. And in doing so, it reminded me of something I’ve worked to name: the through line.

We all have one, a thread that connects our history to our present. A through line isn’t a single story. It’s the accumulation of lived experiences, inherited wisdom, personal turning points, and cultural memory. It explains not only who we are but how we move through the world, how we lead, how we love, how we make meaning.

Yet, in many professional spaces, that through line can blur. We’re taught to be polished but not personal. Relatable but not too raw. We learn, often silently, that some parts of us are “professional,” and others are best left outside the meeting rooms. And so we become experts in editing ourselves.

We celebrate the idea of inclusion but find its reality tough. We either shun it as unnecessary or romanticise it as easy. But paying lip service to inclusion is not the same as building an environment that integrates that everyone is worthwhile.

Belonging requires more than a mission statement. It demands a culture where people can bring their through lines with them, without fear of them being dismissed, diluted, or ignored.

That’s what struck me about Sapphire. It didn’t flatten anything. It didn’t make culture palatable or neat. It allowed contradictions to exist in harmony. And isn’t that what strong teams, leaders and communities do too?

Inclusion isn’t about making everyone the same. It’s about trusting that difference can be generative. That who you are adds something. That your story matters not just because it’s unique, but because it connects to something larger.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself what parts of my through line I've hidden to fit in? Where did I learn that those parts weren’t welcome? And what would it take to bring them forward again, not just in my personal life, but in how I work?

We often look to the future as something separate from our past. But this may be a false dichotomy. If we want truly inclusive spaces, we must acknowledge where people come from, not just where we want them to go. Because when we recognise the full arc of someone’s story, we don’t just make space for them, we see them.

And maybe that’s what belonging really is. Not fitting in. Not even standing out. But being understood in full voice.

Yes, our world feels increasingly divided. But there are also new spaces opening. Spaces where connection is possible. And music, with its quiet power, helps remind us of who we are and how deeply we’re all linked.

Let’s build workplaces and communities where through lines are not cut off but carried forward. Where music, memory, and identity are not things we compartmentalise, but things we learn from. Where bridges aren’t just symbolic but structural. Because as we learn to cross borders with care, we begin to build something stronger: A culture that doesn’t just say we all matter but one that shows it.