I have spent plenty of time wandering through the vast and bewildering worlds of fandom, usually carrying a notebook, a thermos of tea, and the faint suspicion that I am not quite doing it correctly. You know the feeling. You like the thing. You enjoy the characters. You can name a few episodes, a few arcs, a few big moments. But you hover on the edge of the community like someone loitering outside a pub, rehearsing the courage to step inside. You are adjacent. Peripheral. A fan in spirit but not, apparently, in confidence.

Fandom communities can be magnificent: brimming with creativity, humour, and shared excitement. They can also be intimidating. Some members have encyclopaedic knowledge, fluency in obscure lore, and the enthusiasm of scholars defending their doctoral theses. They speak in references that breeze past your ears like migratory birds. They know every line from their favourite scene and every birthdate of every secondary character. In contrast, you feel as though you are still learning the alphabet while everyone else writes essays.

It is tempting, at this point, to declare yourself an outsider. But this would be a mistake. Fandom is not a club with a door code. It is a sprawling, ever-changing city, and the edges are just as valid as the centre. The trick is learning to wander without assuming you are trespassing.

Many people think belonging is granted by the community, but in truth, it begins with self-permission. You do not need to pass an exam in continuity or recite the chronological order of every spin-off. You do not need a certificate. All you need is genuine enjoyment, and perhaps a small spark of curiosity that encourages you to join in the conversation rather than observe it from afar.

When I first ventured into a large fandom site, I hovered for weeks. I watched people debate favourite tropes, share fan art, argue passionately over the emotional stability of a character who does not exist and never will. I did not comment. I feared that I would say something so monumentally obvious that everyone would immediately recognise me as a newcomer. This fear is common, and it is nonsense. Most fans are far too busy being enthusiastic to audit your credentials.

Belonging in fandom begins with simple acts. A comment here. A small contribution there. A question you suspect might be naïve but ask anyway. You begin by placing a single piece of yourself into the puzzle. Communities recognise sincerity more readily than expertise.

We often imagine fandom as a monolith, but in practice it is a mosaic of micro-groups, each with its own energy. There are lore specialists, artists, theorists, collectors, chaos-agents, meme-lords, and people who just want to talk about the soundtrack. You do not need to fit every category. You only need to find one corner where your voice settles comfortably.

In fact, the edges are where much of the interesting activity happens. People on the periphery ask different questions. They approach stories with fresh eyes. They offer interpretations unburdened by the weight of a decade’s discourse. Long-term fans may have deep knowledge, but new or tentative fans bring perspective. These roles coexist, balancing each other like a well-designed ecosystem.

Another myth worth discarding is the idea that big fandom sites require constant posting. Some people thrive on rapid-fire exchanges. Others prefer slow, thoughtful contributions. Both patterns are valid. Lurking, contrary to popular belief, is not a sign of weakness. It is an act of observation, a way of understanding the community’s rhythm before you join the dance. Even the most confident fans began as lurkers. The difference is simply time.

If you remain anxious, remember this: no one is keeping score. No one is waiting to expose you as a pretender. That anxiety, like many anxieties, is a ghost you accidentally invited through the front door. Acknowledge it. Offer it a biscuit. Then ask it politely to leave.

You may also encounter the occasional gatekeeper. These individuals patrol fandom as though it were a private estate, demanding proof of devotion before permitting conversation. Treat them as you would treat a badly behaved crow: avoid eye contact, maintain your dignity, and carry on. Their need for hierarchy has nothing to do with your right to enjoy the thing you love. Most fandom communities quietly roll their eyes at such behaviour and continue building something far friendlier.

The challenge, often, is knowing how to make your first contribution. Start small. Share a moment you enjoyed. Mention a line that stuck with you. Ask for recommendations. React to something someone else has posted. You do not need to produce a dissertation or a twenty-page theory about the hidden symbolism of Episode Seven (unless you want to, in which case, by all means follow your bliss). The threshold of belonging is lower than you think.

Over time you may discover that your perspective resonates with others. Someone might agree with you. Someone might laugh. Someone might say, “I thought I was the only one who noticed that.” And suddenly you realise you have slipped from the outside edge into the soft interior of the community without noticing the moment of transition.

The real secret of fandom is that no one feels like they fully belong. Even those who appear confident worry that they are not doing it correctly, or that someone else knows more, or that they are not contributing enough. Fandom is built by people who love things imperfectly, which is to say: humanly. You are not the only one at the threshold. You are surrounded by others who feel the same breeze through the same metaphorical doorway.

Another helpful step is to embrace the concept of “enthusiastic amateurism”. This is the most powerful force in any fandom. Experts are impressive, yes, but amateurs fuel the creativity. They draw art that is charmingly wonky. They write fan fiction that is earnest, heartfelt, and occasionally chaotic. They produce theories that make everyone think, “That is either brilliant or alarming,” and sometimes both. They bring vitality. You can be one of them.

Finally, remember that fandom is not a test but a shared celebration. It is the place where we gather to say, “This story moved me,” or, “This character matters more than they should,” or, “This moment made my day better.” It is a community where passion is a perfectly acceptable currency, and kindness tends to be worth more than knowledge.

So if you are standing on the edge, wondering how to belong, allow me to offer this final piece of advice as The Curator: step gently, speak honestly, and let your curiosity do the rest. The threshold is not a barrier. It is an invitation. And you already belong far more than you think.