Thought Piece I | The Modern Village: Why we say we want one — Then resist it

An incomplete discussion

We live in a time where it is generally thought that the goal is to live alone, or with your romantic partner and the family you create with them (whether human or furry).

Travelling a lot, moving far from home, and creating friendship groups centred around your specific interests and stage in life are promoted.

There are more ways than ever to find people. In person and online. By interest, location, age, identity, lifestyle, or values.
There are platforms, events, groups, apps, and spaces designed specifically to help us connect.

We also live in a time where our understanding and language around how negative relationships and interactions can impact us - sometimes for years and decades to come - is more widespread, to the long-lasting benefit of so many of us.

And then the pandemic hit. And so many realised how isolated they were. Physically and emotionally.

This isn’t brushing past the many who focused on maintaining and cultivating connections at this time - but since the pandemic, we’ve seen growing awareness of just how important connection (of many kinds) is for humans - and how we are losing it.

So the discourse on needing a “village” began. “It takes a village.” Community. Support. Connection.

The cost of being known

But far less is said about what it actually takes to have one - a real one, that can carry you through something like a pandemic.

Because the truth is: most people don’t just struggle to find or cultivate a village. They struggle to be a villager.

The part we don’t say out loud is this: a real village means more people know more about your life.

Your patterns. Your moods. Your rough edges. Your contradictions. Your hopes and dreams.
Your successes - but also your failures.

And once people know more about you, you lose some control over how you’re perceived, interpreted, responded to…and what’s expected of you.

I see that as a huge part of why we keep leaning (disproportionately) into the comfortable places - finding people who are like us, like the same things, and are in the same stage of life - and why we then resist, let connections fade, or walk away when things feel uncomfortable.

Boundaries aren’t meant to isolate you

Modern independence culture - and our current obsession with boundaries - often isn’t just about self-respect or safety.

It’s also about not wanting to pay the relational price of being known, or learning how to love people even as we see their faults - and therefore their risk to us - more clearly. Because knowing and being known, caring and being cared for, and coming to expect that, comes with risk. Real risk.

I say this as someone who spent years choosing solitude, then mistaking independence for immunity, and slowly learning that belonging doesn’t mean abandoning discernment - it means applying it with care.

Boundaries are far more helpful when we don’t make them about keeping people out - but about keeping as many people in our lives as possible, without feeling like we are sacrificing our whole being to appease them.

But somewhere along the way, boundaries became synonymous with:

• minimal disclosure 

• maximum control 

• zero tolerance for discomfort 

• immediate withdrawal at the first sign of friction

That isn’t village-building. That’s risk avoidance dressed up as self-protection. And a village can’t exist if everyone is curating their availability, editing their truth, and leaving at the first moment of relational strain.

We need lots of different kinds of connections

We also tend to collapse the idea of a village into one group, or one type of relationship. But real villages are layered. Different people meet different parts of us, at different depths, in different seasons.

They also call on different parts of us. We have more responsibility to share, and show up for others. The research tells us that humans thrive when they have a range of different connections. So, boundaries aren’t meant to flatten connection - they’re meant to help it organise.

Growth requires friction

Being a villager means accepting something we’ve become deeply uncomfortable with:

You will be misunderstood at times. You will be disappointed at times. You will have expectations and worldviews projected onto you. Some people will struggle to be there when things are hard. Some will struggle when things are good. Some will struggle to watch you change.

And you will probably do one or all of those at some stage too.

Not because anyone is malicious - but because humans are imperfect, tired, learning, distracted, and shaped by their own histories.

Growth doesn’t happen without friction And relationships - especially close ones - are actually where that friction shows up first. And this is GOOD.

The gold standard of closeness should be those relationships where people can be their full messy selves - but others can call it out and everyone can largely joke about it.

That kind of freedom, that kind of love - that’s a kind of energy that almost nothing in your day can diminish.

And to be clear - I am NOT for letting yourself ‘rot in negativity’ - it’s just not helpful. But take those moments and be ANGRY, be SAD, be DISAPPOINTED, be IRRATIONAL. All in good measure.

Because trying to live a fully relational life without knowing how things FEEL is like trying to strength train without load. It’s not how systems grow. And villages are living systems - and like any system, they require maintenance, feedback, and repair to function.

When all pain becomes trauma

There’s something important to name here. We’ve begun (somewhat casually) using the word trauma to describe almost every uncomfortable relational experience. 

Trauma is real. And serious. But not all hurt is trauma.

Sometimes it’s misalignment. Poor timing. Poor phrasing. Different expectations. Someone acting with incomplete information. Someone doing their best and missing the mark. 

And yes - sometimes it’s someone having a truly bad moment/day/week and completely messing up. 

This isn’t a minimisation of trauma. It’s a reminder of the many shades of grey in human interactions - and the importance of precision.

Because trauma is a powerful concept. And using it loosely can unintentionally amplify the impact of experiences that are painful, but not pathological. When we collapse all relational pain into trauma, we lose the ability to repair, contextualise, and grow.

That doesn’t mean anything goes. It means everyone has to do the work - to reflect, repair, communicate, and keep improving.

Community doesn’t need a hero

Another modern trap is the idea that to have community, you must lead it. Hold space. Facilitate. Be the emotional centre.

But villages don’t work when one person becomes the hub. They work when care, responsibility, and attention circulate. You can cultivate your own village without becoming its chief.

You are not responsible for everyone.  You are also not a passive recipient of care. You’re both.

A villager offers support and receives it. Contributes rhythm - not constant intensity. Maintains the system, not just their own comfort. This is a skill set - not a personality trait.

And like any skill, it’s built through practice, patience, resilience, and learning how to stay, repair, communicate limits, and remain in relationship even when it would be easier to withdraw.

Belonging is a practice, not a backup plan

Villages don’t run on 24/7 access, emotional urgency, or constant communication. But they run on a level of safety, predictability, and rhythm. That looks like:

“I’ll check in weekly.”
“I’ll show up when I say I will.”
“I won’t disappear when things get awkward.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m overwhelmed instead of vanishing.”

Sure - independence feels easier in the short term.  But rhythm is what sustains connection long term. A village isn’t something you build and access only when it suits you. It’s something you cultivate - and participate in - consistently.

And participation means:

• letting yourself be seen

• letting others be imperfect 

• helping even when it inconveniences you

• staying when repair is possible

• knowing when to step back without burning the bridge

Closing reflection

If modern life feels lonely, it’s not because we lack an ability to find people. It’s because we’ve forgotten how to connect, belong, and stay, with skill and care.

Not as a saviour or leader. Not as a hermit.

But as a villager - willing to pay the price of being known and knowing, because the benefits outweigh the costs.