Somebody Has to Go First

"Everyone wants a village, but no one wants to be a villager." I keep seeing that on social media, and every time it stops me, probably because it's true in a way that's a little uncomfortable.

I grew up in a big Italian family, which means I didn't have to think about community — it just showed up, usually with food and opinions, whether you asked for it or not. Sunday dinners weren't optional, neither was knowing your cousins' business, and a goodbye that should have taken five minutes somehow always took forty-five. The village wasn't a concept; it was just Tuesday.

So when I put my kids in a new school this year, I understood what I was actually signing up for: not just carpool logistics and classroom emails, but the slower, less convenient work of becoming someone's people. Staying at the birthday party instead of running errands, making the conversation real instead of keeping it pleasant, saying yes to the panel on a weeknight when the couch is right there.

Last week I moderated a RESOLVE event for National Infertility Awareness Week, and the room was full of people doing exactly that — showing up in person, which still feels like a small act of defiance these days, for a conversation that's heavy and vulnerable and not always easy to walk into. Some were just starting out, some were in the thick of it, and some had already been through it and came anyway, for whoever happened to be sitting next to them. That's the villager. That's what it actually looks like.

If you want a village, you have to be willing to be the villager, for the people you've known forever and the ones you just met. Go when it's inconvenient, stay when it's easier to leave, and say the true thing out loud so someone else doesn't have to carry it alone. You'll be surprised how many people were waiting for someone to go first.