“It takes a village to raise a child”
I don’t remember when I first heard this saying. I don’t believe it was before having children and even if it were, it woulnd’t have mattered because I wasn’t interested in the subject. In fact, I would have laughed because I used to be very proud of me being extremely independent and not needing anyone (a huge red flag, but that's another story).
The truth is that even at the beginning of motherhood I used to find this phrase a cheesy statement made by those who do not feel capable of raising their child on their own. I focused exclusively on skills and abilities because I, myself, viewed raising a child as a long-term project that you can do correctly if you follow the instructions. I wasn't intimidated by the idea that I didn't have an instruction manual; I made it my goal to do my research and create my own manual. After all, I've always been a nerd and enjoyed studying.
It worked for a while. When the first child was small and his needs were limited to the basics, everything was clear and easy to solve. "Easy" in the sense of fast forward, not piece of cake, because that it wasn't. But they were manageable tasks with the information I had or could easily find. My village consisted of two people: my husband and my mother. And anyway, I didn't want it to be bigger because I was allergic to unsolicited advice (which I did receive sometimes), and I associated the village with a bunch of intrusive relatives who remember they are experts in childcare and psychopedagogy just when I gave birth.
As I said, we were the three adults who were constantly present in our child's life, and we thought that was enough. Reality hit me a few months later, when I realized that the only person I interacted with during the day was my child, and in the evening, when my husband and mother came home from work, we barely had time to talk. My close friends didn't have children yet, so weeks would go by before we could see each other because our schedules didn't match. And anyway, we no longer had the same interests.
I began to feel extremely lonely. It seemed to me that the people around me were continuing to live their lives while mine was reduced to a series of tedious and exhausting tasks. Even though I loved my child enormously, that isolating routine made me unrecognizable to myself, and that scared me terribly.
What kept me with the head above water were certain groups of people who are often mocked today, but who are a lifesaver for some: mothers in social media groups (back then, forums) and those in the park. I didn't see eye to eye with all of them, as is normal, but without them I don't think I would have kept it together. Without realizing it, I was intuitively looking for my village, my tribe, or my community. I was doing what I was biologically programmed to do: seeking connection and support among my peers.
I truly understood this a few years later, when the children grew up. They began to form friendships and wanted to spend more time together than just the one spent in school or occasional events, in the vulnerability and imperfection of their personal space, where we, adults, rarely let anyone in. The fear that someone will judge our taste in interior design, take inventory of the cracks in the plaster or the flood stains on the ceiling, that we don't have a variety of fine drinks, or that we have nothing to offer but vegetable soup when someone drops by unannounced, makes us close the door to human connection. And without that, we live in emotional scarcity, even if our home is decorated according to the latest trends.
When I started allowing my children to bring friends home despite the imperfections of the house and the limited menu (and implicitly exposing myself to potential evaluations from parents who came to drop off or pick up their children), I realized that many of those scenarios were only in my head. People didn't worry too much about the details that bothered me, or if they did, they didn't say anything out loud and it didn't reach me.
The children’s need for connection made me reflect on my own need, beyond sporadic meetings with friends over coffee outside my personal space, beyond moments of good mood and balance: in difficult moments when I needed help and had to admit it. And I found that some people are very eager to help, so I practiced asking and at the same time offering, because I believe that things should be mutual, even if a perfect balance is not always possible. I started looking with greater intention for communities to be part of, and if I didn't find anything that matched my values and principles, I contributed to creating them.
Through the unconventional choices that my husband and I made for our children in terms of education, we had access to communities that were much more open to spontaneous interactions, free from rigid labels and without the pressure to perform in any way. We visited houses under construction where we shared a pizza party on an improvised table. We invited for a sleep over onto our pull-out sofa in the living room families we had never met in person, but whose lives, challenges, and achievements we knew in detail. I rocked babies to sleep while their mothers cut up food on my children's plates.
Among my fondest memories are those in which we shared food and beds like a huge family, but without living together. The image of a cake bought on the spot from a bakery on my son’s birthday and eaten in the park, with our hands, the four of us with two other mothers and four children, and the image of a living room floor covered with mattresses on which were sleeping four times more children than I gave birth to are the most vivid in my memory. And the level of intimacy and closeness we have developed in these relationships cannot disappear even though we are now miles apart.
The impact these experiences have had on my life and my family is profound and irreversible. They have shaped our values and built our relationship patterns. Wherever we go, we seek to build a community or integrate into one, to rely on people and to support them in return.
I realized that the need for community does not mean dependence in a negative sense (i.e., weakness, which is one of the things we fear most, even though, paradoxically, we are the species of mammals with the highest degree of dependence on the caregivers), but rather an extraordinary resource on which we naturally depend in order to survive in the first place, then to thrive and progress. Being able to ask another parent to pick up your child from school when they pick up theirs so that you can finish a project, or having someone to call to help you pack when you have to move are incredible gifts that only those who have experienced them can appreciate. But they don't come on a silver platter and they don't work one way. We can't get support if we don't leave the house or pick up the phone, and we won't be helped indefinitely if we dodge when asked for help.
Beyond studies and experiments that prove that personal fulfillment depends directly on the quality of personal relationships, I have lived and continue to live such a reality, reaping the rewards day after day and overcoming challenges more easily than those who lack support. I hope you all have this in your lives.