The Village That Doesn’t Shows Up
When I was growing up, my grandparents lived less than a mile away. They were constants in my life—pickups, drop-offs, sleepovers, Sunday dinners. My mom always had a babysitter lined up, usually one of her middle school students who could really use the money or just needed a little love. On weekends, we’d go to the farm for big gatherings where everyone brought a dish, played cards in the machine shed, and stayed too late. It was loud, messy, imperfect—and it was magic.
I don’t have that anymore. And the harder truth is that my kids don’t either.
They’re surrounded by love and safety, yes, but it’s a small circle. There’s no big family gathering, no chaos of cousins, no machine shed filled with laughter. Christmas is beautiful—we open presents, I cook a nice meal—but then it’s just… Thursday. Thanksgiving? Another Thursday. I do it all, but sometimes it feels like I’m trying to recreate something that doesn’t exist here.
We live a plane ride away from my parents, and I know they’d be here in a heartbeat if they could. But distance has a way of settling in—it becomes routine. So I try to build it myself: I host, I plan, I fill every gap. I make the small moments special, but they blend together because I’m the one holding them up. What I really want is for someone else to show my kids love in a way that surprises them. For them to come home and say, “Mom, you won’t believe what so-and-so did for me.” That’s the piece that stings the most. Recently, a couple of my favorites came all the way from California. It was such a moment of “God, this is what I’m missing.” They loved on my kids, they brought joy and laughter and love. It’s like a warm sweater.
The other morning, I went grocery shopping along with what felt like everyone else in town. Every aisle, I ran into someone I knew—people from work, pickleball, the gym, other schools. I know all these people, but I don’t belong to any of them. It hit me right there, between the eggs and the almond milk: I’ve built a life full of connection but not belonging.
And that’s the thing about adulthood—it’s so easy to get busy that you forget how to belong. My job is public and stressful, and sometimes it feels like I’m always “on.” One wrong word or picture could end up somewhere it shouldn’t. I’m not doing anything wild—I just crave a place where I can drop the performance and be Lauren. A campfire, a beer, some laughter, and no roles to play.
My therapist asked me recently, “Where can you go and be fully yourself?” I didn’t have an answer. My family’s far away, my closest friends are scattered across the country, and the circles I’m part of all come with titles—worker, mom, wife. But where am I just me?
It’s a hard question. And it’s one I think a lot of women quietly carry. We tell ourselves we’re fine. We stay productive. We stay grateful. But the truth is—sometimes, it’s lonely to be the glue.
I’m not done trying, though. I still believe in the village. If it doesn’t exist, I’ll keep building it. But I’m also calling this out—because it’s time for all of us to pull our heads out of our busy, beautiful, overbooked lives and show up for one another again. The time is going fast. Our kids are growing up. The moments are slipping away while we check one more email.
We can’t wait for belonging to find us. We have to go first.
So, GRL…
If the village doesn’t exist, build it. Show up for each other. Be the person who knocks, calls, or invites. Because time’s moving fast, and the real magic is in the moments we make.
