The community I live in is special. When I first toured it, I was immediately drawn in. Not by the luxury or amenities, but by its gentle country edge. Green was everywhere. The middle of the complex was wide, open, and welcoming. It had an older touch; the calming combination of 1950s brick and enamel siding sang through the buildings. Each apartment had windows, light, and a porch. It immediately felt like coming home.

I remember leaving from the tour, looking at the price that was beyond my range, and saying: “How the hell am I going to make this happen?” Because I had to. Every other place paled in comparison. There was something in my soul that crawled toward it. It finally got to the point where I said, aloud in my car after my second visit: “If this is going to happen, you need to show me the way.”

And wouldn’t you know it? One day I felt the urge to check the website, and the apartment rates had miraculously dropped.

So, I moved.

I never looked back after that. The first few months were quiet, marked by the gentle roar of settling into a new life. I got Rosie; snow came and went. I spent three months bundled in my little nook, with my little dog, contently watching the sunrise and sunset from my balcony. I began a quiet recovery from years of overstimulation, caretaking, and emotional overload. My body breathed a sigh as I watch snow fall from my window. I was content with my quiet, small apartment and its steep three-story walk up.

Until the universe said: “Well, that’s enough of that.”

I started meeting people. Not through events, but on sidewalks and dog parks. One woman had just gotten a puppy herself. Somehow – some way – we always found ourselves outside, walking our dogs at the same time – day, night, or in between. Eventually, we started meeting at the dog park. For short visits, at first, while Rosie and the other puppy played. Then, for hours. We would relive our drastically different – yet cosmically interwoven – lives together. To date, we are the thickest of friends, and hardly a day passes where we don’t see each other. Our dogs, too, are practically inseparable.

More meetings like that followed. Others would show up at the dog park, or in the leasing office. Friendships blossomed. But something else started to happen, too: I was suddenly surrounded by a community of reliable people. People who were funny, diverse, caring, and there.

The women in this community are especially profound. They look at you with this innate understanding. Quirky, fun, alive – there is nothing stereotypical about them. They listen when you talk. They advocate for you. They care. But they also share another special thread: they are all recovering from something.

Divorces, deaths, disabilities, debilitating moves – nearly every woman I’ve met carries a scar. Hidden to the plain eye until one meaningful conversation. One open moment. One confession that makes the other person go: “Oh, you too.”

And for the first time in my life, I can shamelessly say: “Yeah, me too.”

Because these women? They get it. They have lived diverse lives that have seen addiction, abuse, and disappointment. They speak from places of healing, from beneath the patchwork of life experiences they assembled through hard-earned healing.

This little community I’ve found – it is special – but it is also the most unexpected gift I’ve ever been given. It is open, filled with hundreds of units – but a small, sincere universe swirls within it. One that is safe, and reliable, and filled with good people who live and have lived many lives.

If you’ve read any of my posts, it won’t surprise you when I say: I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I cared for others for most of my life without reciprocation. Many of my friendships were unstable and unreliable, and functioned mainly because I did all the emotional heavy lifting. I sparingly reached out to others for anything because life proved to me – through cancelled plans, forgotten obligations, and illnesses – that I was the only person I could rely on. I spent years purging friend groups and outdated patterns. I walked ahead alone because it was easier than waiting on someone else to help.

But the thing about relying only on yourself? It gets heavy. Soul heavy. Especially when you’re moving with a car full of packed belongings, no available family, and with three flights of stairs to climb.

Now, there is an easy reliability. My small group of neighbors (although the number keeps increasing) checks in on each other. When I mentioned flying out for vacation, there were three volunteers to drive me to/from the airport. Not because I asked, not because they anticipated needing something from me down the road – but because they cared.

Somehow, I found myself in a little community of givers. Of people who give as much as they receive. People who look – and feel – a little like me when the shadows of the past dance across their faces.

I took a hard look around the table this weekend at an impromptu barbeque. The sun was setting, casting a hazy orange glow over the green of the courtyard. Full plates sat before each unique face. Laugh lines creased the cheeks beneath our eyes that had seen too much. But each of us laughed. Listened. Lingered long after the sun set, and the mosquitos turned out, and the lightning bugs danced between the small circles carved into the table.

This, I realized, was community. Found family. A group of people who cared for one another because they could, not because they should.

This was the best of humanity.

And I was lucky and brave enough to find it.

Spiritually yours,

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