I’ve been thinking a lot lately about community…not as a cute “we’re all in this together” Pinterest quote, but as the actual people who show up when things get weird and heavy and real.
Part of that is because I married the love of my life, and I get to live in a home where I am so deeply known. Brian isn’t just my husband…he’s the person who has lived multiple lifetimes with me already. We’ve gone through so many versions of ourselves and our life together that it sometimes feels like we’ve been a dozen different couples in one relationship. And somehow, through all of that, he’s still here, still choosing me, still making coffee and laughing at the same dumb jokes.
On top of that, we have this chosen family that we’ve slowly, stubbornly built over the years…through raves, parties, late‑night conversations, road trips, group chats, and quiet dinners where someone finally says the thing out loud they’ve been carrying around in their chest. People who have seen us at our sparkliest and our absolute messiest and didn’t flinch either way.
It’s easy to talk about “community” in a vague way, but it hits differently when life starts handing out the kinds of plot twists that remind you we’re not actually here forever. My dad having a stroke pulled that into sharp focus for me. One day he’s just…my dad. Complicated, specific, flawed, funny, human. The next day there’s this before and after. There are hospital smells and medical words and a new version of him we’re all trying to get to know.
Watching a parent go through something like that is its own kind of aging. It’s not just them getting older, it’s you having to grow up in a way you maybe weren’t ready for yet. There’s grief in it, and fear, and also this fierce tenderness that shows up when you’re helping with things they never used to need help with.
And in the middle of that, I keep noticing how surrounded I actually am. Brian, who will sit with me while I try to untangle my feelings, or just let me cry into his shoulder without needing me to make it make sense. Friends who text to check in, who drop a meme and a “how’s your heart?” in the same breath. People who say “what do you need?” and actually mean it.
As we all get older, the rave stories and the festival photos live right next to things like strokes and loss and caretaking and bloodwork. The same people I danced next to at 3am under lasers are now the ones I call when I’m worried about my dad, or when I’m trying to figure out how to be a good son and also still a whole person.
The research folks will tell you that social connection literally helps people live longer and stay healthier. Lower risk of all kinds of things, better outcomes after illness, less isolation. That’s real, and it matters. But for me, it’s also much simpler than that: I just don’t want to do this alone. Life feels like a lot sometimes, and I don’t want to white‑knuckle my way through it when I don’t have to.
I feel incredibly lucky that the version of “family” around me is not just blood ties, but this whole constellation of humans who understand chosen family as something sacred. People who know that love can look like driving someone to an appointment, or dancing with them in a crowd, or sending a voice note when they go quiet for a while.
I don’t have a neat, tidy takeaway here. I just know that as I watch my dad navigate this next chapter, and as I feel my own body and life shifting with age, I’m more aware than ever of how held I am. How rare it is to have a husband like Brian and a chosen family like ours. How much I want to keep tending to those relationships on purpose, not just assuming they’ll be there.
If there’s any tiny invitation in this, it’s probably this: text someone who feels like home and tell them you’re glad they exist. Say yes to the brunch, or the walk, or the phone call. Let people see you when things are hard, not just when you’re fun and shiny.
Community doesn’t erase the hard stuff. It just means that when everything starts to shift — parents aging, bodies changing, lives re‑arranging themselves — you’re not standing there by yourself trying to hold it all. You get to be held, too.