On finding your people
One awkward introduction at a time
When we moved to New Jersey a little over 4 years ago, my husband joked that people would run the other way when they saw me coming.
We had relocated 3,000 miles from California.
Our kids were 2.5 years old and 2 months old.
We'd visited our new town exactly once before.
We knew exactly zero people.
It was December.
It was very cold.
And very dark.
…
First……don’t do this.
Second, in case you missed it:
We knew exactly zero people, in our new, cold, dark town.
We had moved willingly, to be closer to family. But I’d started to seriously question our choices. And sanity.
Our cold dark new house with no furniture.
But this wasn’t entirely new territory.
I’d moved at least 5 times between 3 cities over the prior decade and I knew what it was like to start over.
The heady mix of newness, excitement and fear.
And the mild panic of no one to share it with.
Which is why, at any chance I got, I'd introduce myself to complete strangers. Toddler whining, baby on hip, hand extended, "Hi, I'm Catherine, we're new here. Where do you live? Do your kids go to school in town? Can I be your friend? I'm free on Tuesdays!"
I still have random numbers saved in my phone like, "Kelly (Library, son Ethan)" or "Monica (Produce aisle, daughter Lucy)."
Making friends wasn’t easy.
But I was still too whiplashed from our ridiculous move to be worried about it.
Instead, I used the manic, sleep-deprived new-mom energy that had emerged into the void where a full-time job and only-1-kid-life used to be, to throw myself in front of anyone who would talk to me.
This was less strategic than it was visceral.
It was some unspoken and unrecognized need to find connection with other humans.
An anchor to hold on to while the waves of our new life settled around me.
Slowly, oh so slowly, one awkward introduction at a time, I found my people.
A woman with her daughter at the library.
The family at the beach.
Our neighbor down the street.
A physical village gradually took shape, each person a brick weaving a wall around me. Around us all.
This physical village is filled mostly with people in similar life stages and circumstances. It’s specific and incomparably useful in that way.
It is validating, especially as a parent ("Yes, my kid does that too and it's the absolute worst"). And it provides actual physical support ("Yes, let me pick up your son and drive him home so you don't have to race across town at rush hour").
It is something I didn't know that I needed until I had it. A leak I didn't notice until it was sealed.
And.
This physical village is not the only village. It can't nor should it be.
It has its limits and blind spots and biases, as any village does.
It supports me as a mother, in so many innumerable ways. But my needs as a mother are different from my needs as ________________.
This is blank on purpose. Because we are always so much more than whatever label might currently be overshadowing all the rest.
I don’t want to forget about the rest.
The things that are often ignored.
The things that get pushed to the background as our lives move and change around us.
The things that don’t seem to have a place, or village of others surrounding it.
It makes me wonder, who are those other villagers?
What do they think about, dream of, and year for, around their solitary fires?
What do they wish they could talk about with someone else?
What could they only hope others would truly understand about them?
What are they afraid to talk about, because they're scared it makes them different?
Because they know it makes them different?
They are out there. And they are waiting for you.
Go find them.
Introduce yourself.