You are all my children have.

“What are you doing this summer?” everyone asks us faux excitedly, as if we might respond with something they won’t be obligated to feign interest in.

“Oh, not much. The pool.”

“Not going to visit family?” they’ll inquire.

I pause. I always find myself in a pause.

“No,” I give our main excuse, “Can’t afford it.”

While we really can’t afford it, I’ve never been one to put off something I really want to do, whether the money is sitting around or not. I have the $32,000 in student loan debt as a receipt to that claim.

While our main reason is because we don’t have the money, I also don’t particularly want to. Sometimes traveling back is akin to time warping into the past. The smells of corn wafting through the humid air. The wide open, unobstructed skies. The reminder that my family and friends are steadily dwindling. The grief of losing a community I never had. Revisited again and again. Why spend $3,000 to feel forgotten when I can sit on my couch and do it for free?

Of course this is major wallowing in self-pity, in trauma that still rears its ugly head to sting and burn when I’m already feeling a bit low. But then I remember the surface conversation that continues to repeat itself every couple of days:

“Oh, so you’re not going home for the summer?”

Over and over again it plays. From a different mouth on a different face. The broken record of social norms I once again cannot meet.

This gets me pondering not about my own biases from trauma, but actually about what my children’s lives must feel like. I did, after all, bring them to New England for a better life. After three years and lost time with people we love, was it worth it to them?

“When is summer school starting” my oldest asks. I answer that it’ll be soon.

“I’ve never been more excited to start at a new school.” For a moment I feel joy.

“I miss Indiana. I miss Sawyer,” my youngest one says glumly. The whiff of joy dissipates as quickly as it transpired.

“I know you do, buddy.” What else can I do but validate him?

I’ve spent many nights contemplating our move. Did I make the right choice? Are the babies happy? They’re definitely more healthy. That counts for something, right? Sleep is elusive for this mom of 35 years. A mom that easily feels 45 or 50. The spirit notices that remark and begs me to question why. Why do I feel so old? So tired?

After many summer moons of contemplation I realize it’s the lack of community that ages me. You know how they say that it takes a village to raise children? Turns out, it’s not just an expression but a necessity in raising a child. The overwhelm of doing it alone, or doing it with only one partner wears a parent out emotionally in an unthinkable manner.

Though my own childhood was exceedingly dysfunctional, I still had a small community which helped raise me. My grandmother, my cousin. Vital into making me feel at least there were a few who cared. Many kids around me had more. I’ve never not walked through life without feeling that catastrophic void: why did I barely have a few who loved me, and only conditionally? I internalized the lack of a village my entire life.

Naturally my mind begs the question: did I strip my children of their village by moving?

Not really. At the end of the day, we had no real village to speak of - not at the time we said goodbye. I wanted things to be different, desperately, but no one seemed to have the time. Either ailing themselves or caring for other family, those I wanted & needed most for my children were unable to be there to give. Maybe I was unavailable to give by then, too. I don’t know. But the painful truth was that when we moved when the kids were 8 & 5, my husband and I had been on maybe 5 dates in 9 years. Some of it was my anxiety about leaving my babies, but as they got older most of it was because I knew even when the few and far between offers of commune came my way, they were insincere or transactional in one way or another. There was always some expectation, some caveat, some condition of being welcomed in acceptance & love. The older I got, the more uncomfortable it made me. I never felt I could be as I am. One day it dawned on me that my children would also never be allowed to be as they are in those spaces.

Now we are here. Where education is incredible & both kids feel safe & accepted by their teachers & peers. Where healthcare is excellent & somewhat accessible, but by no means perfect. Where my husband’s career has flourished. Where I have continued to embody my truest self. Where many fears are dampened or drowned. But also where the village is still slim (and expensive).

On these lonelier nights I try to look at the bright side. The kids have me. They have their dad. They have a strong school community & finally friends who love them. But where are their adults? Where are the nights spent laughing with gigi and pappy? The nights with their aunts & uncles & cousins camping around a fire & telling spooky stories about the Roblox backrooms? The parents of their best friends who understand them & accept them because their own kid is just as wild as they are? The days spent at a family reunion at the pool, wondering who the hell these ancient people they’ve never seen before are: When grandad explains the rickety old skin and bone man was a bus driver 60 years ago but now they’re the neighborhood pariah; the guy who lures kids into his house to eat their brains! Yeah, that guy. “He’s your great-grandfather & he’s crazy as hell,” I imagine grandad would say as he took a swig off of a nice, cold Busch light from a sun-bleached igloo cooler. What about those unrealized pipe dreams of family? Where are our people?

Where indeed. There are a few - the kids love one of my best friends. She visits about every three months. She’s been the most consistent adult friend of mine in their life. They’ve come to see her as family, & I hope it continues that way. I hope she recognizes they love her so, as I do.

We have a couple who they adore, but sometimes I feel like we are at the wrong places in the journey of parenthood. I sincerely hope we all stay together. The boys adore their family. They’re wonderful people which I adore.

I have a few other friends - one in Vermont & her family whom I am grateful for, & my childhood best friend from Indiana who comes to visit both of us. She’s a real gem, too. For both of you I am grateful.

My dear cousin who has been constrained with the highest possible amount of stress that could incapacitate any normal human for years. Her children who are teenagers living their lives in their truth. I wish desperately I could see them all more. My only true family. And my sweet, sweet Nana. There are no words. Just love.

Our only Kentucky family where we all became great friends - a whole family of friends. Whom I miss dearly, often. They were my favorite part of the last trip. People who really embrace being themselves & invite you to be yourself. We love you.

And of course my African sister. A rock in the pull of low & high tides. A believer in all things love, like me. A true global community member and mother nurturer. A kindred soul.

Remember this my dear friends & family: you are all my children have.

This is not an understatement. These boys have me, my husband, & whatever community we can physically build around them. Also remember that if you are here in my life, I value you immensely. I do not frivolously invite people into my life. I move in relationships with intention. I value you, and I am ready to make a commitment of being in true community with you. Ask yourselves if you are living with intention too, and are you willing to do the same?

These are my people. The people who I love. The people who my kids look up to, adore, and need as a critical part of their village. But the village is spread across the country, with people moving on with their lives. The traditional sense of American community defining their actions. Visit here and there. A playdate or two. A text, or if you’re lucky a call. The normalization of isolation in this country eats away at our humanity each day, and at our joy.

Today I appeal to you to reacquaint yourself with community. You deserve people who you can count on, who show up in your life. And so do I. But most importantly, so do my children. So do all children.

Don’t be afraid of physical touch. Reach out for a hug. Have a good laugh. Be vulnerable. Pick up the phone and call so your friend can hear your beautiful voice. Sit with your friends in the hard moments. Comfort them in grief. Let them know that you care.

Being in community with children around you means protecting them from harm. Showing them values in actions. Making them feel safe. Allowing them to express themselves. Encouraging them to explore and to think for themselves. Be the mother to them you always wish you’d had. Nurture them & nourish them like a delicate flower.

The children are our future. They deserve care and love. This includes my children, too. They deserve a village.