The Village We Didn’t Know We Needed

There was a recent Saturday that felt heavier than the rest. The kind where the walls feel too close, the day stretches too long, and the quiet hum of “we’re doing this all alone” grows louder with every passing hour. My husband and I, without a large active community around us, carry most of this parenting thing ourselves. And sometimes, many times, it’s a gift. We bond well. We know our rhythms. But sometimes, the weight of doing it all without backup feels like a never-ending loop. Summer arrives, and while others cheer at the long days ahead, I can’t help but count how many weeks until school starts again—until the next reprieve.

The following week, we took a trip to visit friends. Their presence and warmth were like cool water on parched skin. They didn’t just host us, they showed up for our boys. They took them on bike rides, baked desserts in the kitchen, went to the beach, and the zoo.

But what stayed with me wasn’t anything planned. It was what I overheard.

Upstairs, a bedtime story was being read to our boys. I hadn’t known it was happening. I was downstairs, the noise of the day winding down around me, and then that voice reading aloud floated through. Something about that moment pulled me still. I just listened. And in the quiet, I felt peace settle in. A soft reminder: this is how it’s meant to be. Shared. Held. Lightened.

That moment reminded me of something I tend to forget: the village matters. Not the idealized one I picture in my head, with perfectly scheduled babysitters and potlucks and a text thread that answers in real time. But the real one—made up of friends who mean well, grandparents who aren’t always close, neighbours who sometimes surprise you. Sometimes they show up without fanfare, and if I’m too focused on what should be, I’ll miss what already is.

I’ve caught myself thinking, Well, you had kids. This is your life now, as if love and tiredness can’t coexist. As if exhaustion somehow cancels out the wonder of these little people. But I’m learning to name the feeling more accurately: not failure, just fatigue.

And I’m learning, too, that presence—real, full, shoulder-relieving presence—doesn’t always come wrapped the way I expect. It might be in the form of someone else reading a bedtime story while I sit quietly, unseen but deeply grateful. Or in the way someone else loves my children just for who they are.

So, here’s what I want to say, if you’ve felt this way too:

• You’re not wrong to be tired.
  
• You’re not bad for needing help.
  
• And if your village doesn’t look the way you imagined it might, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

This summer, as we stumble into picnics, backyard hangs, library runs and long walks home, may we learn to treat every connection as sacred—because it is. May we open our hearts a little wider to the people already reaching in. And may we trust that even on the longest, loneliest-feeling days, we were never meant to do this alone.

Because sometimes, the village we didn’t know we needed…
is already right outside the door, waiting with a storybook in hand.