Learning to be a Villager

I’m going to be real with you. It’s not been the easiest to love where I live recently. 

My life has been a bit of a whirlwind over the last two months. There’s stuff I want to share but don’t feel it’s fair to, so suffice to say there’s been some intense upheaval in my personal life. 

Also, the contract that I thought would extend from 3 months to 6 sadly didn’t (not through anyone’s fault, just through projects not aligning). I had a couple more things in the pipeline but both fell through within 24 hours of each other, which happened to also be the same 24 hours as the very intense upheaval in my personal life. 

In those 24 hours, my flatmate and I discovered that not only did we have mould, we also had rats in the walls. Brighton basement flat for you. 

So, I went from being a bit employed and a bit more settled to being very unemployed and very unsettled. 

And I tell you what, it’s quite hard to love where you live on any of the levels I expressed in my introduction to this project when you’ve got all that going on. 

It’s quite hard to love the place you’re in when there are rats squeaking and banging in the walls (even harder when they’ve died under the floorboards, honestly it is not a smell I would wish on my worst enemy). It’s quite hard to feel the love in the community you’ve built when there’s been a rupture and you feel like you’ve only got yourself to blame. It’s quite hard to love yourself when you feel lost and unsure of the decisions you’ve made and the path you’ve taken. 

It’s also quite hard to learn to love where you're living when a month on from that now canonic 24 hours you then get two new contracts that require you to be in London for half the week. But that one I can cope with. 

Cut to me, wondering how I could commit to keeping this fledgling passion project of mine going given the circumstances. And then I realised that these circumstances have made it matter even more. 

Before I got these new contracts, the siren call of adventure was loud. ‘What’s keeping me here now? Could I just run?' Renege on everything I’ve been writing and preaching about local community and connection and chalk it up to another experiment that wasn’t destined to last? 

No. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from some very special and very important people who have come into my life in the last two years it’s this: if you want meaningful connection, you have to stay. 

Learning to love where we live is not about creating the perfect conditions, the perpetual “sunny uplands” that we all think we can reach if we just change this thing, or maybe that one. It’s about leaning into the mess and the uncertainty and finding meaning there. 

Which leads me on to the theme that has been present in almost all the deep conversations and interactions I have had in this past month: we must relearn the skill of staying with each other when things are hard. 

I am saying this to you from my rawest and most vulnerable state, as someone who has not been able to do this. 

We must learn the skills of rupture and repair, of having difficult conversations, of forgiveness. 

Don’t get me wrong, boundaries are important, caring for our own needs and wants is important, learning to stand up for ourselves is important, knowing when to let go is important. For some, the brave thing is learning to choose themselves. I absolutely honour that.

But many of us, especially those with the privilege of safe relationships, have overcorrected. Too often we prioritise what we call ‘self-care’ at the expense of strengthening our connections with others. We isolate and we think that being alone will make us feel better. And it does, for a short while. But by prioritising our short term comfort, we are chipping away at our chances of being comfortable long-term: the comfort of having deep relationships that have weathered storms and people that we can trust will be there, even when we mess up or say hurtful things or forget to ask about our friend's dog’s birthday party and whether or not he liked his presents. 

When we choose to feed our fear, the fear of hurt, of rejection or of discomfort, we push away the very love we’re afraid of losing. 

We build walls around ourselves and then wonder why there’s no one sitting beside us. 

We equate solitude with safety and convince ourselves we must go it alone. 

I’ve just finished reading a book called Wolfish by Erica Berry. She explores wolves as a cultural emblem of our fear, as well as the way that so many women let ourselves be ruled by the lesson of Little Red Riding Hood: be afraid of what’s in the forest.

One thing particularly stood out to me though: the idea we have of the ‘lone wolf’, frightening, powerful, menacing, is actually factually pretty inaccurate. Wolves are much stronger in packs and are much less dangerous alone: “their strength comes from the interdependent choreography of their pack.” 

She goes on to say this: “what is lost when we equate strength - or even bravery - with going off solo, and not the messy task of digging in to stay?”. 

Just yesterday I saw a post on Linkedin that built on this idea and really struck a chord with me:

“Everyone wants a village but no one wants to be a villager.

That means people want a strong community for support, but they are not willing to put in the effort and sacrifice required to be a part of it.

Being annoyed is the price we pay for connection and community.

It can mean sharing space when it’s inconvenient, showing up when you’d rather be home, or hosting when you’re tired.

Somewhere along the way, our fear of discomfort turned into hyper-independence – strict boundaries, perfect routines, and no interruptions.

When our boundaries become too rigid, they stop protecting us and start isolating us. They become walls.

We wonder why we feel so lonely. We’re paying for convenience with disconnection.”

I’ll be honest, with this new chapter ahead of me, I can feel myself slipping back into my old ways.

I have a contract secured for a whole year, I know where I will be living until at least July (it’s been two years since I could see more than about a month ahead…) and I’m on my own again.

I can feel my own narrative of #strongindependentwoman creeping back in. I’ve got this. I can do this. I just need to have my glow up: fix myself in body, mind and soul and then I can be worthy of love, from myself and others. Then I will be strong enough to be in community and relationship with others and do hard things. 

But I didn’t spend the last two years unravelling myself for nothing. I know that my work now is to show up, exactly as I am. To show up with love. To show up even when I'm afraid. To find other people annoying and show them love anyway and to accept that I will be annoying and I will be loved anyway. 

So: our challenge this week? To choose the connecting thing rather than the isolating thing.

When you have the choice between texting "sorry, can't make it" or pushing yourself to show up, show up.

When you could scroll on your phone or people watch, choose people watching. Hey, maybe you could even go so far as to make conversation with a stranger.

When you want to process everything alone or reach out to a friend, reach out. (I actually already did this one, and let me tell you receiving a virtual cuddle and discussing our plans for the future commune was infinitely better than continuing to listen to sad songs for another hour and crying on the train home. Though I think that part was also maybe a necessary part of the evening’s proceedings). 

I'm not saying ignore your boundaries or your genuine needs for solitude. I'm not saying override your instinct or stay in situations that are genuinely damaging.

I'm saying notice when you're choosing isolation out of fear rather than genuine need.

Because here's what I'm learning: the discomfort of staying is temporary. The loneliness of always leaving is permanent.

I am writing about the importance of staying from the strange position of having had a fair few experiencse of... not staying. I think that's exactly why this lesson matters so much to me now. Sometimes we learn what we most need to practice from the moments we couldn't quite manage it. 

And if we're serious about building the rooted, resilient communities we'll need for whatever comes next, whether that's climate collapse, political turmoil, or just getting through another winter when the heating bills are UNACCEPTABLY high (Octopus, you're killing me), we need to practice staying now.

With ourselves, with our places, with each other.

Even when there are rats under the floorboards.