It took a long time to find a tribe, even for someone who technically comes from tribal families on both sides. Growing up, grandparents were always hosting family, friends, and vecinos. Until she developed Alzheimer’s in her 90s, Abuela Celeste was perpetually cooking up food to send to a friend or church member going through a hard time. The grandparents lived by community, but that way of life got lost with the subsequent generation.
Both parents migrated to the United States as kids in the early 1970s with very little and without knowing a word of English. Their parents’ robust community mindset helped them survive those initial, turbulent years. But as everyone grew into adulthood, unhealthy family patterns inevitably surfaced. What might have initially started as innocent sibling rivalry curdled into deep-seated resentment—not just toward one another, but toward the grandparents and the ways they had allegedly failed their children. Stories of abuse, long buried, were finally said out loud. Furthermore, becoming fluent in English and attaining higher education gave family members the luxury of choosing whether they wanted to stick around or distance themselves.
The maternal grandfather passed away when the author was 11, and the large, boisterous gatherings with family and friends became significantly less frequent. Everyone had their own children, immediate families, and demanding careers, and the adhesive that had once held the extended family together was suddenly gone. It became apparent that "survival" is often the underlying force that keeps families and communities bonded together, which explained where a great deal of that historical loyalty originated.
By the teenage years, most holidays were spent strictly within the nuclear family. Reunions were rare occurrences, and simmering tensions between aunts and uncles frequently spilled over onto the younger generation of cousins. Entering the early 20s brought zero faith that a united, healthy extended-family dynamic would ever materialize—a dynamic frequently observed among Latino peers. There was a lingering envy for friends who counted their cousins among their best friends, who could trust relatives with deep secrets, and whose families found any excuse to gather over a shared meal and end the night dancing.
A glimpse of this life was experienced during a nearly 10-year relationship with a Dominican man. There was a strong wish to replicate what he had: an extended network of family, friends, and neighbors who reliably showed up for holidays and birthdays, and who invited people over for sancocho on a random weeknight simply because there was extra food to go around.
However, the final two years of that relationship also illuminated why parents and many extended relatives had consciously chosen to set boundaries and love family from afar. When families and communities are forced to live in constant survival mode, there is frequently codependency, a pervasive lack of boundaries, and unfair expectations placed squarely on children, particularly as they transition into adulthood. The parents had wanted to protect their children from those exact dynamics.
Entering the 30s brought numerous attempts to introduce disparate friend groups to one another, harboring the hope of merging them into one large, cohesive family—the primos and primas that were never biologically provided. It was not until the late 30s that a realization finally landed: that envisioned community had quietly been achieved.
Sometimes a village is not something a person is born into or expected to effortlessly find; sometimes it is something that must be meticulously built. Amazing individuals emerged over the years who showed up during times of need in ways biological family never had, carrying one another through challenging periods and cheering each other on during moments of success.
These relationships proved to be entirely reciprocal rather than transactional. While some connections did not work out—requiring individuals to walk away or maintain a healthy distance—friendships and even casual acquaintanceships significantly enriched daily life. Navigating one of the most challenging years since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic underscored just how central having a trusted tribe is when personal lives and the broader world seem to be falling apart.
In contemporary cultural discourse, there is frequent discussion surrounding a modern loneliness epidemic. Countless people of color on social media platforms discuss community constantly, a sentiment that resonated deeply for a long time. Yet, as a close friend recently observed, "community" has increasingly begun to feel like an empty buzzword. Many people express a desire for it, but far fewer are genuinely willing to invest the necessary time and emotional labor.
Simply showing up to cookouts, parties, and large social events represents only a fraction of the work. True community requires making dedicated one-on-one time, asking people how they specifically need support, checking in outside of entertaining group chats, and finding concrete ways to be of service during difficult times.
A village is not simply defined by the people who show up when needed; it is also shaped by the person one chooses to become for others. If society genuinely wants community, individuals must be willing to actively participate in it rather than merely harvest its benefits. Community gatherings should never be treated strictly as networking opportunities, which is precisely when connections become cold and transactional.
Understanding this perspective requires acknowledging why older generations stepped away. Traditional community structures often came bundled with heavy obligations, persistent guilt, a lack of boundaries, overinvolvement, unfair expectations, and disproportionate caregiving labor that fell disproportionately on women. Yet, growing older prompts necessary self-reflection: Which parts of the traditional village are actually worth preserving and inheriting?
The answer often lies in the generosity and hospitality modeled by grandparents—traits that continue to inspire modern efforts to host dinner parties, celebrate friends’ milestones, offer a listening ear during personal crises, and engage in difficult but loving conversations.
Building community today is undeniably challenging. Modern society is structured around capitalist demands that force individuals to spend vastly more time working than connecting with loved ones. Modern adulthood compounds these hurdles, especially when combined with the responsibilities of raising children, supporting aging parents, and managing caregiving burdens.
Even for unmarried, childfree individuals, there are inevitable seasons when emotional capacity simply runs too low to check in on everyone. The key has been to stop romanticizing the idealized village of the past or harboring guilt over not having grown up within one, and instead focus on constructing a version tailored to contemporary realities. Despite demanding schedules and widespread burnout from work and daily obligations, it remains possible to construct a new iteration of the village—one that preserves care and generosity without requiring individuals, particularly women, to completely sacrifice their autonomy.
For many Latinos, family and community have historically served not merely as emotional support systems, but as the foundational framework for organizing daily life. In earlier decades, grandparents anchored the household. Relatives dropped by unannounced. Cousins were raised side-by-side like siblings, neighbors were embraced as family, and close friends were traditionally addressed as Tía and Tío. Food functioned as the primary language of care.
That baseline expectation of a relational life is gradually fading across generations, particularly in the United States, where daily existence revolves heavily around employment. Individuals build careers, relocate across the country, and learn to prioritize hyper-independence. Layered with the aftermath of the pandemic, the rise of remote work, and the constant distraction of digital devices, society has grown increasingly disconnected. Concurrently, witnessing other people’s curated displays of belonging through screens often intensifies personal feelings of isolation.
For Latinas in particular, the yearning for community is often tied to a deep-seated desire to recover something familiar—something witnessed in mothers and grandmothers, and experienced during childhood. The underlying pursuit is simply to feel held and supported by others once again.
The widespread hunger for community stems largely from being the first generation of Latinos raised to depend on others as a survival mechanism, now abruptly asked to construct adult lives centered around complete independence.
Sustaining a community cannot function as an accounting ledger of favors. Belonging to a village does not mean every member contributes identical resources at all times; the balance inevitably shifts. One person might welcome a baby or grieve the loss of a parent and require temporary support. Another might face financial hardship and lack the resources to socialize or show up in expected ways, while others temporarily carry a heavier load.
Mutual aid operates fluidly: treating a friend to dinner today might mean receiving help moving apartments tomorrow. Supporting a friend through a painful breakup one year can pave the way for that same friend to offer vital stability during a period of unemployment and health crises. These reciprocal exchanges form the very fabric of la comunidad.
True reciprocity relies on trusting that care circulates organically over time rather than keeping score. Recognizing this dynamic alters the modern pursuit of community, prompting a necessary question: Are individuals willing to be the exact kind of friend they are seeking? Without proactive outreach, invitations, and follow-ups, adult friendships frequently devolve into passive waiting games.
Family, whether biological or chosen, carries inherent responsibilities. Building a chosen family requires intention rather than a superficial desire to alleviate loneliness. While the traditional village often came at the steep price of individual autonomy, today’s goal is not to blindly replicate the past, but to forge a modern network where deep connection coexists with personal peace and boundary-respecting autonomy.
