A dear friend of mine mentioned to me recently that her sister had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s dementia. As we spoke, she reflected on how much her life had changed over the years. Her parents had passed away long ago. They had been older when they had her, and so she lost them many years before many of her friends began losing theirs. She also told me that a former classmate—the one who had always kept everyone updated on the news of childhood friends—had passed away a few years ago.
As she talked, she shared something that struck me deeply. She said she hadn’t realized how lonely it would feel to be one of the last people left who still carried the memories of her childhood. There were fewer and fewer people who remembered the same streets, the same teachers, the same moments that had shaped those early years. Except for her—and perhaps me, to some extent—there was almost no one left with whom she could reminisce about those shared experiences. She found herself holding stories that no one else seemed to remember, and without someone to share them with, those memories felt oddly solitary.
My friend is entering a new chapter of life, one where she will have to navigate unfamiliar emotional terrain. The road ahead feels like uncharted waters for her.
I also know a gentleman who, in many ways, has lived a very full life. He is a good man, retired, fit, active, and able to do most of the things he enjoys. Yet he has never had a large circle of friends. He has a few good friends here and there, but sometimes he confides that he feels a quiet loneliness—a sense that something is missing. He has hobbies and interests, but he longs to feel part of “something” larger than himself. The difficulty is that he isn’t quite sure what that “something” is, or how to find it.

Community-The dictionary defines community as a group of people who share common interests, characteristics, or goals, along with a sense of fellowship. When we are young and making our way in the world, we receive all kinds of advice about friendships and social connections. Some people say they only need one or two good friends. Others believe you can never have too many and still others prefer to live more independently, choosing a quieter, more solitary path. But life has a way of shifting one’s perspective.
What once felt like smooth sailing can, at times, become rough waters. And these days, those changes can happen at any stage of life. When I was younger, losses seemed to occur far less frequently than they do now. People appeared to pass away mostly when they were old—or at least that was how it seemed through the eyes of youth.
I remember thinking how sad it was when someone lost a spouse or a parent & it was rare. It felt tragic, but also distant, something that happened to other people. I never imagined how those experiences would one day become part of my own story. Yet, when those moments of loss arrive, it is often our community that softens the blow.
When my husband passed away, I was in a state of shock. A heavy fog settled over me, and for a time it felt impossible to think clearly about anything at all. But my friends came. They came day after day, surrounding me with care and practical help. My son and my siblings were there as well, guided by my brother who was serving overseas in the military.
In many ways, it felt as though all hands were on deck.They brought food. They organized what needed to be done. They helped choose the clothes Chuck would wear. My son and my brother dismantled the hospital bed and removed the medical equipment that had filled the room. My son even turned down my bed so that when that first surreal, long and painful day finally ended, I could lie down and rest.
Flowers arrived from everywhere. Friends offered to take me out, to listen, or simply to sit quietly beside me. This was my community. I was deeply grateful for them.

After a period of isolation, I eventually began reaching out again. I realized that what I longed for was connection “something” that would help guide me forward into the next chapter of my life. What I discovered was a new community that held me, supported me, and gently led me toward a life that had been recalibrated by loss.
In many ways, I became a different person. I was reborn into a life that looked different from the one I had known before. But that experience also deepened my understanding of just how essential human connection truly is.
I learned that loss has a way of reminding us of something we might otherwise overlook: the importance of staying connected to people in order to stay connected to life itself.
Life goes on, of course. And as it does, we inevitably lose family members and friends. I write this even as I prepare to attend the funeral of my aunt, who lived to the remarkable age of one hundred. Her passing is bittersweet. It reminds me that my cousins and I are now the next generation. We are the ones who must carry forward the legacy of those who came before us—those who made a way out of no way so that we could build lives of our own.
None of us want to face the later chapters of life feeling unseen, overlooked, or alone.
So perhaps it is worth thinking about the journey ahead—about who will walk beside us as we travel through the years to come. Maybe, if we are thoughtful about it, we can begin early on to cultivate a community that will see us through both the sunny days and the storms. We want people who remember the joyful milestones as well as the difficult moments.

I was reminded of this not long ago when someone recalled a memory that had long slipped from my mind. When I was an undergrad, several of my close friends would spend Christmas Day with their families and then come to my home in Brooklyn later that evening. My parents would welcome them in, give them Christmas gifts, and before long they were sitting down for what had essentially become a second Christmas dinner.
I also recall the time that a Jewish friend of mine who I grew up with, saw a picture of a Christmas tree that I had posted on one of my social media accounts, and she mentioned that the very first time she ever saw a Christmas tree was at my house when we were around seven. When she shared that memory with me, it felt like receiving a gift—a small treasure that had been tucked away in the folds of time. I had long forgotten that moment, yet there it was, still alive in her memory. And that is the quiet beauty of the people who travel through life with us. They hold pieces of our story that we may not even remember ourselves. They have gone on with their lives and we may only catch up with them on social media, but when we reconnect now all grown up, the rich memories shared are like sprinkles of fairy dust awakening our souls.

As I think about these memories—some bright and joyful, others tender and bittersweet—I realize they are the threads that weave the fabric of a life. None of them were created alone. They were formed in living rooms, at kitchen tables, during long conversations, shared holidays, and quiet moments when someone simply showed up.
Community does not always arrive fully formed. Sometimes we inherit it through family. Sometimes we grow it slowly through friendships that deepen over decades. And sometimes, when life changes us—as loss so often does—we must build it again, reaching outward so that we do not end up traveling the road ahead alone.
If there is anything life has taught me, it is that the people who walk beside us become part of our story, and we become part of theirs. They remember the things we might forget. They remind us who we once were and help guide and understand us as we evolve. They are not here to diminish you but to remind you that you matter.
So perhaps the question for all of us is this: Who is walking beside you on your journey? And just as importantly—whose journey are you helping to steady with your presence?
Because in the end, it is not only the years that shape a life. It is the community we create, the friendships we nurture, and the shared memories that will remain long after the moment has passed. And if we are fortunate, those connections will carry us through the sunny days and the storms, all the way to the final chapters of our lives—reminding us that we were never meant to do this alone.
When we share those memories with the people who have walked beside us, we keep those moments alive. They bring us joy again and again, reminding us that the life we have lived has been witnessed, shared, and valued.
As time marches on, our circles may grow smaller. We lose family members, friends move away or pass on. And yet, the friendships that remain often grow deeper, steadier, and more meaningful. The people who are still with us become even more precious, because they carry our history with them.
Perhaps that is one of life’s quiet invitations—to nurture the community around us while we can, and to stay connected, to reach out: to build friendships that will walk beside us through both the sunny days and the storms. Because in the end, none of us wants to arrive at the later chapters of life holding all of our memories alone. We want someone who remembers with us, who can laugh about the old stories, and who can say, “Yes, I was there too.”
And maybe that is the “something” that my friend was in search of, what community truly is—not just a group of people gathered together, but a circle of hearts and memories that reminds us, again and again, that we were never meant to travel this life alone.

𝐵𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈. 🌿

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