It Takes a Village

“It takes a village.” The phrase is most often followed by “to raise a child,” a piece of cultural shorthand for the belief that community support is essential for success. I have always been drawn to this idea, not only in parenting, but in every stage of life.

When I graduated from law school, I imagined a network of people who would guide me and celebrate my accomplishments. When I got married, I pictured those same people offering wisdom during difficult seasons and cheering us on during joyful ones. When I became pregnant, I envisioned a circle of support – people who would step in with advice, listen when things felt overwhelming, and offer comfort when life felt heavy. I imagined the friendships I would form with other mothers, the late-night texts seeking reassurance, the shared understanding.

But that village never materialized.

When I started my first job after law school, no one was cheering me on. When my marriage hit a difficult patch, no one offered guidance. When my son was born, I searched for support, but there was no village to be found.

Yes, my church dropped off a meal, and my parents came by to hold the baby while I cleaned. My in-laws expected us to bring the baby to them for visits. We had no involved neighbors, no close friends nearby, no extended family stepping in. We were also living at the height of a global pandemic, isolating ourselves to protect our newborn. My husband had two weeks off work; I had three months. After that, we were left to figure out how to work full-time while remaining isolated from the world. We were on our own.

In my experience, isolation and fear are inseparable. Fear breeds apathy and discourages action, which only deepens isolation. It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle of disconnection and emotional withdrawal. Life is not meant to be lived alone.

I eventually reached rock bottom. I was in profound emotional pain -isolated, frightened, and deeply depressed. I was uncomfortable in my own skin and terrified of my own thoughts. I drank every day to quiet my mind. I knew my drinking was a problem, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it, to myself or to anyone else.

Instead, I spent years trying unsuccessfully to control my drinking. When I failed, I was angry and ashamed. I blamed others, convincing myself that I could stop once everyone around me behaved the way I wanted them to. I knew that no one could understand my struggles. I had a terminal uniqueness, believing that I was alone in my inability to stop drinking. I didn’t drink for pleasure; I drank to survive. I withdrew further, isolating myself so I could continue drinking without interference. Fear and shame dominated my life.

One Thursday evening, I reached a breaking point and decided I could not continue living this way. After a brief hospitalization, I attended my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Walking into that room, I was overwhelmed with anxiety, shame, and fear. I cried more than I ever had before. I could barely bring myself to say the words, “I’m an alcoholic.”

What I found in AA was an antidote to my burdens, a balm to my misery and pain. Instead of shame, I was met with compassion. Instead of fear, I was met with encouragement. My shell of isolation was cracked open, and I could see light for the first time, a pathway to sobriety. The women who shared their experience, strength, and hope in that first AA meeting quite literally saved my life. They spoke openly about the very thing I had worked so hard to hide. I was not judged. I was welcomed. I was supported. For the first time, I experienced a true village.

There is a book in AA entitled, Emotional Sobriety: The Next Frontier, which includes a quote from an article called “The Scariest Thing” (Carlsbad, California, June 2006):

“The group I joined saved my life … For an hour, I was safe. For an hour, I had a haven among those whose fear had once been as great as my own. I did not give my fear away – they took it. They eased it from my grasp with hugs and laughter, with shared experience.”

AA taught me that it truly does take a village to raise an alcoholic. Community support was not optional in my recovery, it was essential.

Around the time I joined AA, I also attended a CLE presentation by the Lawyer Assistance Program. I knew of LAP, as most attorneys do. But I feared admitting my alcoholism to anyone connected to my professional life. In sobriety, as my fear abated, I found the courage to reach out to LAP.

And of course I found another village! I found another group of people who spoke openly about their struggles, not only with alcoholism, but with depression, anxiety, perfectionism, imposter syndrome, extreme stress, marital issues, and billable hours. This amazing new village understood the unique pressures I faced as an alcoholic attorney. LAP, like AA, welcomed and supported me.

We often speak of independence as a virtue, but my life has taught me that connection is the essential component for happiness and success. Whether in parenting, recovery, marriage, or work, none of us are meant to navigate life entirely on our own. Isolation feeds fear, and fear thrives in silence. Healing, by contrast, requires presence, honesty, and shared experience. In AA and LAP, I found a network of people who guide me; celebrate my accomplishments; listen to my hopes and fears; and offer wisdom, comfort, and reassurance. I found a shared understanding.

I did not find my villages where I expected them. But I found them when I needed them most, among people who understood my pain because they had lived it themselves. These communities gave me safety, accountability, and hope when I could not provide those things for myself. And in doing so, I was reminded of a simple truth: survival is not a solo act. It takes a village, not just to raise a child, but to sustain a life.