It takes a village

By Eliza Bellones

It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, or so some say. In the chaos of modern society, many of us have come to believe that the only person we can truly rely on is ourselves. We have been conditioned to be self-sufficient: to solve our own problems, to carry our own weight. Independence certainly has its perks—confidence, resilience, freedom—but it may also be the first symptom of an epidemic of loneliness. In chasing the idea that we must stand alone to prove our strength, we risk losing the quiet, sustaining presence of others. I’ve begun to fear that our growing emphasis on independence has made us forget the beauty of community, not just as support, but as something essential to being human.

Growing up Ilonggo, I have always been of the utmost belief that community is not just a support system; it is a way of life. It manifests in shared meals that stretch longer than planned, in walks home where conversations linger, in laughter carries late into the night. There is an unspoken understanding that no one is meant to carry life alone. There is a certain warmth in knowing that your existence is intertwined with others, that your joys are celebrated collectively and your burdens are not yours to bear in isolation.

I am not ignoring the hunger for growth—it is a pang I know all too well. There comes a time when your community begins to feel claustrophobic, when the paths you have always known hit a dead end. Even within the warmth of community, there are moments when who we have always been begins to constraint who we know we are capable of becoming. It can be terrifying, wanting to take the road less traveled for something unknown and leaving the familiar behind. As much as community holds us, it can also challenge us, asking whether we are growing with it or quietly growing beyond it.

But this tension does not mean community is something to outgrow. Rather, it reminds us that growth and belonging are not opposites, but forces that must learn to coexist. We may need to test ourselves outside the comfort of what we have always known, but distance should not mean disconnection. Where we come from continues to shape how we move through the world, even when we are far from it. If anything, stepping away often sharpens our understanding of community, allowing us to see its value not as something assumed, but as something chosen.

Community, at its best, does not restrain—it steadies. It gives us a place to come back to when the world feels too vast, too unforgiving, too indifferent. It is in community that we are reminded of who we are beyond our achievements or failures. When things fall apart, it is not independence that gathers the pieces with us, but those who sit beside us in silence, who remind us we are not alone in our uncertainty. Strength, then, is not simply about standing alone, but about knowing when to lean on others and when to offer a shoulder in return. It is found not in isolation, but in connection.

 

In a time when self-sufficiency is often glorified, choosing community can feel almost radical. It requires vulnerability, the willingness to be seen not just in moments of success, but in doubt, in failure, in becoming. It requires patience, because people are imperfect, and relationships take work. It requires trust, the kind that cannot be built overnight but grows slowly through shared time and experience. Yet it is precisely in this shared humanity, in the messiness of showing up for one another, that we find meaning that independence alone cannot provide.

Perhaps it was never meant to be a dog-eat-dog world. Perhaps it only became one when we started to believe we had to survive alone—forgetting that we are meant to walk alongside each other, to build lives not in isolation but in connection. After all, it has always taken a village—not just to raise a child, but to sustain a life. And maybe, in remembering that, we can begin to find our way back to one another.