What It Really Means to Build a Village

We use the word village often. Flippantly. We use it to describe suburban neighborhoods and shopping centers. The word has been diluted, but it still carries a whisper of something deeper: shared space, shared responsibility, authentic connection.

At Windy Hill Play, “village” sits at the core of what we are building. That means it requires regular examination, because villages are complicated.

As a governing board and leadership team, we have started asking ourselves deeply personal questions. Is it possible to share a village with someone you do not like? Is it possible to share a village with someone who makes you feel unsafe? With someone who has hurt you? With the descendants of those who hurt you? With those who would not stand with you?

These are not abstract questions. They are the questions that keep us inside the comfort of our homes. As humans, we want to feel safe and secure. We often choose the discomfort of the known over the uncertainty of the unknown. We cling to what is familiar because the unfamiliar does not just feel uncomfortable, it can trigger real stress in our bodies.

In trying to protect ourselves and hold onto what feels familiar, we run into a contradiction we rarely name. We celebrate movement and change. We praise the idea of a “melting pot.” We admire adaptive ecosystems. Yet we are not taught how to feel safe while things are shifting. We are not taught how to stay regulated when we are uncomfortable. We are not taught that growth often requires exposure to difference. Instead, we are taught to surround ourselves with what feels safe and familiar, even if our world becomes smaller in the process. We tighten our circles. We reduce risk. We prioritize control.

What we lack are the mental, emotional, and physical anchors that allow us to experience safety amid constant change. Without those anchors, fluidity feels threatening instead of strengthening.

Our environments are constantly changing. Our perceptions of them are changing as well. Whether we acknowledge it or not, movement is the constant. Change does not pause because we feel unprepared. It does not slow down because we prefer stability. It continues.

Imagine it like a river.

The water keeps moving whether we are gripping a branch on the shoreline or floating with the current. Holding on does not stop the river. It only changes our position within it. In response to that movement, many of us choose to grip the branch because it feels safer than floating. We tighten our hold and tell ourselves we are strong enough to manage alone. Strong enough to stay anchored to what we know. Strong enough to step out of the river and observe when we need to rest.

Personally, I find myself holding onto my branch often. Growing up, I watched my mother hold tightly to hers while also holding onto her children. It is exhausting. I am still learning how to step out of the river and reassess. Learning when to let go and float. Learning when to climb onto a raft with others, sometimes out of necessity and sometimes for joy. Life is never stagnant, but there are similarities we can anchor to while we move.

How does this tie back to the word “village”?

Because a village is built when individuals come together in recognition of both their similarities and their differences — in appearance, in ideas, in belief. Village is not assimilation. Village is a balance between individual standards and community standards.

A village can take many forms: a family, an organization, a care program, an athletic team, a religious group, or a combination of these. When we intentionally design systems where the individual unit is recognized as part of a whole, and the whole is shaped by its parts, the capacity of the village expands. From your perspective, you will always be at the center. You decide what makes up the inner and outer circles of your village. You decide the boundaries.

The village mindset is one of connection and togetherness. It begins with one fixed variable: we choose to do this together.

If connection is the priority, adaptation becomes necessary. You grow because staying together is worth it. At first, you hold hands and move forward. That works until exhaustion sets in. So you build rafts. You tie them together. A raft breaks in the rapids. You rebuild it stronger. As you expand, you notice others in the water and invite them along.

But even with that commitment, something predictable happens.

We abandon the raft and grab the branch again when we encounter contradictions and unresolved conflict. When togetherness meets difference that feels threatening, our instinct is to retreat to what is known. So how do we interrupt that pattern? How do we teach our bodies to feel safe amid inevitable contradiction? We build regulation into the structure itself, into how decisions are made and how conflict is held.

If we recognize the value of village, if we feel the cost of isolation, if we believe in connection, then we must ask harder questions. Do we allow space for disagreement? Do we have the tools to support conflict resolution? Or do we retreat at the first sign of tension?

We can say we celebrate difference. Many of us believe that we do. But ask yourself honestly: do you feel safe when a difference challenges one of your core beliefs? Especially when those beliefs are publicly debated and emotionally charged. Do you know how to regulate? Do you know how to create a safe space to process? Do you know who is a safe person to process with?

The answer matters.

If we want village, we cannot only nurture agreement. We must also nurture contradiction. We must build structures where children and adults alike can internalize a shared truth: I am safe in my convictions, even when they are not shared, even when they are challenged. I am safe in my truths, and I know how to create a safe physical, mental, and emotional space for myself. And equally important: I may not feel safe right now, but I know what to do and who to turn to in order to find my footing.

Children are learning. We are learning.

We are learning that belonging does not require sameness. That disagreement can lead to depth. That care continues after conflict. That differences can be held with safety.

We want to build a village that is strong enough to hold tension without fracture. A village that does not collapse at the first sign of discomfort. A village where connection is not dependent on convenience. A village where safety is not the absence of difference, but the presence of structure that allows difference to exist. That is the village we are trying to build.