v.4 Not Exactly ‘Emily in Paris’: Child-Free and the Awkwardness of Belonging in the ‘Burbs
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
In a gown— for no reason at all. I’m kidding. Though. I highly recommend that you try it if you feel compelled!
Four years after the pandemic, I still catch myself in moments where I barely recognize who I’ve become when I’m in groups. Is it because I’ve changed? Because I can no longer appreciate small talk? Because I have limited tolerance for…everyone? Because I’m out of practice with meeting new people often or navigating larger social gatherings? Or maybe it’s because we’re sitting in this beautiful, quiet apartment, tucked into a town that doesn’t quite fit us much of the time (a town that is the exact replica of “multicultural Mayberry”— for those who’ve read Danzy Senna’s Colored Television.) But I digress, per usual. Somehow, I’ve forgotten how to start fresh with people—how to answer simple questions or share my story in ways that connect. I love meeting new people but after so much loss (including this wild 2024 election), I’m also very guarded around who I let in as friends (like real-real friends.) In the suburbs, it doesn’t feel like there’s a natural overlap between lives here if you’re child-free— no easy links or mutual friends who naturally tie us together—or automatically mean that we’ll have things in common. Every new person feels effortful, like starting over and having to talk about myself, from the beginning. And honestly, I hate that shit.
When we moved out of New York City, we didn’t fully realize how much of our day-to-day community would be lost. In our former lives, we had an ecosystem of people—neighbors, coworkers, folks at the yoga studio, the barista who knew my coffee order, and the bartender who held seats for us. There were layers of connection everywhere: casual daily relationships, other entrepreneurs who shared my coworking space (RIP #TheWing), friends of friends nearby for casual drinks and long-time friends just a short subway ride away. Being child-free in a big city didn’t feel like a choice that set us apart; it felt like part of the pulse of urban life. And those moments of familiarity—the deli guy’s smile, the shared nod from someone on the subway—created a rhythm that made us feel seen and part of something bigger.
“Sometimes the best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in good company.”
—Mahatma Gandhi
Here, in the suburbs (even a gorgeous one like Montclair, NJ) it’s different. We’re in a small building, surrounded by sprawling family homes, and our connections are limited to a few beautiful though mighty friendships. The town’s social fabric is very much woven around a traditional family structure that includes families with kids—school events, bus stop meetups, sports practices etc. As a social child-free couple, it feels like trying to find a way in through closed doors, each interaction a reminder that where we live is designed with a different life in mind. And not ours, one where we chose not to have kids but still want to socialize, travel, host movie nights and enjoy culture with friends and strangers alike.
And it’s not just that the town is built around having children; it’s that those natural meeting points, the ones that ground you to a place, are harder to come by in the suburbs. In a bigger city, casual connections feel like part of the air you breathe. But here, the social glue of family-centric events almost positions us as peripheral observers, a reminder that while our home may be peaceful and joy-filled, this town may not be for us in the long-term. Sometimes I wonder, Can I really find the connection I crave in a place where community seems elusive for folks without kids?
Generally, I am the one to create community— to bring people together around shared interests and ideas. And to host a helluva (sponsored) party, too because #WhyNot?! I’ve built several communities over the past decade; Dear Grown Ass Women (on hiatus), The Collective (of Us) and The Community (of Us)—long gone but not forgotten:) After these past few years marked by deep loss, personal growth, and countless changes, I find that being “the connector” is simply not who I want to be right now. Instead, I’d prefer to immerse myself into an existing ecosystem—one where we can share, learn, and revel in the joy, craziness and beauty of life, as it is.
I haven’t given up hope of finding that here—truly, this is such a magical place to live. I know there are pockets of connection to be made if we’re intentional about seeking them out—finding shared interests, friends of friends, or maybe just the right spot to settle in and let the world come to us. It may not happen at the bus stop or on the school playground, but I know it can happen in places where conversations are born over shared passions and openness. And while it’s different, the beauty of this moment is in learning to build community on new terms without shifting who I am to “fit-in” to someone else’s lived reality.
How about you? Have you found yourself in a new place that feels…misaligned? Maybe you’re living child-free in a world built around families, or you’ve felt a surprising loneliness in the shift. I’d love to hear what this evolution is teaching you about connection, community, and— what truly matters. Do share your thoughts in the comments section. In sharing, we all feel less alone.
And as we each redefine belonging, let’s lean into microjoys—moments of connection sparked over a shared glance at the gym, the warmth of a stranger’s small kindness, or even the quiet satisfaction of finding your spot in a favorite cafe. These glimpses of joy, however small, can lead us to community in ways that feel real and right, no matter where we are.
Every essay will feature a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
Today’s microjoy (sans picture): I dragged my (lazy, err, slightly reluctant😂) ass to an 8am yoga class. No picture worthy proof—just me, a little sweaty and smug that I actually got up and did the damn thing. Sure, it sounds silly, but the real win? Showing up for myself, even when my soft pants and a piping hot cup of coffee offered me a thousand reasons to stay home.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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