I currently find myself in a neighborhood where I have no friends—none at all. And surprisingly, that’s exactly how I want it… for the most part.
When my daughter Emma was born, we settled into a new urban development that felt like a fairy-tale version of a small town. Every home was prim and proper, complete with charming front porches. We were conveniently close to parks, pools, restaurants, and cinemas—a pleasant little utopia just off the highway. While the convenience was delightful, the charm faded quickly. The houses were so close together that it felt as if they were practically one. The social gatherings and neighborhood events only left me craving my own space, privacy, and a bit of mystery.
Moving to Tennessee, I adored my neighbors. They were a great support system, ready to take care of Emma when we thought our son Jake might arrive early. Sharing a bottle of wine on the porch while the kids slept soundly inside became a cherished routine. We had an open-door policy, allowing children to wander freely between houses, gathering snacks and a little discipline as needed. Most of the time, this worked beautifully. Until the day my well-meaning neighbor called me at 4:57 AM just because she could see I was awake feeding the baby. At that moment, I longed for some distance.
Now, I find myself in a subdivision filled with cul-de-sacs and communal mailboxes. I made a deliberate choice to keep my distance from my neighbors. While I cherished my previous friendships, I was ready to embrace solitude. In the first week of our new life here, the neighborhood’s unofficial leader handed me a list of our neighbors, complete with little notes about each family: #2703 hosts the Easter egg hunts. #2708 is navigating a divorce, but it’s amicable. #2714 loves to throw a big 4th of July bash. The expectations were palpable—would I be the one to host the Halloween pre-party? Would my kids join their daily Popsicle gatherings? Nope. Instead, I became the mysterious neighbor: #2701, who wears yoga pants daily, lets her son run around naked on the deck, and hasn’t exchanged more than five words with anyone.
Mostly, I prefer it this way. I have friends I can reach out to via phone, email, or car, but no one drops by unannounced. It’s a comfortable arrangement, but not without its downsides. When I need a cup of sugar for last-minute cookies, I have to make a store run. My kids lack neighborhood friends to play with outside, making playdates a hassle. It can be a bit lonely listening to the sounds of fireworks from the Memorial Day block party while I’m curled up on the couch, but honestly, I find my stack of magazines far more entertaining. Perhaps in my next neighborhood, I’ll find a better balance, but for now, I’m content with this arrangement—and I always keep extra sugar and eggs on hand, just in case the cookie cravings strike.
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In summary, my journey through different neighborhoods has shaped my preferences for solitude and connection. While I’ve loved the camaraderie of neighbors in the past, the peace of my current life suits me well.