We need to build communities that provide connection and mutual support
How intentional living communities based on shared values and interdependence could have something to offer neurodivergent adults
I have a dream of one day setting up an inclusive co-living community of women over 50 somewhere scenic, spacious and peaceful. It might seem fanciful, but it also makes perfect sense as a means of delivering mutual support and a sense of belonging.
Instead of arriving in midlife with the feeling of being anchored in a community, I’m still searching for one. As I contemplate my future, having a support network to safeguard against loneliness and isolation and provide practical assistance seems imperative. I want to be part of a community but it remains out of reach.
For a while now, I’ve been nurturing the idea of co-living communities like a little kernel of hope. I wrote about it in this Medium piece that seemed to strike a chord. Whenever I mention the idea to others, particularly queer, neurodivergent women, there’s immediate recognition. It doesn’t seem that I’ve come up with an idea as much as tapped into a shared consciousness. That’s exactly what we need, they say. But how do we get it?
For many people, belonging to a community is something they take for granted because the circumstances of their life have allowed community connection to develop organically. As long as it broadly meets their needs for acceptance and belonging, they probably haven’t had cause to think about the mechanics of it.
But the usual means of building connection and community haven’t worked that well for me and they’re even less fit for purpose as I move through middle age and beyond. I’m no longer prepared to leave something so fundamental to my wellbeing to the whims of the universe.
When you grow up with unidentified neurodivergence, your reference point for feeling fundamentally different from everyone else is an alien being deposited on Earth by the mothership. Your people aren’t necessarily the ones that you first landed among. From an early age, I had the literal and metaphorical experience of looking towards the horizon and wondering if my people were out there.
The people who become part of your early life might not end up travelling through it with you, even less so if you don’t sign up to the prevailing norms of gender, sexuality and relationships. It’s not unusual for us to be out of contact with our families of origin because they don’t accept us for who we are. And it makes no sense to maintain contact with people from school that you had little in common with, or worse, were bullied by.
Throughout adult life, friendships lack continuity because they’re hard to sustain. Apart from a few gems who have stayed the distance, friendships have felt very conditional for me. I can’t be assured of continued acceptance and positive regard so I have to keep earning it; proving that I deserve it. It’s as though I’m only as good as my last performance and wondering how I’m going to pull off the next one. Masking is not only exhausting but makes authentic connection impossible. Either way, it’s unsustainable.
And most of the available opportunities to find connection don’t meet my needs as a neurodivergent person. Not only do social spaces that are noisy, crowded sensory nightmares make it incredibly hard for me to socialise, but the social norms around conversation and interaction don’t align with me. What’s the point of exhausting myself to be left with superficial exchanges and that only remind me how different I am?
It’s been hard to find the depth and substance that I need as a foundation for enduring connections. Some people can have their needs for connection met by virtue of interacting in the same space. But for me, socialising is not the same as connecting and can feel like the opposite.
I’ve carried a lot of shame due to my failure to achieve the kinds of social relationships enjoyed by people around me. I’ve internalised my lack of success as my fault and my responsibility to fix. And I’ve hung onto beliefs about myself, my capacity, my worth that have limited my opportunities and satisfaction.
I’m still chipping away at coping mechanisms meant to protect me that have instead brought about the exclusion that I was trying so hard to avoid. Solitude is my default, mainly because I need a good amount of it. But I have to be careful not to become trapped in it. While my independence has served me well, it’s an adaptive response to not being able to depend on someone in a way that feels safe. And I no longer want to go it alone.
At least now I understand why connection and community has not come easily to me. Lacking it is not evidence that there is something wrong with me but a logical conclusion of a process of cause and effect. Where I have landed is the culmination of decades of social anxiety; judgement and rejection and generally feeling out of sync with everyone around me.
I don’t have to accept a lesser amount of connection than I need. I deserve connection and community as much as anyone else, but I accept that I need to work a bit harder to find what I need.
Even after letting go of shame and finding the courage to be my authentic self, I’m left with the reality that a modern urban environment isn’t conducive to finding and building connection. Despite being surrounded by people, I live a solitary life where I might go for days without any more than fleeting interactions. I lack the kind of regular incidental interaction that builds connection over time: there is no work kitchen or share house living room or neighbour over the fence. There are few spaces that facilitate connection in a safe, accessible way. w
I’m on stronger ground when it comes to connecting with people online through shared interests. The strongest connections I have are with people who don’t live close by and see occasionally. But the gaping hole is in the area where I live.
I’ve deliberately sought out local activities that provide the right conditions, where the focus is on shared interests rather than social performance and regular attendance is welcome but not expected. I’ve tried community gardening, bookclubs, hiking groups. They’re enjoyable activities in their own right and there’s usually someone I can have a conversation with.
But still, these things require consistent effort and commitment before they bear fruit. Sometimes it’s too easy to give up when you don’t have the energy. And in weaker moments, I stop and wonder why the hell am I still having to do all of this at this time in my life?
The stigma around loneliness makes it hard to acknowledge that you’re experiencing it. As a society, we need to be more open in acknowledging the ways people are excluded. We need to stop viewing loneliness as individual pathology and look at our collective responsibility to address the conditions that produce it.
What if there was a way that communities could relieve individuals of the burden of constantly hunting for opportunities for connection? Where alleviating loneliness isn’t an internalised shame but the role of the community. Where finding connection doesn’t depend on an individual’s capacity to overcome structural barriers.
Where physical spaces, processes, routines and shared activities are designed in a way that facilitate low pressure, low demand interaction in a comfortable environment. Where just being in company with like-minded people can anchor you in connection and provide a buffer against loneliness.
Where I can settle into being myself because my nervous system isn’t constantly activated. Where I can be confident I will be accepted rather than bracing myself for rejection.
What if you could create a social environment where the guesswork and trial and error was taken out of building connection? Where emotional labour isn’t drained by grappling with arbitrary and unspoken behavioural rules because expectations, values and priorities are explicitly stated and agreed.
Where belonging isn’t conditional on complying with prescriptive social norms or performing sociability. Where inclusion isn’t an afterthought but a core principle. Where connection isn’t a scarce resource available to the chosen or worthy but abundantly available by virtue of being part of the community.
Where instead of a binary between those who depend and those who are depended on, both things co-exist in systems of interdependence. Where autonomy and agency are at the centre of an ethos of mutual support. Where the rhythm of give and take means not feeling beholden to someone who has done you a favour. Where hyper-independence melts away into trust and safety.
There’s something deeply reassuring about living in a community founded on a social contract to provide mutual support; where inclusion, care, generosity and respect are a given, not something you have to fight for.
What might sound like an elaborate list of demands is actually a bundle of social functions embodied by the proverbial village. The question is, when very few of us live in actual villages these days, how can we replicate it?
What if like-minded folks who wanted these things for their future came together with the determination to make it happen? And they were intentional and explicit about what they wanted it to look like. And what if they could find the financial and logistical support to make it reality?
Across the globe, people are finding ways to build intentional communities, like the women who established New Ground, Britain’s first co-housing community for women over 50. They are a diverse group of women united by the determination to find a better way of meeting their evolving needs while continuing to live satisfying and fulfilling lives.
Across the globe, there’s a groundswell of acknowledgment that the broader community doesn’t meet the needs of everyone and that a more intentional approach is required.
Co-housing fills a gap for those of us whose life trajectories haven’t followed a well-worn path of heteronormativity and capitalism or have been sold short by it. Many of us don’t have ready-made networks and social bonds that we can rely on to provide us with the support we need as we get older.
As well as meeting the needs of individuals, co-housing initiatives are driven by social and environmental objectives, embracing the opportunity to do things differently. Folks who are marginalised or don’t align with dominant social norms can bring new perspectives that open the way to something better.
I will continue to nurture my kernel of hope and feed it with ideas, strategies, and I hope, collaboration.
Are you in?
Yes. I am writing from a Starbucks where I am the only customer in the store. I would love to be a part of a supportive co-living community. I have a roommate but her best quality is that she is rarely home. When she is home she has a thousand comments about minutia. This is not what I expected for myself. The uncertainty I feel about the future is unsettling.
I wonder if while some of us are trying to build local co-housing queer women-centered & neuro-inclusive communities, eventually, we could hope to set up some kind of exchange with our communities to learn from each other and congregate with like-minded folks. Just a thought! 😊