There was a time when needing help meant knocking on a neighbor’s door.

If your car broke down, someone gave you a ride. If you had an emergency, someone watched your kids. If you went out of town, a neighbor fed the dog, grabbed the mail, or checked on your house. People borrowed ladders, shared meals, and sat together on front porches after long days.

Today, many of those same needs are met through apps, subscriptions, paid services, and online platforms. We order groceries instead of calling a friend. We hire dog sitters through apps. We pay for rides to the airport. We outsource childcare, errands, meal preparation, tutoring, entertainment, and even companionship in ways previous generations could not have imagined.

To be clear, many of these services are helpful. Some are necessary. Not everyone had access to safe or supportive community systems in earlier generations, and technology has created important forms of accessibility and flexibility for many people.

But somewhere along the way, many of us stopped needing one another in the same ways.

And that shift may be costing us more than we realize.

As an introvert, I understand the appeal of independence and convenience. There is something comfortable about solving problems quietly and efficiently without asking anyone for help. Outsourcing parts of our lives can reduce stress in the short term. It can feel easier, cleaner, and less vulnerable.

But over time, a life built entirely around independence can also become isolating.

Humans were not designed to function without meaningful connection and mutual responsibility.

The Harvard Study of Adult Development, one of the longest-running longitudinal studies on human well-being, has repeatedly found that the quality of our relationships is one of the strongest predictors of long-term happiness, health, and life satisfaction. Loneliness and social isolation are associated with increased risks for anxiety, depression, cardiovascular disease, cognitive decline, and early mortality. Former U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy has described loneliness as a significant public health concern with consequences comparable to smoking and other major health risks.

What does this have to do with schools?

Everything.

Schools do not operate separately from the social fabric of their communities. When communities become more disconnected, schools feel the impact.

Schools increasingly serve students who are carrying profound loneliness, emotional exhaustion, stress, and disconnection. Educators are also carrying those same burdens. Many teachers are trying to support student mental health while simultaneously navigating burnout, isolation, and fractured support systems in their own lives.

At the same time, schools are often expected to solve problems that are fundamentally collective and community-based in nature.

We ask schools to create belonging in communities where adults no longer know their neighbors.
We ask schools to teach collaboration in cultures that increasingly prioritize individual survival.
We ask educators to regulate overwhelmed students while many adults themselves are operating without consistent emotional support systems.

This is not a criticism of schools. In many ways, schools have become one of the last places where community still exists consistently.

That matters.

Schools still create opportunities for shared rituals, relationships, celebrations, grief, teamwork, mentorship, and interdependence. They remain one of the few public spaces where people from different backgrounds continue to gather regularly around a shared purpose.

But schools cannot carry the full weight of rebuilding community alone.

If we want students to experience a true sense of belonging, they need to see adults modeling it. They need to experience communities where people show up for one another in ordinary ways. They need opportunities to contribute, help, receive support, and matter to something larger than themselves.

In other words, if we want children to grow up in a village, adults must be willing to become villagers again.

That does not mean re-creating the past. It means intentionally rebuilding practices of mutual care in modern ways.

Maybe it looks like checking on a neighbor.
Perhaps it means attending local school events.
It could mean creating stronger family-school-community partnerships.
Maybe it’s organizing meal trains, carpools, or mentorship opportunities.
Or perhaps it means simply asking someone, “How can I help?” before recommending another app, subscription, or service.

Small acts of interdependence matter because relationships are not built during crises. They are built in repeated moments of everyday connection.

And perhaps that is one of the most important lessons for school and community wellness moving forward:

Human beings do not thrive when life becomes entirely efficient.

We thrive when we feel connected, needed, supported, and known.

The village does not appear automatically.

We create it together.