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A few years ago, a friend of mine asked if I'd be willing to be the emergency contact for her kids at their school. I told her it would be an honor to be a part of her village.

We say it all the time: "It takes a village." But we rarely stop to consider what that actually means. We long for community and a sense of belonging, for people to show up for us when life gets hard. And yet, when that same community needs us, we hesitate. We're busy. We have our own problems. We want connection, but we don't want the inconvenience that comes with it. But here's the truth: Being part of a village is inconvenient. And it should be.

A village is not just a support system for our bad days; it's a commitment to other people's bad days, too. It means saying yes to picking up a sick friend's child from school when it throws off your own schedule. It means making a meal for a grieving neighbor when you're exhausted. It means showing up to community meetings even when you'd rather be home binge-watching your favorite show.

A village is not just about receiving; it's about giving. Sometimes, you have to give at the exact moment you'd rather not. A community flourishes not through passive longing but through active participation.

We habitually romanticize the idea of community while resisting its demands. We want deep friendships, but we don't want to be the ones who find time in our schedules. We want a vibrant neighborhood, but we don't want to be the ones organizing the block party. We want strong schools, but we don't want to be the ones sitting through PTA meetings. A village sounds wonderful as long as someone else does the heavy lifting.

But real community is built in the small, unglamorous moments of inconvenience. It's built when we put aside our own comfort to carry a little of someone else's burden. As the writer Anne Lamott put it, "Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come." Sometimes, being part of the village means we all take turns holding the light.

History tells us this, too. Real, functioning villages worked because people knew their survival depended on each other. The farmer shared food. The blacksmith fixed tools. The healer tended to the sick. It was not about convenience; it was about necessity. Somewhere along the way, we forgot that we still need each other just as much, even in an era of grocery delivery and digital friendships. No app can replace a neighbor checking in on you. No streaming service can replace the feeling of someone showing up at your door with soup when you're sick.

Of course it's uncomfortable. It requires sacrifice. But the alternative is a life where we are alone, even when surrounded by people. When we refuse to be villagers and avoid the messiness of community, we ultimately rob ourselves of the deep, meaningful connection we crave.

So the next time the village calls on you, consider saying yes, even when it's inconvenient. Consider bringing the meal, making the call, attending the meeting, and lending a hand. Because when it's your turn to need the village, you'll want it to still exist. And it will because once upon a time, you helped build it.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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