I’ve thought about whether to call what I’m talking about something else. The words community and care mean different things to different people. Sometimes I wonder if they’re already too worn down to carry what I mean. But I haven’t found better ones yet.

So instead of new language, I’ll offer deeper meaning. I’ll show you what I mean by how it feels.

At the heart of it is one word: mutual.

In a community of care, in the way I mean it, everyone feels cared for. It’s as simple and as radical as that.

It’s a space where you can show up as your real self, and the people around you are attuned to who you truly are. They offer support in ways that are meaningful to you. They care for you not just in the ways they already know how to give, but in ways you can actually receive.

Each person is learning how to care for each unique being they are in relationship with. That two-way pathway of care will look and feel different between every two people.

This kind of mutuality is rare.

The imbalance we’ve normalized

In the world as it is, people often fall into two broad patterns.

There are those who are good at giving care. They’re hyper-attuned to others’ needs. They know how to hold space, to intuit when someone else is in pain, and to offer comfort or support.

And then there are those who are more practiced at receiving care. They know what they need. They can speak up. They recognize when the relationship is lacking and advocate for themselves.

Both patterns are valid. But when they live in separation from one another, the result is imbalance.

When someone over-functions as a giver, they can become invisible even to themselves. Their own needs shrink to make room for others.

When someone is primarily a receiver without reciprocal awareness, the care they receive can start to feel extractive, even if no harm is intended.

A true community of care asks us to practice both. To offer and to receive. To attune and to self-express. To be truly changed by one another, not just accommodated. And to do this especially when it's hard and seems impossible.

To be in a relationship of mutual care means being willing to be changed by the other person, without losing yourself in the process. We rarely see this embodied around us, and when we do, it often feels like a miracle.

People who can move between these roles with fluidity and presence, without collapsing into one or the other, are uncommon. But they’re not mythical.

This is something we can practice. It’s something we can build. That’s what a community of care is meant to hold: the practice of mutuality, not just the performance of it.

The patterns we inherit

One teacher who has helped me see this clearly is Dr. Lindsay Gibson, author of several books for adult children of emotionally immature parents.

Her work helped me name something I had long felt but hadn’t been able to articulate: that many people, especially those raised without consistent emotional attunement, develop patterns that make mutuality difficult.

Some of us grew up needing to suppress our own needs to preserve connection. Others learned that expressing need was the only way to feel seen.

These strategies were often essential for survival. But they don’t support the kind of relational integrity that mutual care requires.

In a community of care, we learn to notice these patterns. We don't shame them. We aspire to gently unlearn them. We bring them into the light so they no longer unconsciously shape how we show up with others.

How to bridge the gap: a practice

Another teacher who’s influenced me is Dr. Xavier Amador, who developed the LEAP method: Listen, Empathize, Agree, Partner.

Dr. Amador created this process after years of struggling to help his brother, who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. He realized he wasn’t helping by trying to convince his brother he was ill.

Instead, healing began when he truly listened to his brother, empathized with his experience, looked for honest points of agreement, and partnered with him from that shared ground.

It may sound extreme to draw from a practice developed for mental illness. But how many times have we asked ourselves,
“Am I the crazy one?” or “Why does this person see the world so differently from me?”

The truth is: in every close relationship, especially in community, divergent perspectives are inevitable.

We all carry different stories, lenses, wounds. It will happen that someone sees a situation completely differently than you do.
It may look like they’ve broken an agreement. Or it might look to them like you have. It may feel like someone isn’t living in alignment with their values, or like you’re not.

What do we do in those moments?

This is where I believe the practice of LEAP offers a path forward.

Each person agrees to:

• Truly listen to the other

• Honestly empathize with their experience

• Find where they genuinely agree

• And move forward in partnership from that place

This process only works if both people are willing. Both need to care enough about the relationship, and each other, to stay in the practice. One person can’t do it alone.

And if, after listening and empathizing and seeking common ground, two people still can’t find a shared path forward, then parting ways with respect is also a form of care.

Do you want a community of care?

If you find yourself longing for what I’m describing, you’re not alone. I do too.

And I haven’t often found people around me who are interested in relating this way. Fortunately, I have found a few. I married one of them.

But I want more relationships like this. And I want it to be normal to relate this way rather than extremely rare, like it is now.

I want babies and children to see the grownups around them treating each other this way.

This is the outcome I’m working toward.

If you think joining a community of care will be easy, that finally you’ll find the love you need without being deeply changed, I’m sorry to say you’ll probably be disappointed. That’s not what I’m talking about.

We have to be willing to give what we want to receive. If I want to feel truly loved in the special, unique way that I need, I need to also learn what it would take to offer that to another person. A real person. One who exists in the world, not just in my imagination.

And I have to discern when what a person needs would cost me my connection to myself and release the relationship if that’s what’s called for.

This isn’t safe or easy work.

But if this calls to you… I invite you to come back to my website from time to time to see what’s new.

In the spring of 2026, I plan to offer an unfolding process for anyone interested in exploring what it might look like to enter into a community of care with me.