Building a Village When You're Far From Home
There's not enough warning that making friends in your late 20s is basically a second job.
Some time ago I had a free Saturday night, which is rarer than it should be, and I had an itch for a spontaneous night out. In Kansas, my list of quick contacts for this kind of outing wrote itself. Now in Florida, I scrolled my contacts for far too long, then made dinner at home.
Not a sad story. Just an honest one. It got me thinking about a part of life that usually came easy to me that I found more difficult when I packed up my life and moved to a state where I knew approximately no one:
Nobody hands you a village in your late 20s. You build it. One awkward coffee at a time.
The village I had
Growing up in Kansas, community was just... there. It came with the territory. Family down the road. Friends I’d known since we were losing teeth. The church that watched me grow up. People who knew my parents, my siblings, my whole story before I could tell it myself. Even in college, I could tell someone where I was from and we’d instantly have common ground.
I never truly had to build any of that. It was handed to me, the way it’s handed to most of us. And like most handed things, I didn’t clock its value until I left it behind.
You don’t notice infrastructure until you’re standing somewhere it doesn’t exist. Roads, plumbing, people who’d notice if you disappeared for a week. Same category, honestly.
The second job nobody posted
Then I moved to Florida, and I learned what adult friendship actually costs.
Making friends as a kid was passive income. You showed up to school, to practice, to the neighborhood, and friendship just accrued. No effort required beyond existing in the same room repeatedly.
Making friends at 29 is a second job. There’s networking. There are cold intros. There are first hangouts that feel suspiciously like interviews. (So... what do you do for fun? Do you see yourself staying in the area long-term?) There’s follow-up. There’s the vulnerability of double-texting someone you’ve hung out with twice. There’s rejection, the plans that never materialize, the “we should totally do this again!” that both of you know is a pleasantry.
Here’s the part that stings: you’re doing all this labor at the exact age when everyone else’s village is already full. People in their late 20s have their people. Their group chats are established. Their traditions are set. You’re not just applying for the job. You’re applying for a position that technically isn’t open.
Chosen costs more. Chosen means more.
When I finally got comfortable in my new city, I started to resent this. Why does something that used to be free suddenly cost so much?
But I’ve started thinking about it differently. A handed village is inherited wealth. Wonderful, grateful for it, didn’t earn a dime of it. A chosen village is a portfolio you built position by position, and you know exactly why every single person is in it.
The friends I’ve made here didn’t end up in my life by geography or obligation or because our moms were friends. They’re here because one of us was brave enough to initiate, and the other one said yes, and then we both kept saying yes until it stopped feeling like effort and started feeling like home.
That’s not a lesser village. That might be the more honest one.
Gabi is proof. We met through work, but barely… we’re in a field where everyone runs their territory solo, and we’re not even in the same division. She’s in sales, I’m in consulting. Add in the fact that we live almost an hour apart, and there is nothing convenient about this friendship. No shared office, no shared neighborhood, no built-in reason to see each other. It exists purely because we both keep choosing it. The first time we hung out, it felt like talking to a friend who already knew everything about me. I knew immediately this was the kind of friendship worth throwing more energy at. So we did! The next hangout, we brought members of our already-established groups. And even though we’re both extremely busy and love to be anywhere but home, we still reply to each other’s stories and send the occasional “I miss you! Just wanted you to know” text.
What feels like a lot of effort in the beginning slowly becomes second nature. And then one day it’s just another person in your corner.
What it actually took
Not a strategy. Not a hack. Just a few things I had to get over:
Being the initiator, over and over, without keeping score of who reached out last. Saying yes to invitations I was tired for. Going to things alone, which I used to think was mortifying and now think is a superpower. Letting the awkward season be awkward instead of taking it as evidence that I don’t belong here.
Also, accepting the timeline. A handed village took 25 years to build around me. I’ve been in Florida for three years. The math was never going to be instant.
The return on all of it
I still miss the village that raised me. That’s not going anywhere, and I don’t want it to.
But there’s a special pride in looking around at the people in your life and knowing that every single one of them is there on purpose. Nobody assigned them to you. You found each other in the middle of busy, chaotic, adult lives, and you both decided it was worth the work.
The handed village is a gift. The chosen one is proof.
Proof that you can land somewhere with nothing and build belonging out of awkward coffees and brave double-texts. Proof that home was never really a zip code.
It’s just people who keep saying yes to you. And you, keeping the nerve to keep asking.
♡ Syd
Tell me: are you living in a handed village or a chosen one? Hit reply, I read everything.