There is something I have quietly observed over the past five years that, until recently, I had never said out loud.

Whenever there is a tragedy involving a Black person, and especially a Black child, OC Black Moms receives a noticeable increase in membership requests. It happens almost every time. The headlines spread across social media, the collective grief settles over our community, and within hours I begin seeing names waiting in our queue.

I welcome every mother the same way. Everyone completes the same intake process. Everyone receives the same invitation into our community.

And then, something else happens.

Many of those mothers quietly disappear.

Not immediately. They join, they read a few posts, perhaps they attend an event or two, but eventually they drift away. If I had only witnessed this once or twice, I would have dismissed it. But after leading this community for more than five years, I have come to recognize it as a pattern. It is not unique to non-Black mothers. In fact, I have watched Black mothers do the very same thing.

For a long time I wondered why.

I do not believe these mothers were looking for another Facebook group. I don’t even think they were necessarily looking for friendship. What they were searching for was something much deeper, something much harder to describe. They wanted to know that somewhere, if they were in this similar situation, there would a village waiting for them.

There is an enormous difference between wanting a village and wanting to participate in one.

I understand the distinction because motherhood changes what we need from season to season. My own joy comes from lingering over thoughtful conversations at book club, discussing marriage, parenting, or travel plans. Another mother may never care about book club because she is desperately trying to find another teenage boy who looks like her son. Another may simply want to know there is someone she can call after receiving devastating news from a doctor’s office.

Community has never been about everyone needing the same thing.

It has always been about trusting that someone will be there when your season arrives.

This week, so many of us have found ourselves grieving the loss of Nolan Xavier Wells. Like mothers across the country, I have wrestled with questions that have no simple answers. No mother should ever have to identify her child’s body. No family should endure the unimaginable weight of such a loss. It has been one of those moments that stops us in our tracks and forces us to look more closely at our own families.

As mothers, we immediately begin asking ourselves the questions that keep us awake at night. Have I talked to my children enough about courage? About peer pressure? About telling the truth when telling the truth is difficult? For those of us raising children who are often the only Black child in their classroom, on their team, or in their neighborhood, those conversations carry an even heavier weight. We want our children to feel accepted, but we also want them to know that character must always matter more than belonging.

Those are difficult conversations.

Necessary conversations.

But somewhere between my own thoughts and the conversations I shared with other mothers over coffee this week, another question quietly emerged.

What are we actually teaching by example?

We often say we want our children to have Black friendships. We want them surrounded by people who understand their experiences without explanation. We want them to grow up knowing what belonging feels like instead of searching for it.

Yet children rarely become something they have never seen.

If our own lives are not filled with meaningful friendships…

If our calendars never make room for community…

If we do not know one another’s children…

If we are always hoping someone else will organize the picnic, host the playdate, or introduce the new family…

How do our children ever learn what a village actually looks like?

Perhaps this is what has fascinated me most about leading OC Black Moms.

Every mother wants a village.

Almost no one argues with that.

What fascinates me is that many of us imagine villages as places we find, when in reality they are places we build.

A village is built in ordinary moments. It is built when someone hosts the brunch instead of waiting for an invitation. When another family organizes a park day because their son needs more boys who look like him. When someone remembers a birthday, delivers a meal, introduces two mothers who would otherwise never meet, or welcomes the woman standing quietly in the corner by herself.

None of those moments make headlines.

Yet together they become the infrastructure of belonging.

Perhaps that is why I spend so much time thinking about leadership.

Not corporate leadership.

Not leadership measured by titles or followers or applause.

Community leadership.

Volunteer leadership.

The kind that quietly changes neighborhoods one relationship at a time.

I often joke that one day I am going to earn my Ph.D. My husband has made it abundantly clear that I am absolutely not allowed to pay for it myself. According to him, someone else needs to fund the degree and preferably pay me while I earn it. I have learned not to argue with his financial logic.

So until some university unexpectedly decides I deserve an honorary doctorate, I suppose I will continue studying leadership the old-fashioned way.

From mothers.

From playgrounds.

From book clubs.

From Girl Scouts.

From backyard birthday parties.

From five years of watching what makes communities flourish and what quietly causes them to disappear.

What I have learned is this: the mothers who sustain villages are rarely the loudest women in the room. They are historically aware enough to know why community matters. They are emotionally regulated enough to remain steady when conflict inevitably comes. They understand that what they post online shapes real relationships offline. They are generous with introductions, generous with encouragement, and generous with their time. They are comfortable being seen, but they are not addicted to attention. Most importantly, they are willing to serve long after the applause has ended.

Because this is volunteer work.

Meaning has to be the reward.

If this heartbreaking week leaves us with anything, I hope it is more than grief.

I hope it leaves us with resolve.

If your son needs more friends who look like him, invite another family over for dinner.

If your daughter longs for deeper friendships, organize the outing yourself.

If your neighborhood feels disconnected, host the coffee.

Do not wait for someone else to build the village you are praying for.

Your children are watching.

One day they will inherit whatever community we leave behind.

Always Have, Always Will ~ Kalie