enough with the boundaries already

losing my stepfather showed me the community we're sacrificed for our so called 'boundaries'

I spent the first half of 2024 caring for my terminally ill stepfather, and the second half grieving him and supporting my newly widowed mother. Along the way, I learned about the community we had lost to uphold those boundaries—and why I’m not so sure I want them anymore.

Like many others, I’ve spent recent years working on my boundaries—or rather, my perceived lack of them. To put it simply, I’m a chronic people-pleaser with an overwhelming fear of abandonment and low self-worth—yes, I’m a hit at parties!

I’ve spent years going above and beyond to try and keep people in my life, as well as resorting to self-sabotage, manipulation, and changing my identity.

I thought I needed boundaries to fix this. I thought the answer lay in not contorting myself to fit other people’s views of me, not dropping everything at a moment’s notice, and generally just putting myself first. I believed it would not only make me happier but ultimately make me a better, more authentic friend.

I’m not the only one who felt this way. A simple Google search will highlight all the tips and tricks for setting boundaries, why we need them, how to handle people who push them, and so much more. Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries—it’s the elephant in the room we can’t stop talking and thinking about.

I was led to believe that boundaries were a good thing, and that anyone who didn’t like them had been profiting off my lack of them. This isn’t completely untrue, but it’s also not the whole story.

A Community Around Illness

My stepfather was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor in December 2023. The results of his biopsy in early January confirmed it was glioblastoma, the most aggressive form of brain cancer. He began a strong course of chemotherapy at home, and we watched as his condition progressively worsened.

Our entire family banded together to help, but this was a long and tricky road. We were, simply put, not enough—nothing would be. There were times when it was just my mother and me caring for him, with his two beloved daughters coming over as much as possible to brighten his days.

This is when I first glimpsed that elusive thing called community.

My mother and stepfather lived in the suburbs of a well-sized town, and they had grown close with their neighbors—to the extent that they would help organize street parties. These neighbors had morphed into close friends, and from there, into a community.

The community, and their friends, stepped up without even being asked. They’d regularly come to walk the dog, a seemingly small task that relieved us of a burden—and the guilt of those brown eyes watching us woefully. One would bring over homemade soup each week, as we’d mentioned that my stepfather now struggled with swallowing, and so it was waiting on our doorstep every Thursday. If both my mother and I had to be out, a neighbor was happy to come over and keep my stepfather company.

Once, when I was helping my stepfather into his chair after going to the bathroom, we fell down. A quick call had a neighbor rushing over to help. I had no way of getting a grown man off the floor by myself, and I felt such hopelessness and weakness staring at his desolate expression. The neighbor let himself in with a key, worked with me to get him comfortable again, and then introduced himself—because we had never personally met before.

In June, we lost my stepfather, and the community remained strong around us. When I had to leave my mother alone, her friends and neighbors promised they would keep an eye on her, and that I was right to go. They continued to help with the dog, bring over treats, and stop by just for a cup of coffee. When we arranged for my mother to visit my sister, they immediately offered to drive her to the airport. They spent hours sorting out the overgrown garden and stepping in for any tasks my stepfather used to do. They helped us with our Christmas tree, fixed a damaged windowpane, and so much more.

The community held strong, and I realized how much I stood to lose without one.

Younger Generations Lack This Community

I have amazing friends in my life—don’t get me wrong. I am privileged to call such strong and interesting people my friends, and they were there for me throughout this time. I am not trying to imply they are anything less than a solid support system.

Rather, I’m trying to share an observation about Millennials and especially Gen Z, as someone on the cusp of both these generations. While we have close friendships, besties, and more, we don’t quite have that community. We wouldn’t drive each other to the airport; we’d expect someone to take public transport or an Uber. Why give up more time than it would take them? We just don’t see the sentimental touch of dropping someone off or picking them up at the airport.

We look at the cost of our time. We prioritize practicality over sentimentality. But God, doesn’t it feel great to walk out of the airport and see someone waiting for you there? Wouldn’t it be nice to know that you don’t have to arrange a pet sitter, to know that a neighbor could come over just to water your plants, and not see it as an intrusion? We have apps for everything that we once relied on neighbors for. We have friendships, but they exist in isolation, and they refrain from being the community we so sorely need—without even realizing we do.

We’ll happily use WhatsApp or even FaceTime, but do we ever just drop by for coffee? Do we embody that spontaneity that a community might?

Don’t get me wrong—the idea of someone arriving at my home without notice, when I might be bingeing Netflix with a face mask, is a horrific thought. But should it be?

A large part of this is that we tend to be so spread out at these ages, so perhaps it isn’t a matter of generations, but of life stages. Perhaps we’ll grow into these communities when we’ve ripened with maturity. But I’m not so certain, as I’m worried that the selflessness and collectivistic energy of a community is something that we lack now, that we sacrificed in order to put ourselves first. But if I, if we, continue to put ourselves ahead, we might look around at some point, and realise that we’re alone out there.

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who wrote this?

Fleurine Tideman is a fake Brit whose passport claims she is Dutch. She writes for Betches, Pop Sugar, Marie Claire, Insider, and Screenshot. Her work is usually accompanied by a twenty-syllable coffee order and an unhinged Taylor Swift playlist. Find her on Twitter @byfleurine or Instagram @fleurinetideman.