The Power of Community

     Over the holiday break, my beloved dog Mei Mei, a spunky Welsh Terrier, went missing while my father was watching her. We were in Laguna Beach, California—a place where we were only visitors, where we knew no one. I didn't expect what happened next: a quiet, extraordinary lesson in the power of community.

     I was sitting in a salon chair when my phone rang.
     "Mei Mei is gone," my father said, his voice matter-of-fact, direct as usual.

     "What do you mean?" I asked, my stomach tightening.
     "She's gone," he repeated. "She slipped out of her collar and ran up and down the Pacific Coast Highway. No one could catch her." 
     That was it. No panic—just the facts.
     "She's toast," he added.
     I sunk my head into my hands. Where could we possibly find her? She could be anywhere. 
     For thirty minutes, I wandered the neighborhood in a daze until my phone rang again.
     "We found her!" an officer said. “A child in the neighborhood saw Mei Mei running at full speed, in full flight mode, and led her to a safe spot.” 

     It was the first real moment of hope.

     I rushed to the location, but when I arrived, the officer stood there, hands on his hips, shaking his head.
     "She's gone," he said, gesturing down the road where the pavement faded into dust, vanishing into the emptiness of the desert trail.

     "We tried. We've been chasing her all around Laguna Beach all morning. She just keeps running."

     I felt the hope drain out of me..

     "I recommend you download Nextdoor," the officer said. "It's an app where locals message each other."

     I had never used it before and was about to disregard his advice—until I realized it was the only lead I had. So I downloaded it.

     Almost immediately, messages poured in. Locals I had never met offered advice: Put up flyers. Leave out clothing with your scent. Stay in the area—dogs often circle back. Strangers called me, offering encouragement and their own stories.

     Then Cece, a local dog trainer with experience finding lost dogs, arrived. She didn't just give advice—she stayed with me. She had helped reunite other dogs with their owners before, and she knew what worked. She walked the area, scanning the horizon, and said, “We need chicken. If she's nearby, the smell might draw her out.”

     My brother and his partner had flyers made, ready to post them, while my stepmother gently clapped in the open air, hoping Mei Mei would recognize the sound of something familiar.

     That's when a man named Danny called.

     "I'm coming," he said. "I lost my dog over vacation once, and I'm going to help you."

     I thanked him but didn't expect much. People say things. They mean well.

   Four hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Danny arrived. His sunglasses masked his expression, but his presence alone shifted the energy—steady, commanding, resolute. Beside him sat his ten-year-old daughter, Eva, wrapped in a fuzzy coat, her blonde hair catching the last light of the day.

     "So where was she last seen?" he asked, already scanning the area.

     Then, he walked toward the trail, onto the dusty platform where we had been standing for hours, looking for Mei Mei. We had been so focused, so desperate, that we hadn't even noticed the beautiful view of the beach below.

     Danny took a breath. The air was thick with the scent of chicken, my clothing swaying nearby, carrying my scent. Every piece of advice from the community—the flyers, the clapping, the quiet faith—hung in the air alongside our hope. And then, he whistled. Three sharp, clear notes cutting through the silence.

     And then—Mei Mei appeared.

     She emerged from a dusty field of cacti, trembling, her small body taut with fear. That morning, she had run over a mile and a half, fleeing from strangers, from the police, from the chaos.

     Because of community. Because of people who had no reason to care, but cared anyway.

     Without them, she would have remained lost.

     Locals warned me that if she wasn't found by sundown, she likely wouldn't survive the night—coyotes roamed the hills, and a small dog alone wouldn't stand a chance.

 ***

     I was deeply moved by the kindness of strangers. None of them knew me. None of them had to care. And yet, by the end of the day, I felt woven into the fabric of Laguna Beach, connected to a place that had once been unfamiliar.

    This experience taught me something simple yet profound: We don't navigate life alone. We were never meant to. We are meant to live in community.

     Each of us holds a small but essential piece of a greater puzzle.

     Cece had the wisdom of experience, having found lost dogs before. Danny brought sheer, unwavering determination. My stepmother added a quiet kind of faith. My brother and his boyfriend had flyers made, while a neighborhood child helped Mei Mei find initial safety. No one had all the answers. But together, they formed a map. 

     Maybe this is what we've forgotten. Somewhere along the way, we were taught to prize independence above all else—to figure it out alone, to be self-sufficient. But the truth is, we need each other and each of us holds a gift that others can benefit from.

     Life isn't meant to be a solo journey. We are wired for connection, for interdependence. We are meant to lean on each other, to hold and be held, to listen and be heard. To meet life as it is and to naturally move with it, rather than against it.

     Perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that we are less alone than we think. There are people out there who care. People who will show up for you, even when you least expect it. Sometimes, the only thing required is that we are receptive and that we let them in.

     This reminds me of Ubuntu, an African philosophy that means, "I am because we are." As Desmond Tutu once said, "My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together."

     That day, people stepped forward—not for recognition, not for anything in return, but simply because they could. 

     In helping, they did something even greater: they reminded me of who we are meant to be.

                                                                      ***

     For all the division in the world today, this is what I will remember: A group of strangers coming together for something as small—and as profound—as finding a lost dog. They didn't ask who I was, what I believed, or where I was from. They just showed up.

     This is the energy we must carry forward. To help each other—not because we must, but because we can. Because what affects you affects me. And with community, we can accomplish so much more than we ever could alone.

     Maybe that is the purpose of humanity after all—not to walk this road alone, but to walk it together.

     We are threads in a vast fabric of connection, each playing our role in a story greater than ourselves. Community is the process of discovering how those threads intertwine, how we support and complete one another, and how together, we create what none of us could alone.

     As Ram Dass said, "We are all just walking each other home."

   And maybe that's the truth we so often forget: We need each other to find our way home.

     Not just home in the physical sense, but home in the deepest way—a place of safety, of belonging, of knowing we don't have to do life alone.

     We find home through each other, through kindness. Through presence. Through the simple, extraordinary act of showing up.

    So today, reach out. Do something kind. Help another person along—simply because you can.

     Because in helping each other home, we don't just help them. We help ourselves.