When I first thought about what “community” meant, I pictured something kind of abstract: a shared culture, common goals, maybe a neighborhood or a group working toward the same cause. But this summer, community has shown up for me in ways I didn’t expect—quietly, consistently, and sometimes in chaos. Now, I don’t see community as something you join. I see it as something you build, moment by moment, through care and presence.
My cultural environment this summer is layered. I split my time between two very different places: a child development center where I work with toddlers and preschoolers, and a refugee resettlement agency where I support families navigating systems that are unfamiliar, often unwelcoming, and sometimes downright exhausting. At first, I didn’t know how those two spaces would connect, but now I see a common thread: trust.
At the school, I walk in and hear a mix of Spanish and English. I know which kids like to color, which ones want to hug me as soon as I arrive, and which ones need a little extra patience that day. Community there is sensory—it’s crayons on the table, tiny hands reaching up, and lots of “Ms. Natalia, watch me!” It’s the teachers making me laugh during snack prep and the way we all sigh in unison when nap time finally hits. It’s not a perfect place, but it feels like home because it’s full of people who show up for one another, even on the hard days.
At the International Rescue Committee, things are more complex. There’s urgency and emotion—parents trying to figure out school forms in a new language, teens translating for their families, and staff doing everything they can with limited time and resources. But even in that chaos, there’s warmth. I’ve had strangers offer me snacks while I’m helping them fill out documents, and I’ve learned how powerful just saying “I see you” in someone’s native language can be. I’ve joined a different kind of community here—one built not on shared culture, but on shared humanity.
And yes, I do feel like I’ve joined these communities, even though I’m still new in both. I’m not a guest anymore. I’m not just observing—I’m contributing. People remember my name. They ask how I’m doing. And I find myself rooting for them outside of work hours. That feels like belonging. That feels like community.
Before this summer, I used to think of community as something you either had or didn’t. Now, I understand that community can be created, sustained, and grown—even in temporary spaces. It’s not always about deep, long-term bonds (although those are beautiful too). Sometimes it’s in the small things: helping a parent find a nearby food pantry, remembering a student’s favorite color, translating a confusing form, or just being a steady presence in someone’s chaotic day.
This experience has also challenged me to think about my role in community. Am I taking up space or helping to create it? Am I speaking over others or listening with intention? Am I offering help that’s rooted in what I think is best—or in what they’ve actually said they need? I don’t always get it right. But I’m learning that being part of a community means showing up not just with your skills, but with humility and curiosity. And with a willingness to sit in the discomfort of not always knowing.
So yes—this summer, I’ve joined new communities. But more importantly, I’ve learned what it means to earn a place in them. And that lesson will stay with me long after the internship ends.
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