The first week was fine. Novelty carried me. The cottage was beautiful—wavy glass windows, original woodwork, that creaky heart pine floor in my bedroom that sang under my feet. I loved how the afternoon light came through at exactly 4:15, turning the white plaster walls honey-gold.

Week two, I started noticing how often I ran into people. In the shared kitchen making coffee. On the porch steps reading. In the narrow hallway between our rooms. Everyone was friendly. Too friendly, maybe. Always asking how I was, inviting me to things, being relentlessly present.

I'd come from a studio apartment where I could go days without talking to anyone. This felt like living in a fishbowl.

The Kitchen Conversation I Couldn't Escape

One morning I just wanted cereal. Quick, simple, alone. But Tom was there making elaborate French toast for what seemed like the entire neighborhood. "Hey Rachel, want some? I made way too much."

I wanted cereal. I said yes to French toast because saying no felt rude. Then Sarah arrived, then Bill, and suddenly I was in a whole conversation about someone's upcoming pottery show and whether we should plant tomatoes or peppers in the garden plot and did anyone want to go to the farmers market Saturday?

My cereal would've taken three minutes. The French toast conversation lasted forty-five. I was late for work. And I couldn't even be mad because everyone was being nice and the French toast was legitimately perfect.

Living intentionally isn't about following rules. It's about figuring out what you actually need—not what you think you should need. —  Maya, who said this to me in week three when I was ready to quit

Learning to Close My Door

Maya found me crying in the garden in week three. Not dramatic sobbing—just quiet, tired tears because I was so overwhelmed by all the togetherness and felt guilty for being overwhelmed because wasn't this what I'd signed up for?

"You know you can close your door, right?" she said.

"I know, but—"

"No buts. Close your door when you need to. It's not rude. It's how you live here without losing yourself."

She told me about her first year, when she tried to say yes to everything and ended up resenting everyone. "Intentional living means being intentional about your boundaries too. We're not a cult. You're allowed to want space."

So I started closing my door. Not all the time—but when I needed to. When I wanted to read without talking about what I was reading. When I needed to just sit in that 4:15 light without being social about it.

And nobody minded. Nobody even mentioned it. Turns out the pressure to be constantly available was mostly in my head.

Finding My Rhythm

Six months in, I've figured out my pattern. Mornings I keep to myself—coffee in my room, door closed, headphones in. I'm not a morning person and pretending to be one was making me miserable.

Evenings I'm more social. I'll join the porch gathering or help with dinner or sit in the kitchen while someone cooks. But if I'm not feeling it? I don't. I'll wave through the window and stay in my room, and it's fine.

I've learned the difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is what I felt in my studio apartment—isolated even though I was alone by choice. Solitude is what I have now in my closed-door mornings—peaceful because I know community is right outside when I'm ready for it.

What Sharing Space Actually Means

We share the kitchen, the porch, the garden plot, the washing machine in the basement with the temperamental spin cycle. We share tools and recipes and the Sunday New York Times that Bill gets delivered and leaves in the hallway for whoever wants it.

But we don't share everything. My bedroom is mine. My morning solitude is mine. My right to skip the group dinner or leave the porch gathering early or say "not tonight" when someone suggests a movie—that's mine too.

Intentional living, I've learned, isn't about some idealized vision of constant community and togetherness. It's about being honest about what you need and creating space for everyone to do the same. Some days that means showing up fully. Other days it means closing your door and trusting that the community will still be there when you open it again.

This morning I made cereal in the shared kitchen. Tom was there making coffee. We said good morning, talked for maybe ninety seconds about the weather, and then I took my bowl back to my room. The 4:15 light was perfect. The quiet was perfect. And when I heard voices gathering on the porch around six, I went downstairs and joined them.

Because I wanted to. Not because I had to. That's the difference.

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