What Losing Childcare for Just One Week Taught Me About Modern Motherhood

My nanny was sick and suddenly out for a week and a half. Just 10 days — but within that small window, things started to crack.

I had backup plans. Sort of. A friend took care of my son for two hours. Her friend helped the next day. The rest of the time, my husband and I scrambled — juggling calls during nap time, working late, skipping workouts, sleeping poorly. My mental health slipped. My fuse got shorter. I almost canceled a dentist appointment that would’ve taken months to rebook.

That’s the thing. It wasn’t a catastrophe. It was a cascade.

And I kept thinking I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a partner. I work remotely. I have PTO. And yet, even with all of that, I was barely hanging on.

This isn’t just a story about parenting. It’s about something deeper — and more dangerous: the disappearance of everyday, intergenerational safety nets. You can’t, it turns out, buy a village.

People assume the answer is more money or more time off. Sure, those things help. But you can’t predict how much time you’ll need or when you’ll need it. You can easily burn through vacation and sick leave. In my case, I had both. What I didn’t have was someone to call.

There are a lot of problems you can solve with apps on demand: groceries, a dog walker, a rideshare. But when your life begins to crack — when you need someone to step in and care — you realize that money can’t buy what’s missing: trusted people nearby, willing to show up.

The invisible threads that used to hold communities together have thinned so much that when one snaps, there’s nothing underneath to catch you. Neighborliness is low: Today, only a quarter of U.S. adults (26 percent) say they know all or most of their neighbors.

Nearby grandparents, friends, and neighbors we could count on have been replaced with scheduling apps and group chats — and very few people who actually know what your Tuesday looks like.

The village didn’t vanish overnight. It eroded slowly. And rebuilding it requires intention, especially across generations, where different kinds of help, perspective, and care live.

One afternoon at the gym, desperate and scanning the room for a lifeline, I spotted an older woman I’d seen many times over the past couple of years. We’d exchanged hellos, talked at a few gym events, bonded briefly over her grandson and my baby. That was enough.

So I did the awkward thing. I asked if she knew anyone who could care for my son. Maybe she had some friends?

She paused, smiled. “Well … I retired in May. I know people, but they’re all grandmas.”

“Perfect,” I said. She couldn’t help that day, but I took her number anyway. “This probably won’t be the last time,” I said.

Asking took some courage, but it opened a door. That moment, that small act of connection across generations, has big implications. Older and younger people often hold what the other needs — time, trust, perspective, a wider or different network. We can solve all kinds of problems together.

Our task now is to strategically rebuild what once came naturally — relationships, reciprocity, the kind of bonds that form slowly until one day when you realize, “This person would show up for me.”

The trick is you have to build those bridges before you need them. Once you’re in a crisis, it’s too late to widen your circle.

A group of older women in town once stopped to say hi to my little chihuahua, Elektra. Then they invited me to join their walking group. They added me to their email thread. I ended up hiking with them a couple of times.

Another time, I spotted a flier for a knitting group at my HOA clubhouse. I peeked in. A room full of older women knitting and chatting. I didn’t join, but I could have. The invitation was there.

We don’t often think of these as safety nets, but they are. These are the everyday threads that, over time, become strong enough to catch us.

Of course, support doesn’t have to be intergenerational. But we lose something when we only rely on people our own age. Often, we’re all grappling with the same stress, same life stage, same limitations.

As Erika Desroches, founder of Zero Proof Social, puts it: “I’ve found it hard to relate to people my own age in a vulnerable way, so I’ve turned to older people who can look at my situation with less judgment.”

When we connect across generations, something shifts. You can see your past or your future reflected in someone else. It can be grounding, hopeful, even healing.

So here’s my invitation: Do the awkward thing. Just start by saying hi. A 2023 Gallup report showed that greeting just six neighbors correlates with significantly higher well-being. Not six deep friendships. Just six people you say hi to.

Some places make it easier to say “hi” with “Happy to Chat” badges and benches that invite connection.

Still, it can feel awkward. One survey found that 65 percent of Americans admit to hiding from their neighbors. And nearly one in three Gen Zers say they’ve pretended to be on the phone just to avoid small talk.

Instead, say yes to coffee. Ask for the number. Offer help and accept it. Take inventory of who you could call if something went sideways — and notice how many are your age. Then ask: What might shift if I widened that circle?

Rebuilding trust doesn’t happen in sweeping reforms. It happens in real time — at the gym, in the hallway, on the sidewalk. One invitation at a time.

Yes, there are systemic solutions and we need them — paid family leave, affordable healthcare and childcare, stronger social supports. But even with all of that, we’d still be missing the thing that matters most: a culture of mutual care.

We’ve professionalized connection. We hire help for what used to come from neighbors, friends, and extended family. And in doing so, we’ve stopped building the kind of trust that only comes from showing up over time.

That loss has left us vulnerable. Not just as parents or individuals, but as a society without a real safety net. The truth is, systems can only go so far. What we need is each other.

Cristina Rodriguez is the director of innovation at CoGenerate, a nonprofit bridging generational divides. She lives in Los Alamos, New Mexico.