The Delicate Art of Apartment Community

As a teenager, it was the punk community – music, mohawks, safety pins, sullenness and solidarity. When my kids were young, it was the school community – fetes, lunchboxes, playgroups and the inevitable, occasional judgment from other parents. Then came the sporting years, which stole almost every weekend of my thirties. (I have two sons and have attended more cricket and soccer matches than is strictly legal or even remotely enjoyable. Frankly I wouldn't even know how well they played – it all looked the same to me.) At one point, I was part of a community farm, where we stirred biodynamic composts and cooked lunches with produce we'd nurtured like high-maintenance toddlers. Without going into detail, let's just say that won't be happening again. It was a bit too much community for me.

Then there's the cancer community – one I joined reluctantly. May you never need it, but know that if you do, it's there: fiercely supportive, impossibly kind, and full to the brim of stories that could melt your heart.

Now I'm in a very different kind of community – the apartment building kind. It's the one I found most difficult to crack, but oddly, the one I've come to treasure most. Our building is over 20 years old, with more than 300 apartments and hundreds of wildly diverse occupants.

It's a cultural melting pot, which is wonderful in theory – but in practice, it makes for an oddly delicate dance when it comes to connection. Some want privacy, some want communal barbecues. Some just want everyone to be quiet.

Apartment living wasn't something I ever imagined for myself. It can feel lonely – a strange kind of proximity without connection. I can go days without seeing anyone on my floor, and yet hear snippets of their lives through the walls (I have come to terms with the eight-year-old drummer next door, who practices every day without fail, but who, it must be said, is really very talented). We are all respectful of each other's space, but it's bizarre how physically close we are while still living separate parallel lives.

And yet – community finds a way.

Every morning at 7am I hear the tinny sounds of 'meditation' music coming through the speaker of a phone. Sometimes a voice is raised in an incredibly out-of-tune, out-of-time bout of improv singing. Some time ago, on the third morning of being awoken by this intrusion after a bit of a rough night, I flung myself out of bed, marched to my balcony and leaned over to see who was cutting up the early-morning peace in this painful way. Below me was a woman of indeterminate age doing Tai Chi. Despite my crankiness, I could not help but be impressed at her remarkable dexterity. I still wanted the noise to stop though, and as I drew breath to shout down at her, she looked up and smiled the most beatific smile at me, and gave a little wave ... all my crossness melted away and I waved back. Now I just smile every morning when I hear her. Even though we have never actually connected other than that one moment, I feel actual love for her.

There are eight units on my floor – five owner-occupied, three rented. There are people on this floor I have never laid eyes on. But you know who gets you talking? Pets and children. I have neither living with me, but I love both, and it was through patting a shy greyhound and an excitable pug in the courtyard that I first began to feel connected.

My favourite neighbours have both – a dog and two kids. We lead completely different lives, rarely cross paths outside the lift, and yet we're quietly intertwined. They have a key to my apartment for when I (regularly) lock myself out. Their place doesn't have a bath, so when I'm away or out for the evening, I text to say "the bath is free" so they can wander down the hall with a towel and soak in some peace. This quiet reciprocity – no obligations, just gentle support – is the essence of community for me.

I have become a part of a Monday night movie group. I stop for long-winded debates in the courtyard about whether it's a garden or a playground.

I navigate awkward moments in the lift when someone clearly wants to chat and someone else just wants to check their mail in silence. These are the moments – warm, odd, occasionally annoying – that make up the patchwork of a shared life.

Because, in the end, community isn't necessarily about organised activities or shared interests. It's about humanity. For me, it's about knowing, on some primal level, that while I may live alone, I'm not truly alone. I am a part of something – complex, unpredictable, occasionally noisy, beautiful, something.