You need a whole community to raise a child. I have raised two

When the great writer and seer Toni Morrison spoke the words, “You need a whole community to raise a child. I have raised two children, alone,” she spoke not only of her own life, but of the aching truth of the human condition. In her voice was both strength and sorrow—the acknowledgment of what should be, and the quiet endurance of what is. These words, born of struggle and triumph, carry the weight of every mother who has stood at the crossroads of exhaustion and love, every parent who has tried to build a village from the fragments of solitude. Morrison’s wisdom, like that of the ancients, is not only personal but universal—a teaching carved from the stone of experience.

In her declaration lies a paradox: the ideal and the real. The ideal is the village—the chorus of hands, hearts, and elders who together shape a child’s soul. The real is the loneliness of a parent who must do this sacred work alone. Morrison knew both intimately. A single mother, she raised her two sons while weaving the great epics of African-American life—novels that gave voice to those who had long been silenced. Her life was a living testament to resilience, a balancing of the tender and the impossible. Through her, we see that even when the village is missing, one heart, burning with love and determination, can still build a world.

The origin of Morrison’s insight comes from the deep wells of African wisdom, from the proverb often spoken across the continent: “It takes a village to raise a child.” This truth is not about convenience, but about the very architecture of humanity. In traditional communities, the child belongs to all—the mother, the neighbor, the elder, the teacher, even the land itself. Every pair of eyes guards their growth; every voice contributes to their moral song. In such a world, no one stands alone. But in the modern age, walls have risen between souls. The village has been scattered by the winds of individualism and ambition. What was once shared is now burdened upon one pair of weary shoulders.

Consider the story of Sojourner Truth, who, though born into slavery, never ceased to fight for the freedom of both body and spirit. She raised her children amidst hardship, often separated from them by cruelty and circumstance, yet her voice became a mother’s cry for all humanity. In her strength, as in Morrison’s, we witness the same flame—the defiant love that endures even when the world withdraws its help. These women remind us that while the community should nurture the child, when it fails to do so, the courageous heart becomes its own village.

Morrison’s statement also reveals the quiet grief of self-reliance. To raise children “alone” is not only a physical task but a spiritual labor. It means standing watch through the night, carrying the weight of two souls when one’s own feels heavy enough. Yet she does not speak these words in complaint, but in revelation: that the work of love continues, even in isolation. She does not romanticize struggle, but sanctifies it. Her words remind us that even solitary labor can be holy when it is done in the service of life.

But we must not mistake her endurance for approval of solitude. No, her message is also a rebuke to society—a warning against the fracturing of community, the neglect of shared responsibility. When she says it takes a whole community, she is calling us back to one another, reminding us that every child is the seed of the future, and every adult is a gardener. The parent should not walk alone, nor should the child grow in the shadow of neglect. The task of raising life belongs to all, and when the village fails, it is the world that withers.

The lesson, then, is twofold: first, to honor the solitary parent who bears the burden of the absent village; second, to rebuild the community that once made such solitude unnecessary. Let each of us, whether parent or neighbor, teacher or friend, remember that we are responsible for more than our own. Offer a hand, a word, a moment of care—for these are the threads that weave the village anew. And if you are the one walking alone, remember this: though the path is hard, your love is the foundation of generations to come.

So let Morrison’s words be not only a lament but a call to action and compassion. Let them stir us to restore the circle of care that once surrounded the young. And to those who labor in solitude, may they know that the spirit of the village still walks beside them, unseen but eternal. For love, even when alone, carries the strength of the multitudes—and from that sacred endurance, the future is born.