The Inner Monologue

For me, it starts with awareness — not the kind of nosy awareness that peeks through curtains, but the kind that quietly recognizes you share space, air, and time with others. A good neighbor knows when to wave and when to leave someone alone. They understand that silence can be as kind as conversation.

A good neighbor is reliable without being intrusive. They don’t keep score — who shoveled whose walk, who took in whose trash can — because they see community as mutual insurance against chaos, not as a ledger of favors. They lend tools without expecting them back in pristine condition, and they return borrowed ones better than they received them.

They care for their property, not because they’re obsessed with appearances, but because they know neglect spreads — weeds, noise, tension, apathy — like an infection. But they also understand that not everyone defines “tidy” the same way. If your lawn grows wildflowers instead of grass, a good neighbor smiles and thinks, “Good for them,” not “What will the HOA say?”

Good neighbors don’t gossip; they notice. They don’t judge; they check in. When the power goes out, they’re the first to appear with an extension cord or a pot of coffee. When something strange happens — a moving truck at midnight, a crying child, a sick dog — they don’t jump to conclusions. They ask, “You all right?”

Ultimately, being a good neighbor is an act of humility. It’s realizing that civilization, in all its grand talk of nations and systems, still depends on the micro-agreements between the people who share a fence line or a parking lot. You can’t fix the world, but you can make sure the few hundred square feet around you are hospitable.

A good neighbor doesn’t make life perfect. They just make it possible.