There is a long hallway outside my office.
Actually, there are a lot of hallways at Garden Terrace. After twelve years here, I couldn't begin to guess how many times I've walked them. Thousands, certainly.
Most days I'm walking with a purpose. I'm headed to an apartment, looking for a staff member, checking on something, trying to solve a problem—or already thinking about the next three things waiting for me when I get back to my office.
But if I slow down and actually pay attention, those hallways tell a story.
Behind every door is an entire life.
There are people who raised children and people who never had them. Veterans. Teachers. Farmers. Homemakers. Business owners. People who have traveled the world and people who have spent most of their lives right here in our valley.
There are people who have buried spouses, children, siblings and friends. People who have fallen in love more than once. People who have had their hearts broken. People who have lived through things most of us can only imagine.
And every one of them arrived here carrying a lifetime of stories.
Some doors are almost always open.
Some are almost always closed.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. Around here, an open door isn't necessarily one you can walk through.
Some people welcome you into their lives almost immediately. They'll tell you about their children, their marriages, the work they once did, the places they've been, and sometimes things you never expected to know when you simply stopped to say hello.
Others keep their doors more carefully closed. You learn them slowly—a story here, a smile there, a little glimpse into the life that existed long before Garden Terrace.
And then there are residents who wave every single time I walk by, and others who suddenly become very interested in something else when they see me coming because they suspect I might want to talk about something they'd rather not discuss.
They're usually right.
After all these years, I've learned to recognize people before I ever see them—the sound of a particular walker coming or cane clicking on the floor as they walk down the hallway, the shuffle of familiar slippers, a voice carrying around the corner.
And then, sometimes, one of those sounds disappears.
A door stays closed.
A familiar chair sits empty.
Those are the times the hallway feels different.
We've said goodbye to too many people this year. People who weren't simply apartment numbers or names on a rent roll. They were part of this place. They were part of our days, our routines and our conversations. They were part of the story of Garden Terrace.
Maybe that's one of the things twelve years here has taught me.
A building isn't a community simply because people live in it.
It becomes a community because their lives begin to overlap.
Someone holds the elevator. Someone brings soup when a neighbor is sick. Someone complains about the laundry room. Someone notices they haven't seen their neighbor for a couple of days and goes to check on them. Someone tells the same story for the hundredth time—and someone else sits down and listens anyway.
There are friendships here. Disagreements. Celebrations. Losses. New beginnings. Ordinary Tuesday afternoons.
There is laughter—lots of it.
And yes, there are days when something happens that makes me sit behind my desk, shake my head and wonder how on earth this became my life.
Those stories deserve to be told, too.
Because life happens here.
Ordinary, messy, funny, heartbreaking, beautiful life.
After twelve years of having a front-row seat to so much of it, I thought perhaps it was time I started writing some of it down.
After all, around here you never have to go very far to find a story.
Usually, it's just down the hall.
— Shawna
