In the past, my homes have always been a sort of haven, my hideaway from the world. As a kindness worker, so much of my life is lived in an outward and extroverted way. I find a sense of solace retreating back to family within those four walls.

The universe must have had a different plan for me the moment we walked into our big green foursquare in the Woodland Heights area of Richmond. No more than four minutes passed and a small child was knocking at the door with a plate of Rice Krispie treats while another neighbor passed some bounty from her garden over the fence. I was experiencing a new level of kindness, learning how to receive it. The house became a revolving door for kids, friends and lovely neighbors.

We had chili block parties, a breakfast in the middle of the street the morning after the hurricane, a kindness project with free drive-through cotton candy on Valentine’s Day, even two bikes gifted to my kids after theirs were stolen off our front porch. Each act of kindness built a strong base of community and friendship. We all knew there was something special about our street. We were really living and caring for one another, side by side, every day.

And then the skate park happened. It started pretty organically – a few kids built some ramps and put them on an old unused tennis court at a park across from our street. It was nice to see it rise and the skaters create something all their own. After a few months though, the welcome was over for a few neighbors. The noise, the trash, the late night skating – it was an environment without support to help keep the peace or succeed.

A quiet division started as a few neighbors began working to have the skate park closed. Worried about losing the community we had built, I was concerned about speaking up. To me, the skaters deserved a place in the park and I loved the energy they brought, not to mention my own kids loved the spot. Yet the other folks were getting more and more fed up. Months went by and the final stickers went on the ramps. The skate park would be closed within the week.

Another resident a few streets over, a skater and supporter, planned a rally to try to save the park. I knew I had to support it. I realized the same community we had built by simple acts of kindness didn’t just stop at our street, but was meant to move beyond us. So I gathered my courage and offered what I had to the cause, not sure what would happen to the relationships with the people on the street I so loved. I was ready for the opposition; I wasn’t ready for what happened next.

One of the opponents of the park, who is also a friend, showed up at my door with a care package of Valentines for my kids. We talked at my kitchen table, each sharing our concerns about losing the magic of our street. She went to her husband and passed on everything we had discussed. He had a change of heart. The next day he asked if we could all sit down to come up with a compromise.

So we all got together for beers – the neighbors for and against the park – and we hashed it out. It was tense at moments and hard, but each side came seeking a solution that would be for the good of all.

A scheduled meeting with the City of Richmond then took place, with media and a room full of 60 skaters and neighbors. Our representative presented our mutual plan. We were united and proud. We had found a way to change together.

I thought of each person and the decisions made to come to this place. One street caring for each other, one man standing behind the skaters giving them a voice, one peaceful rally where the skaters claimed their spot, one act of courage to speak up, one neighbor reaching out and responding, one change of heart, one night over beers to work it out, one city listening to the people. Every move, every person, every act of kindness mattered and fueled the next.