One of the most beautiful things about Catholicism is its quiet sanctity. There’s nothing like walking into a near-empty church, filled with the lingering scent of incense and the Holy Spirit, with Christ himself sitting in the tabernacle behind the silent but sturdy altar.

I am an introvert—quiet and solitude are almost synonymous with peace for me, especially in the context of my Catholic experience.

But while these moments are beautiful and deeply meaningful, the Church isn’t about solitude. She’s about community. And if you’re like me—no social butterfly, happy to stay home, easily stressed by new situations—that community can be hard to find.

In college I got my first big taste of Catholic community. I attended the University of Dayton, a Marianist institution where the word “community” is used at least as often as “study.” Having gone to college alone, five hours from home, it was difficult to jump into new friendships—but it was also easy, because I was with the same people most days and had no choice but to forge new relationships.

After college, I started working in a tech company and married my high school sweetheart. Though I enjoyed spending time with my coworkers each day, we didn’t have many common interests when it came to extracurriculars. And anyway, as a newlywed, I was happy to simply return home to my husband in the evenings and build our own little community—our domestic church.

It was a fruitful time for my vocation. Dedicating so much time to my marriage made me a better person—a more selfless daughter of God and a more devoted wife. These years prepared me for the sacrifices of new motherhood.

But you know what they didn’t prepare me for? The solitude of new motherhood.

And here I thought solitude was something I was good at.

Bringing home a new baby was surreal for me. It was beautiful, of course, but in many ways, also quite baffling. I would gaze at my sweet daughter’s sleeping face and think, Thank you, God, for giving me this child!

And then, the very next moment, she would scream and I’d think, Oh God, how could You think I could do this alone?

I’d heard that it takes a village to raise a child. I had no idea where my village was.

Please don’t get me wrong. My husband was especially wonderful during that time. Our closeness kept me anchored to myself in a season that was deeply confusing (Am I still me, or am I “Mom” now?). My family and friends were supportive, too.

What I realized, though, was that I knew no one in the same life stage as me. My girlfriends and sisters either had no children yet, or their children were much older than mine. My husband did so much for me but just couldn’t relate to my confusion about breastfeeding or my impatience with my suddenly unfamiliar body. When he was away at work during the day, I was alone with a baby who needed me desperately but couldn’t convey just what she needed.

So new motherhood was rarely the peaceful solitude I expected. Instead, it was something dimmer: it was lonely.

I knew having a newborn would be exhausting and stressful. But I didn’t know that hacking it alone would be so isolating.

I joined a local breastfeeding support group and investigated whether my parish had a mothers’ group (it didn’t, though I later found a neighboring one that did). Even when I managed to attend events designed to help me find my village, I struggled to build any sense of community.

Many of the mothers there were already close, and I’m not skilled at inserting myself into conversations as the “new kid” in the room.

Most of the other mothers were stay-at-home parents, but I was only on maternity leave—in a few weeks, I had to begin my work-at-home mom life. That meant, though I would be home each day, my daughter would be with a babysitter while I worked a full-time job on a rigid schedule. Any daytime playgroups I was invited to simply weren’t in the cards for me.

And the evening meetups? Well, frankly, those meant swapping precious little time with my husband for time spent with relative strangers (either with a newborn who obviously wouldn’t be doing any “playing,” or with the new-mom stress and physical discomfort of leaving a breastfeeding baby at home).

I just couldn’t make any of it work, and it made me feel like a failure. It made me feel like I just needed to hack it out on my own—that that’s the kind of mom I would always be.

As weeks passed and interpreting my daughter’s needs consumed me slightly less, I spent what time I could on Facebook. That was a safe social connection—a way to feel close to my friends and family, on my own time, even when I wasn’t physically with them.

But when you’re checking your phone every fifteen minutes and most of your friends are adults with day jobs, your timeline quickly runs out of new things to show you.

I went exploring and discovered groups—most notably one that was dedicated to support around the Creighton method of natural family planning (which, thanks to postpartum changes and my difficult adjustment to motherhood, had suddenly become a high-stress part of my life).

The sheer number of like-minded, thoughtful people who were there to answer questions about NFP and other struggles related to Catholic life was staggering and so deeply helpful. Eventually, I found a larger Catholic group that focused on even broader topics.

I had a place—a safe, not too in-my-face, unscheduled place—to ask questions about my growing family and even my faith. It was rejuvenating, and it made me feel more confident as a new mother.

Eventually, I joined a group for young, Catholic mothers that has since taken up a firm, cozy place in my heart. I consider the other members my friends. They are my tribe now—my village. They’ve been there to answer all my questions, laugh at my jokes, pray for me, and support me both emotionally and physically in the darkest of times. I am so thankful for them. I hope I’ve done a decent job giving these same gifts right back.

Their friendship has also made me more confident in finding friends “in real life.” Having a readily available and supportive social outlet makes me feel stronger and more worthy of new friends when I attend local events for Catholic moms, or see a family I’d like to get to know better at Mass on Sundays. Slowly, I’m building a network of local friends, too, who can add to my village in more tangible ways.

I’m here to tell you that you can be introverted and be a member of the greater Catholic community. I’m here to tell you that you are worthy of faith-centered friendships in whatever context you seek them—whether that’s in online forums of like-minded women, or in-person groups where you might be the only fresh face.

Take baby steps if you need to. Send a text to an acquaintance just to say hello. Compliment a woman you’ve admired from afar (we all see those familiar, happy faces Sunday after Sunday) as you’re leaving your parish this weekend; next week, smile at her as you see her family arrive at Mass; the week after, introduce yourself.

Search for Facebook groups that line up with your vocation. Once you join them, let loose your questions and, even more importantly, provide loving answers to others’ questions. Comment on Instagram posts by people who embody the kind of woman you’d like to be. These platforms can be abused, but they can also be used to give glory to God and to build the Church in today’s always-connected world.

When you feel ready, find out when your parish (or another one nearby) has their next mothers’ or young women’s gathering. Ask for whatever help you need to make attending a reality. Bring cookies or another goodie to share, introduce yourself with confidence, and be an attentive and thoughtful listener when others speak. Exchange phone numbers and make plans right then and there.

If these things are hard for you, I understand. I am right there with you. Turn to Christ and ask for his help in forging the relationships that will make your burden lighter and your journey straight. He won’t lead you astray.