• I opened a boutique without realizing I'd be sharing a building with a senior living community.
• At first, I worried we'd clash, things would feel awkward, or my store's music would bother them.
• I was surprised when my new neighbors became my friends — now, they hang out at my store often.

When I set out to open my first-ever retail storefront for my shop, Cindy Jane Boutique, I had a specific picture in my head: a saloon-style concept, rooted in nostalgic Americana, right on the corner in our local downtown area.

I prepared for virtually everything, wanting to create the best shopping experience for my customers. Chasing visions of vintage-inspired rose-trail wallpaper, classic wainscoting, and secondhand antique furniture, I missed one crucial detail: my new neighbors.

I was so deep in our buildout that it took me a month to realize my boutique space sat immediately beneath a senior living community.

Immediately, my mind jumped to worst-case scenarios, imagining strained neighborly relations and noise complaints through our thin walls.

My assumptions were wrong.

I thought sharing a building would be stressful, but it's become a benefit instead

My worries started to ease during our grand opening when I gave a heads-up about our sound system's volume to my neighbor immediately above my store.

I expected wariness or frustration. Instead, he invited me to his apartment to talk, and we ended up chatting more about his encyclopedic knowledge of punk rock than volume limits.

From there, I felt myself soften. Hellos in the hallway became routine with residents from all walks of life. Conversations grew in length as each week passed.

Most importantly, the building stopped feeling like something I needed to manage carefully and instead started feeling like something I was learning to share.

Soon, the simple built-in window bench I'd installed along the front of the store was more than just a practical place to sit. It had become a bit of a community gathering spot.

On quiet weekday afternoons, senior neighbors began settling on the bench without announcement, sometimes just to talk and others for a moment of respite.

Once my senior neighbors started lingering, they also started sharing their stories. I learned about their professions, how long they'd lived upstairs, the businesses they had run, the families they had raised, and the fashion heirlooms they cherished.

Since many of them had families who had grown up in the area, they were able to teach me about the history of our shared space, too.

First built in 1912 by Frank Chance, a former Chicago Cubs player, our building was once home to Cub Grocery and Cub Pharmacy during the development of Route 66. A few of my neighbors even remember visiting the pharmacy's soda fountain decades ago.

I started to feel the age of the place in the best way, and I found myself listening more than speaking as I was captivated by the storytelling. In some ways, the building itself came alive with stories emerging from its notoriously thin walls.

All in all, I've loved building community as I built my business

Sharing space with people who have lived many versions of life reshaped how I understand connection across generations.

I stopped seeing my neighbors upstairs as separate from me, and instead began to recognize that we're on the same journey. Some of us are simply further along in our specific arcs.

Although we've only been sharing space for nine months, my neighbors have already taught me more about myself and my own expectations in intergenerational relationships. The realization clicked for me the day a resident in her 80s bought an ivory satin slip dress with the intent to wear it to bed.

In the past, this kind of dress may have been worn as a private piece, intended to rarely be seen, but younger generations today are styling satin slips with boots and wearing them on date nights. The fabric and construction haven't changed, but the context has.

When I unlock the shop each morning, I no longer feel like I'm operating beneath a senior living community. I feel like I'm part of something that refuses to dim with time.