Mention “communal living” and the image that may spring to mind is the free-love, back-to-the-earth hippy communes of the 1960s, complete with bandanas and fringed suede vests. But communal living is once again very much part of the zeitgeist — albeit with a very different look.

Many of the current trend’s most ardent proponents are older adults buying property and land together to create their own intentional retirement communities with good friends. Their reasons for banding together to face their later years surrounded by the companionship and care of friends rather than family are driven by expediency and a desire for mutual support, seasoned by a large pinch of — often painful — reality.

“The fact is, you can’t always rely on relatives — even your own children — for care,” acknowledges culture critic Karen Tongson, professor and chair of gender and sexuality studies. 

What was once the family norm — mom, dad and kids under one roof — has become the exception in America.

In place of the traditional nuclear family, new definitions of kinship are flourishing — close-knit households bound by love and friendship that focus on shared responsibility, connection and mutual support.

Together by Choice

One expression of this shift is the rising appeal of communal living. In Los Angeles, the co-living community Treehouse, founded in 2016, offers buildings designed for collaborative lifestyles. Similar intentional communities are popping up across the country, tapping into a renewed appetite for connection.

In parts of Europe, young people are moving into retirement homes and assisted living facilities. These multigenerational models — fueled by reduced or free rent for the young in exchange for time spent with senior residents — are proving a hit with both sides: Older adults gain companionship, while younger ones value the opportunity to build genuine connections across the age divide.

The concept of chosen family, though, is nothing new. Many people have spent time living in nonbiological families, whether they realize it or not. College, Tongson notes, is often the first time people live away from home and form support networks that can last a lifetime. Consider, for example, our own Trojan Family — a community bound by support and a shared USC experience. “We’re constantly creating chosen family in small ways throughout our lives,” Tongson says.

Today, as traditional family structures fade, chosen families are showing up on our screens, where television reflects shifting ideas about society and what family means.

Fifty years ago, more than two thirds of adults lived in a traditional nuclear family; now less than a third do.

Screen Reflections

Take the sitcom Modern Family, which aired from 2009 to 2020. The show follows three diverse, interconnected Los Angeles households, recasting the nuclear family to include adoptive ties, queer relationships and deep friendships. For Tongson, professor of English and American studies and ethnicity, it was a defining sitcom of the Obama years — one that presented “a liberal fantasy of family.”

The series captured hopes that the national family might move beyond racial divisions, while exposing audiences to a new normal in which nonbiological connections could be just as meaningful and enduring as traditional ones.

Professor Emerita of Psychology Gayla Margolin sees that message reflected in real life. “Families are put together in all sorts of different ways,” she says. “But families of every kind want the same thing: a better life for their kids — security, the basics and the chance to avoid repeating mistakes.”

Yet, the optimism of Modern Family proved fragile. “That fantasy of repair did not come to fruition,” notes Tongson. In today’s era of bitter polarization, environmental crises and pandemic trauma, portrayals of nonbiological kinship have shifted. No longer a hopeful metaphor for society, Tongson says, they’ve become a survival strategy.

Survival Bonds

It’s a shift reflected in some of today’s most discussed shows. The Last of Us and Station Eleven are two examples of a growing number of post-apocalyptic stories in which strangers must form makeshift families to overcome catastrophe.

As Tongson notes, the trend for postapocalyptic TV doubles as a metaphor for a divided nation — a reflection of how fractured communities must still find ways to care for one another.

“Many shows now depict people with no ties forced to create new families in order to survive,” she says.

This mirrors real life. For many nonbiological families, living together isn’t a choice but a necessity — a response to crisis, not a lifestyle trend. For LGBTQ+ people disowned by relatives, chosen families remain essential. For those facing unstable housing, poverty or weak social services, they’re a lifeline.

“When support systems fail,” Tongson notes, “people create circles of mutual aid to get through difficult times. That’s why survival has always been at the heart of chosen families.” —T.W.