Perfectly Kept Yards Give Me the Ick

HOAs (AKA planned communities) freak me out.

Fun fact: my last job before going full-time entrepreneur was in Community Association Management—which is just a fancy way of saying I managed HOAs.

(Whatever face you just made is exactly how I feel.)

The company I worked for was great. But even that couldn’t offset the drain of navigating some of the pettiest issues imaginable. For context, most of my career before that was in nonprofit and social services—work where the stakes felt more purposeful. The whiplash was real.

But this post isn’t about the HOA clients. We don’t have the energy or the page space for that.

This is about how I’ve always felt inside perfectly planned suburban communities.

They give me the ick. Full Twilight Zone energy. Stepford Wife-level discomfort. I know plenty of people genuinely love planned communities, and that’s fair, but they’ve always made me uncomfortable. And I think I finally figured out why...

The other day I was sitting on our deck, catching some sun, just kind of zoning out and taking in the yard. We live in a rare non-HOA pocket in Aurora, and it shows... in the best way.

I started noticing things. A pile of branches off to the side from a big tree that came down. Our neighbors’ lawn equipment leaning against the house. Someone’s mysterious large metal enclosure a few doors down (still no idea what that’s for, lol). Just… stuff. 

And it hit me: our yards look lived in.

Like actual humans with actual lives—real responsibilities, real time constraints, real priorities—exist inside these homes. There’s something raw and honest about it.

That’s when it clicked. HOAs make me uncomfortable because they’re too pretty. Too polished. Everything looks surface-level, like a stage set rather than a home.

And that's the same way I experience people.

I have a hard time connecting with anyone more focused on presentation than presence. But people who let you see their imperfections (the metaphorical pile of branches in the yard), those are my people. Because that’s where real human connection lives.

And here’s what I notice: a lot of us are HOA-ing ourselves.

Keeping the yard immaculate. Managing the presentation. Making sure nobody sees the branches, the equipment, the mysterious metal enclosure. And it is exhausting.

The overwhelm you’re carrying? A lot of it isn’t the actual responsibilities. It’s the energy it takes to make sure nobody sees you struggling under them. The judgment you have for yourself? It’s the HOA board in your own head, citing you for violations that don’t actually matter.

What if the lived-in version of you is the most trustworthy version? The most loved? The most free?