this week's dispatch

notes on community, people and the spaces between them

this week i’ve been thinking about loneliness again. not in the dramatic way — but in the way that quietly shows up in everyday life.

sometimes it starts with a pintrest board urging you to choose solitude — start journaling, head to homegoods for a handful of candles, date yourself, and build brand new boundaries.

the kind you choose before you even realize you’ve chosen it.

which made me wonder: what does it mean when someone who builds community for a living still chooses distance in their personal life?

small reckonings arise in the random moments when i think about how often i am able to completely neglect my phone for hours on end. partially because i’ve spent a handful of years glued to it as a solopreneur, but largely because i rarely text, talk, or facetime people.

somewhere along the way, that became my norm. i’ve grown muscle memory there. small bouts of anxiety arise, when [certain] names pop up on my phone.

yet there’s this undercurrent of missing the days when i would talk on the phone for hours yapping about any and everything under the sun. when did it come to this?

that feeling lingered a little deeper last week.

while sitting at the bar at my partner’s job, a person slid next to me and said, “hey i thought that was you. i came to the bookclub at your bookstore. i drive past all the time, and now i just get so sad. i hope you know the impact you’ve made on so many people.” they went on to tell me about other people that they knew that felt the same way.

it was nice.

the week before that, out in the wild i ran into a regular from the bookstore. they re-introduced me to some folks they’d met through the bookstore as they were on their way to grab drinks. there was a mix of excitement and subtle yearning. the feeling of acknowledging both a fond shared experience, new things on the horizon and loss of a familiar home space.

that happens to me often. there’s this short-lived spark of joy and then it ends. a quietness settles in and i keep on moving.

i’ve spent the last decade of my life building a practice of community building. first through my side quests of youth programming, to opening BLK + BRWN. (my bookstore) to now my work in community engagement.

it’s work i believe in deeply. i love watching people meet each other and feel connected to something bigger than themselves. i love seeing strangers become regulars, watching conversations stretch longer each time people show up in the same room.

but recently i noticed something that felt… slightly contradictory.

a work-style assessment that labeled me as individualistic, results-driven, and business-like in my interactions. an indictment the very thing i feel called to do.

a realization: that after leaving spaces (even ones i’ve curated), feeling like i’d flipped some switch back to the off position. not unhappily. not dramatically. but quietly.

when i leave those spaces, i go home to my partner and our dog.
i’m not lonely. but i’ve noticed the circle of people I actually talk to and see regularly is pretty small.

much smaller than the rooms i spend my time building.

i’ve been seeing more and more people sharing this thought that loneliness is becoming more prevalent. that we have all become too individualistic. that people have forgotten how to build community.

but, i’m not sure it’s just that simple.

because some of us are actively building community spaces while still maintaining a lot of personal distance.

and now more than ever, it feels like there’s a specific overarching filter skewed to focus on this collective desire for intimate friendships, deep familial and chosen familial connection.

yet something about it all feels hollow still.

which raises a different question: is community the same thing as intimacy?

i’ve also been thinking about what intimacy looks like.

i was 31 when someone broke the news to me that i wasn’t romantic.

at the time, i immediately pushed back and sought to defend myself. my brain jumping into action quickly searching for evidence to contradict the accusation.

that comment stayed with me longer than i had expected.

i couldn’t imagine myself being inept in that way. someone drawn to the practice of love, a self-identified daughter of bell hooks.

but if i’m honest, i do tend to express care through building things, creating stability, making sure people have spaces where they belong.

my instinct is often to build the gathering rather than perform the intimacy. the thought of being the vessel is sometimes overwhelming. i often believe that i am best suited to be the wizard behind the curtain.

but that doesn’t always translate to warmth in the ways i intend.

the thought came back around.

what does it mean when someone believes deeply in community but still chooses distance in their personal life?

a lot of the language we use around connection is actually quite confusing.

it’s often so broad that it ends up meaning everything and nothing all at once.

we talk about community in a warm and welcoming way. we talk about intimacy as something reserved for our most tender relationships.

but little is said about the people whose instinct is to build the structure rather than constantly inhabit it.

the people who create the gathering, who make sure the chairs are there, who keep the space alive — but who quietly step back once the room fills.

i don’t think i’ve answered the question yet.

i still believe deeply in community. i still want a life full of friends, chosen family, and people showing up around a table together.

but lately i’ve been wondering if building spaces for connection and seeking intimacy are actually two different instincts.

is building community the same thing as wanting closeness?

or is it possible that some of us are simply better at creating the room than living inside it?