What we've forgotten about community
Inertia — Nº199
If you’re reading this, I want you to never forget about community. Something that has meant a lot to me lately.
We must be careful with curated solitude, for it can become too comfortable. I grew up with my community (family, friends, local shop owners) as the generator for my warmth. But as I got older and as my life was written further, a time came along when I felt like the near future saw a quiet life. A half-life. Not one where I situated somewhere remote and rural and started naming chickens—but something equally calm and steady. Mostly alone.
I’ve struggled with having community more than once over the years, but I realised it eventually: community isn’t something we wait for to happen to us like rain from a clear sky. Rather, it’s something we build with our own hands, voices, and time.
The truth is at the door: community isn’t a subscription service or something you order or download from an app store. You build it in living rooms with mud-tracked floors or kitchens where the chilli is too mild or too much. In gardens where one of their kids is always crying, or someone’s dog is barking and no one knows why. It’s perfect because we’re all imperfect.
Sometimes, we forget to enjoy being amateur performers in our theatre like when we were kids. Voices grow quiet because we stopped singing at gatherings. We no longer tell stories around tables for fear of sounding flawed. And no more dancing at weddings like no one is watching—because everyone is watching. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that if we can’t do something expertly, we shouldn’t do it at all.
But community thrives in those spaces between perfection. It’s all about the off-key karaoke nights, slightly burned cookies, and jokes that don’t quite land but make people laugh anyway.
The modern myth of self-development takes us down a lonely path, so we should think differently about it. You can quit drinking for your health, but don’t forget to replace the happy hour with your friends—be it at the gym or a run club. You can upgrade your home theatre, but don’t forget to host or go out and support local shows where the sound or crowd isn’t massive, but the energy is alive and electric. You can stop being a critic and start being a participant again. You can stop being an observer and start creating again.
My funniest and most interesting friends, those I can talk to or walk with for hours without noticing, are the ones who tell brilliant stories brilliantly. We all don’t enjoy when opinions dance in echo chambers, where agreement is mistaken for connection. You can spend half an hour shutting the world out to craft a perfect post but struggle to hold your own in a conversation over coffee. You may say you’ve mastered the art of avoiding disappointment, but all you’ve done is avoid being in any position where people might let you down—or where you might let them down. In doing so, you are avoiding the deep and messy satisfaction of being part of something much larger than you. These are things that future generations frame on their walls or inscribe so they can pass through the decades or centuries to come.
It’s nice to see people push to optimise their way of working and accomplishments and amusements. But it can also be a very lonely place to be. Two sides of the same coin that fall down the dark well.
Everyone needs community, but the door doesn’t just swing open—you must unlock it. I was known to do this as a child because I brought messy amusement and didn’t care if I said something stupid; it felt good, and I loved seeing the smiles and gentle chuckles people do when they really felt positive energy.
You can always get this feeling at any time. Learn to enjoy cooking more than you need in case someone stops by. Own a sofa bed that’s free from clutter because a friend might rest on it one night. Keep a plethora of tea bags in your cupboard when you only drink coffee—because hospitality speaks in many languages.
Dance and sing at weddings, create games with cards, bring gifts to a reunion or when you visit someone’s home for the first time. Accept the mud on your doormat. Because community is companionship that requires us to build for the long term. My mother spent years working with the neighbourhood watch, sitting on the community board, writing cards to people she hadn’t seen in decades, and instinctively looking after my friends who needed rest after a heavy night out. That’s truly something to pass on to others. It might be a flicker of candlelight in the grand scheme of time within history—but it still means something to the people in the here and now.
Take note of the people you meet and their kids’ names or their allergies or their small victories and louder struggles. Investing in community pays dividends in stage but invaluable currencies. It comes back to you in borrowed tools and shared recipes, in last-minute childcare and unexpected invitations. It returns in the form of hands that help you move furniture and faces that light up when you walk into a room.
This is not about adding one more item to your self-improvement checklist. It's about unlearning the habits of isolation over the last few years and loving the messy, inefficient, sometimes frustrating work of being in a community that is not a distraction from your best life—it is your best life.