Building Community in a Dark Time

A journey from isolation to action

Cartoon by me.

Ever since I became a mother, I’ve been fascinated by the idea of group housing. Or co-living, or communal housing, or platonic housemates, or whatever you call it—where people live in close proximity and are invested in each other. Where someone can watch your kids on short notice. Where people eat meals together. Where neighbors can take care of your pet when you’re out of town. Where people look out for each other.

I didn’t have a name for what I was craving, not exactly. But beneath the daydreams about shared dinners and kid-swapping neighbors was something deeper: a question about how we’re supposed to live—especially when the world feels so isolating, so overwhelming. Becoming a parent was the first thing that toppled my carefully-constructed sense of self and my feeling of mastery in adulthood. The next was leaving my career over burnout. The most recent was the crippling of my entire career field and the dismantling of many social structures in our country. In the past three years, I have found myself venturing into these unknown territories. I felt alone on that journey.

At first, I became obsessed with the idea of living with friends. I was also fascinated by the idea of other people parenting my son alongside my partner and me (as alloparents). I dreamed of a world where we wouldn’t be so alone in parenting, where my son would have a range of adult role models. Where people would just drop by and offer help, without expecting anything in return, as we would do the same for them. I wanted to soak up everyone’s wisdom and advice. I dreamed of community.¹

I was not lonely or isolated, yet I had very little community. Becoming a parent made this immediately clear. I have a lot of close friends, but we’re spread out all over the country. I have some family and friends nearby—but “nearby” in a major city often means 45 minutes away on the highway. My parents live a nine-hour drive from me. I had an active social life and was always busy, but none of that added up to a true community.

Maybe this realization hits many new parents. It’s not something you really plan for when you’re getting ready to have your first baby. We tend to focus on acquiring all the baby stuff, drafting our birth plans, arranging pediatricians and childcare, setting up a meal train, planning showers and registries. Most of it is logistical. Seasoned parents may tell us we don’t need all the STUFF. But no one tells us that what we really need is a community.²

When I became a mom, I suddenly felt like I needed to find a bunch of new mom friends—people going through the same things at the same time. I wanted solidarity. I found it in a local moms group I joined. But still, it wasn’t quite the same as a community.

So I started the journey of building mine—of finding my people. I read books about friendship and community, listened to podcasts, subscribed to newsletters. I joined several moms groups. I reconnected with old friends. I made new ones. I traveled with women I love. I took classes at local rec centers and art studios, and online. I volunteered at my son’s school. I invited people to hang out, to get coffee, to take walks. I put myself out there—and as an introvert, this was not easy.

But my efforts were stymied by the culture of busyness enveloping my social circle. I hate scheduling with people. I loathe living by the calendar. I despise the back-and-forth texts that eventually lead to a date months away—one that’s likely to be canceled. One of the only ways I found to reliably commit to regular meetings was if there was some monetary investment. (See: my mom’s group—which I absolutely love—but getting us together regularly outside of official meetings? Tough.)

I brainstormed ideas for starting a blog (hello!) or a club. I started regular lunches with friends, yoga, and coffee dates. My partner and I talked about hosting recurring monthly hangouts just to see people more often. My friends and I fantasized about casual drop-in dinners. Any. Possible. Way. To. Be. Together.

But I struggled to get anything off the ground. And then, beginning on November 5, 2024, some big things started happening—things that destabilized my social circles, my field of work, and honestly, my entire worldview.

I’m someone who has spent her entire career trying to help people. I’ve always worked in public health programs. I was in the Peace Corps. I’m not saying I’ve made some huge difference—I was specifically trained by the Peace Corps not to think that way. I’m just saying I’ve always wanted to do good, and help people who need it. That’s a core value. I did that work until I finally got burned out and took a career break to regroup. (As this newsletter is for my fellow disaffected millennials, we’ll be spending a lot of time on burnout and burnout-related topics. There will be more to come.)

All this to say: when forces beyond my control started dismantling and destroying, terrorizing and threatening—and gloating about their cruelty—I found myself without a direct role. I wasn’t in a position to help the people most affected. I didn’t have a clear route to contribute.

And people’s reactions were strange to me. In the twilight months of 2024, my anger and frustration with the world grew. My energy to do something—anything—returned after a year recovering from burnout. But I saw others turning inward. The world felt too big and out of control, they seemed to say, so let’s just focus on decorating for the holidays. Look at these gift guides. Look at these beautiful things to wear. Like: oh well, things are spiraling, but you can still make your little world pretty! Yes, we should still have joy in dark times, it is its own form of resistance. And at the same time, I knew I had to resist the temptation to turn entirely inward.

What can we do in such dark times? Where’s the line between healthy escapism and true avoidance? How do we care for ourselves and our loved ones without turning away from the wider world? Is it even possible to do both—to care, to feel joy, to find happiness, and stay informed, fight back, resist?

As 2025 barreled on, I found myself devastated and paralyzed by the news—bombarded with one thing after another, each more unthinkable than the last. I swore up and down I wasn’t doomscrolling—but obviously, I was. I struggled to think of how to do good in the world when everything felt so overwhelming. It’s not like I’m suddenly going to run for office (an introvert’s nightmare), or like I have a billionaire’s fortune sitting around to invest in what I believe in. The problems felt too big. Anything I could do felt too small. I was stuck. I didn’t know how to do my part—locally, meaningfully.

Back in 2020, I was managing a clinic in the early months of the pandemic, living in constant terror and survival mode. I needed to escape. I would literally run away from my office during lunch to clear my head. And each time I went for a run, I wondered if my feet would carry me back. That was the year I got into audiobooks. I’d walk loops in a local park, listening to whatever fast-paced, plot-driven story I could find to pull me out of my life for a little while. That was my version of escapism. I needed it—physically, mentally. But I always went back. I couldn’t escape forever.

In early 2025, as crisis after crisis unfolded, I worried that people weren’t just escaping temporarily, but withdrawing—into avoidance or denial. Public resistance felt tepid. Everyone seemed exhausted.

So how do we care for ourselves without cutting ourselves off? How do we extend our circle just enough—our sphere of influence—so we don’t disappear inward? Can we do that while still preserving joy, hope, sanity?

One of my favorite newsletters, Gloria, wrote recently that “in-person gatherings are a great way to counter malaise.” And I think nothing sums it up better. Last month, I realized I had to start something. I just had to give myself permission to act. It didn’t have to be perfect. It didn’t even need to be fully formed. After all these years of trying to build community, it seemed like so many of us felt the same—helpless, frustrated, demoralized. I could never do anything big enough to counter the forces shaping our world. But I could do something local. And meaningful.

So I tapped into my networks and knowledge of local NGOs and organizations doing good work in my city. I combined that with my goals around community and socializing. My partner and I started a series of monthly brunches—getting friends together, with an optional charitable component. At our first event, we collected children’s books for a local organization I used to work with. Children would come to clinic appointments and take home a free book from the shelf. Over the years, the stream of donations dried up. I wanted to get it flowing again.

Reader, I’m so glad to report: the brunch was a success on all levels. We had so much fun with our friends (and I hope people made new ones), and we collected far more children’s books than I expected. I was truly moved by the outpouring of support from our community, and I can’t wait to host more. This was my first step—small, yes—but it mattered. The antidote to my despair is to do something, even something small, that does good in the world. We can do this. We can take care of ourselves and still show up.

1. A great read here on this topic is Rhaina Cohen’s book The Other Significant Others: Reimagining Life with Friendship at the Center

2. Supernuclear recently had a great article on this theme.