Reflections on My Evolving Journey of Community-Building in the Big City: From Karaoke Bars to Collective Care, Reclaiming Depth and Values in an Isolated Age.
I think about community a lot—how to build it, sustain it, what it should look like, and how it should evolve. This extends to friendships and human connection, since the two are deeply intertwined.
As someone who moved from a collectivist culture in Morocco, with no existing networks or college connections, to one of the most individualistic and isolating cities in the world—our beloved New York City—community quickly became a topic close to my heart. The culture shock was pretty intense, and the isolation was real. I was struck by how transactional so many relationships seemed to be. Friendships often seemed to revolve around what someone could offer: connections to the right people, access to exclusive events, or simply the social currency of being “hot” or “cool.” In NYC, work and community often felt merged, which makes sense in a city where work defines so much of identity and daily life. (Your work becomes your “family”—a problematic concept I’ll save my hot take on for another time.)
New York has a way of making you earn everything, and community was no exception for me. Starting from scratch, it took years of intentional effort—proactively attending events, reaching out to people, and organizing countless gatherings myself—to finally build a home away from home and start feeling a sense of belonging. I've built and lost friendships and joined and left more communities than I can count, often reflecting my evolving interests and phases of life: startup spaces, music and creative groups, spiritual and dance circles, burner and personal development networks, college friend groups from a college I didn’t attend, and—reliable fixture—my ‘local’ karaoke joint (lol). Some relationships naturally came to an end, others I outgrew, and some no longer aligned with who I was becoming.
Over the years, I’ve hosted nature getaways, weekend trips, board game nights, co-ed basketball games, girls’ night outs, a roast party (I love a good theme!), and the list goes on. When I couldn’t find a community that filled a need, I made it my mission to create one. Even though community-building is something I genuinely enjoy and that comes somewhat naturally to me (and I realize that’s not the case for everyone), building connections in a city like this has always felt like an uphill battle. I’ve been lucky to be welcomed into so many amazing communities and cross paths with so many fellow community builders, some of whom I’m fortunate to still call friends. Many of them often do this work purely out of love and passion, not realizing they’re doing sacred work that deserves recognition (and maybe even a paycheck).
I’ve learned that community is a living, breathing, fragile thing—it requires care, attention, intention, consistency, and repetition (!) to build, maintain, and thrive. This is even more true in a transient, fast-paced city like New York, where so many communities and connections are competing for time and energy, making the maintenance of meaningful bonds an ongoing challenge. It’s made even harder in a city filled with ambitious, type-A individuals often consumed by their own hustle, personal growth, and creative or professional pursuits (many likely dealing with unresolved mommy and daddy issues, having been taught to tie their self-worth to their achievements, or equating their value with productivity as a by-product of hyper-capitalism, or just dealing with constant chronic stress and burnout, but I digress :)).
The pandemic, along with recent political and social upheavals, has made many of us reconsider what community really means. For me, these reflections have become front of mind as I find myself thinking about the intersection between personal and collective healing. In a culture obsessed with self-help and self-development, we often become fixated on personal well-being and lose sight of the importance of collective healing and mutual support.
With the looming political challenges we face, it has never been clearer that the people at the top don’t have our best interests at heart. In fact, they benefit from keeping us isolated, divided, and in competition with one another. At the end of the day, all we truly have is each other. No one can make it alone. Any hope for a more equitable, hopeful future will rest on mutual aid, solidarity, and the communities we intentionally build together.
My journey of community-building, along with recent realizations, has shaped what I now seek in community. Here are a few qualities I’m hoping to find in the communities I build in 2024:
Investing less in performative or transactional spaces—those vibey, “toxically positive,” or superficial groups that prioritize appearances over substance.
Leaning into intentional, values-aligned, compassionate, and actively inclusive communities that aren’t afraid to have uncomfortable conversations, get political, or go deep. Vibes are great, but I've come to believe that we can't truly know one another unless we've navigated those challenging conversations and examined our values, morals, and ethics (which are often reflected in our politics).
I’m also challenging myself to show up as a safe space for others, even when it’s uncomfortable or inconvenient. While I recognize the systemic burnout, chronic stress, isolation, and incredible pressure to succeed or simply survive we all navigate, I want to balance self-care and self-improvement with showing up consistently for the people and causes that matter. In fact, I believe the two are closely tied together.
As a self-proclaimed “collector of friends” with a case of shiny object syndrome, this means prioritizing depth over quantity—doubling down on the friendships and communities that align most with my values while still honoring my love for variety and new experiences.
Looking ahead, I want to get more involved in local mutual aid and activist organizations—showing up consistently and contributing time and energy to communities working toward collective liberation (as opposed to a hyper-focus on “self-improvement/self-development”).
My goal in writing this isn’t to provide all the answers, but to spark a dialogue about what community means, what we should strive to build, and how we can each play a role in resisting the forces that divide us—whether through politics, technology, or systems that profit from our fragmentation. In a time of deepening political and social division, building meaningful community has never been more urgent or complex. It’s about more than finding like-minded people who make us feel good; it’s about creating spaces where we can have difficult conversations, challenge assumptions, and build understanding across differences. We need communities where inclusivity (not the kind that cancels discomfort or demands conformity), compassion, accountability (yes, calling each other out when needed), mutual support (actually sharing resources and sticking our necks out for each other), and shared values like social justice, equity, vulnerability, and emotional intelligence take precedence over “vibes,” performative allyship, or hollow positivity.
This is especially true as we face mounting political and social challenges. The work of community builders—particularly those engaging in mutual aid, activism, collective healing, and political education—has never been more essential. Our future depends on the communities doing the work, going deep, showing up consistently, and pushing for collective liberation, not just individual well-being.
A few questions to reflect on: What does community mean to you? How has your approach to it changed over time, and what would your ideal community look like?