Community Isn't About You

There is a strange thing that happens when we talk about “community” now. We say the word, but what we often mean is “people who make me feel good about myself”.

We want community that understands us, reflects us, validates us, supports us, reads our long messages, likes our posts, shows up when we are low, disappears when we are tired, and never asks too much in return. In other words, we want community that behaves like a very patient therapist with better snacks.

But real community is not built around one person’s comfort. It is not a mirror, or a fan club, or a soft landing that never pushes back. Real community is a living thing, and you are only one cell in the body.

That is both humbling and, if you let it be, freeing.

The main character problem

We live in a time that quietly encourages us to be the main character of everything. We are told to “find our people”, “curate our circle”, “protect our energy”. There is some truth in that. Not everyone should have access to you. Not every space is safe. Not every group is for you.

But if we are not careful, “find your people” turns into “find people who never inconvenience you”.

We start to treat community like a product. We ask:

• Does this group meet my needs?

• Do I feel seen here?

• Do I like the vibe?

We rarely ask:

• What do I bring?

• Who am I showing up for?

• What weight am I willing to carry that is not mine alone?

When community becomes another item on the self‑care menu, it stops being community and becomes consumption. We are not part of something bigger. We are just shopping for feelings.

Community as inheritance, not invention

As a South African‑born Chinese person, third generation, I did not invent the idea of community. I walked into one that already existed, with its own rules, stories and fractures.

There were aunties who knew everyone’s business before you did. There were uncles who had been in the same card game for thirty years. There were family friends who were not technically related but might as well have been, because they had seen you in nappies and at your worst teenage haircut.

There was also the wider South African context: neighbours who watched out for each other, people who shared food, gossip, warnings, rumours, recipes. People who had survived things together and did not always talk about it, but you could feel it in the way they greeted each other.

Community, in that sense, was not about me. It was about continuity. It was about people who had been there before I arrived and would be there after I left. I was a thread in a much larger weave.

That is uncomfortable when you have grown up being told you are special and unique and destined for something. It is also grounding. You are not the point. You are part of the story, not the whole book.

The cost of belonging

We like the idea of belonging. We are less enthusiastic about the cost.

Belonging means:

• You do things when you do not feel like it.

• You show up when it is inconvenient.

• You listen to stories you have heard before.

• You tolerate people who annoy you.

• You accept that not everything will be tailored to your taste.

In a real community, someone will always be too loud, too quiet, too blunt, too sensitive, too traditional, too modern. Someone will bring food you do not like. Someone will have politics that make you clench your jaw. Someone will say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

If community is not about you, then the question is not “Do I like every single person here?” but “Can I live in tension with people who are not me?”

That is a different skill set. It is less glamorous than “finding your tribe”. It looks more like washing dishes after a gathering when you are tired. Giving someone a lift. Sitting with an elderly person who repeats the same story. Helping set up chairs. Checking in on someone who has gone quiet.

None of that is Instagrammable. All of it is community.

The temptation to curate

Online, we can mute, block, unfollow and leave groups with a tap. There are times when that is necessary and healthy. Abuse, racism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, violence – you do not owe anyone access to you in those spaces.

But sometimes we use the same tools on people who are simply… human. Awkward. Messy. Annoying. Different.

We curate our feeds until we are surrounded by people who think like us, vote like us, eat like us, parent like us, believe like us. It feels peaceful. It is also a little sterile.

Offline, you do not get to curate your way out of the auntie who asks when you are getting married, or the neighbour who plays music too loudly, or the cousin who is always late. You have to negotiate, adapt, forgive, roll your eyes, laugh, set boundaries, try again.

That friction is part of what shapes us. It teaches patience, humility, humour, resilience. It reminds us that we are not the centre of the universe.

Community as practice, not feeling

We often talk about community as if it is a feeling: “I feel held”, “I feel seen”, “I feel safe”. Those feelings matter. They are signals. But they are not the whole picture.

Community is a practice. It is a set of repeated actions over time.

It looks like:

• Turning up regularly, not just when you are lonely.

• Offering help before you are asked.

• Letting people see you when you are not impressive.

• Allowing others to care for you, even when you would rather be the strong one.

• Staying in the room when conflict arises, instead of disappearing.

Sometimes you will not feel “seen”. Sometimes you will feel misunderstood, sidelined, or just… ordinary. That does not mean the community has failed. It might mean you are not the main character this week.

There is a quiet dignity in being the person who brings the extra chairs, or who remembers birthdays, or who sends the “thinking of you” message. No one writes think‑pieces about those people. But communities fall apart without them.

The danger of making community a brand

There is a version of “community” that is really just marketing. A brand calls its customers a community. A creator calls their followers a community. A company calls its staff a family.

Sometimes there is real care there. Often, there is also a power imbalance. One person or group benefits more than the others, while using the language of togetherness.

If community is not about you, it is also not about your brand. It is not a backdrop for your self‑expression. It is not a resource you mine for content, stories or validation.

Ask yourself:

• If I stopped posting, would these relationships still exist?

• If I had nothing to sell or promote, would I still be here?

• If I could not be seen, would I still show up?

If the answer is no, then what you have might be an audience, not a community. There is nothing wrong with having an audience. Just do not confuse the two.

Learning to be one of many

For those of us who grew up in diaspora, there is often a double tension. We are navigating the expectations of our heritage community and the norms of the country we live in. We are too much of one thing in one space and not enough of it in another.

It can be tempting to retreat into small, carefully chosen pockets where we feel perfectly understood. There is relief in that. There is also a risk of shrinking our world until it only contains people who reflect us back to ourselves.

Being one of many is uncomfortable when you are used to being the only one, or the token one, or the special one. It means accepting that your story is not the only story. Your pain is not the only pain. Your insight is not the final word.

In a South African context, this also means sitting with histories that are not yours but that you live inside. It means listening more than you speak. It means understanding that community is layered: family, neighbourhood, cultural group, country, online spaces, all overlapping and sometimes clashing.

You are not responsible for fixing all of it. You are responsible for how you move through it.

So what is your part?

If community is not about you, then what is your role?

Maybe it is small and specific:

• You are the one who always brings extra food.

• You are the one who checks in on the quiet person.

• You are the one who organises the lift club.

• You are the one who remembers people’s children’s names.

• You are the one who notices when someone has disappeared and sends a message.

Maybe your role changes over time. Sometimes you are the one holding others. Sometimes you are the one being held. Sometimes you are in the middle, passing things back and forth.

The point is not to be indispensable. The point is to be dependable.

Letting go of the fantasy

There is a fantasy version of community where everyone shares your values, communicates perfectly, never disappoints you and always has capacity. It is as real as the fantasy of the perfect family.

Real community will, at some point:

• Bore you

• Irritate you

• Disappoint you

• Misunderstand you

You will do all of that to others as well.

If you can accept that, you can stop treating every imperfection as a sign that you are in the wrong place. You can start asking a different question: “Is there enough good here to make the hard bits worth it?”

Sometimes the answer will be no, and you will need to leave. That is part of it too. Not every group is your home. Not every season lasts.

But if the answer is yes, then the work is to stay. To keep showing up. To keep practising.

Community is not about you. It is about us. It is about the slow, unglamorous work of building something that can hold more than one person’s story at a time.

You are not the centre of it. You are not supposed to be.

You are one voice in the choir, one dish on the table, one story in the archive.

And that, quietly, is enough.