Community

Community isn’t something we passively hope for. It’s our presence. It’s something we create. It’s in the invitations we send, the spaces we hold, the love we give.

A year ago, I decided to travel with a simple aspiration: to become "nobody." After a decade in Dubai, I stepped away from the familiar, immersing myself in nature to reconnect with my body, realign my priorities and disappear so that I can come back a better person. Not as an entrepreneur, but as a witness and embodiment of love. Ram Dass describes this aspiration well: “As long as you have certain desires about how it ought to be, you can’t see how it is.”

In shedding layers of my former identity, I moved from comfortable apartments to remote forests, from fresh clothes to wearing the same ones for days, from freezing showers to the warmth of saunas, from cold, wet landscapes to sunlit lakes.

As I traveled through Costa Rica, South Africa and Portugal, an emerging truth became undeniable: community was my source of strength. Across rain forests, mountains and valleys, this truth whispered itself into existence—my vitality, persistence, and inner light flourished most vibrantly within community. Nothing else consistently lifted my spirit like being among people who truly saw me, and whom I truly saw in full presence.

One night, I looked up the origins of the word "community." In Latin, communitas and communis both mean "shared" or "common." Breaking it down, com- means "together," while munis refers to service, duty, or gift-giving. This reveals something deeper—community exists in our exchanges, in the support flowing between us, in the shared responsibility that creates purpose and mutual care.

Our ancestors didn’t just live in communities; they depended on them. The idea of going it alone was as foreign as living without oxygen. Every bite of food, every choice, every sense of safety—it all existed because of us, not me. Stories weren’t just entertainment; they were survival guides, passed through generations. Rituals tethered people to their divinity, reminding them they were part of nature. No one moved through the world untethered.

Then came modernity, shifting focus from the collective to the individual. Industrial revolutions and the digital age brought convenience, mobility, and choice. But in gaining efficiency, we lost something simple yet precious: shared labor, interdependence, belonging. The structures that once held meaning were replaced by screens, transactions, and a ugly emptiness.

We live in a paradox. In an era of instant connectivity, we are more disconnected than ever. Communities fracture under economic pressures and cultural shifts. Urbanization scatters families. Capitalism commodifies human connection. Digital platforms offer surface-level interactions instead of deep, embodied relationships. As a result, loneliness and dissociation are more pervasive than ever.

Community is built on genuine relationships rather than transactions. It should foster interdependence rather than blind self-reliance. And most of all, it must be intentional—actively cultivated rather than passively expected. While we cannot recreate the past, we can reimagine community in a way that makes sense for today. Everything humane depends on it.

Look at Finland—they consistently rank #1 in global happiness studies. They’re not the richest country, but they’ve built extraordinary well-being through trust, community support, and taking care of each other. Indonesia ranks surprisingly high too, despite having far less material wealth than western countries. The opposite is also true. Some of the wealthiest countries are deeply divided, with a lack of community fueling fragmentation and isolation. This highlights a simple truth: real connection and belonging matter more to happiness than money or status.

For a long time, I saw community as something external, existing for convenience. But this past year unraveled that idea. Community is not only where you live or who happens to be nearby. It is how you show up—seeing others and allowing yourself to be seen.

When I grasped this, I was in Lisbon. I transformed my apartment into a sanctuary for the community. Singing circles filled the space, dissolving barriers between strangers, where intimate ecstatic dance sessions emerged, each beat fostering connection and safety.

I also ventured out to poetry nights and kirtan gatherings, where shared experiences of words and music created unexpected connections. These spaces turned strangers into friends more quickly than I expected.

My deepest experience came in Aljezur, southern Portugal, at a retreat and community called Essência. Tucked away in nature, surrounded by forests, rivers, and dirt roads I met people who changed me. We’d eat together as stars appeared overhead, share stories around fire pits, and move through our days following rhythms dictated by communal work and nature that felt both ancient and new at the same time. Some people were just passing through (like me); others had planted roots, raising families in this wild place they had chosen deliberately.

Time worked differently there. Notifications, emails, and digital noise faded away. Instead, I heard laughter bouncing between trees, had conversations that wandered without needing destinations, and formed bonds that simply happened—no forcing, no agenda.

One connection stays with me. Maya—a child with an incredible bright spirit—didn't trust me right away. She watched me carefully at first, as kids do with new adults in their space. But as days passed, something shifted. She began opening doors between us in ways I never expected. Eventually, we went from strangers to dancing together, inventing ridiculous games, her laughter bringing joy to everyone.

Dancing with Maya taught me more than all my reading ever did. I'd forget time—no past mistakes, no future worries, just us moving to whatever beat felt right. One moment, she grabbed my hands without warning, twirling like nobody was watching. Her freedom—the way she just existed without overthinking—was a revelation. Community isn’t a theory to analyze. It’s the tiny moments that make your chest feel full. It’s feeling seen without explanation, accepted without condition, connected without trying. It’s belonging to something greater than just yourself.

During my time in Aljezur, I attended Satsang sessions with Ganga Mira, where I was invited to share a Sufi Sama (the dervish swirling practice)—something I had only recently begun practicing. In that sacred space, I saw a community transcending knowing into unknowing, into love. And there, I realized: we often search for happiness as a destination. But happiness is most present when we shift from consumption to creation and share that creation in the commune.

This journey led me to an undeniable truth: happiness and community are inseparable. Our relationships—the genuine connections we nurture—matter more than material wealth or intellect. Our nervous systems are wired for connection. Our hearts, for belonging. While politics and religion often divide us, it is our collective mindset and cultural integrity that hold us together.

Passive consumption—whether of information, material goods, or social validation—breeds dissatisfaction. Fulfillment comes from making, building, contributing and sharing. Transforming knowledge into action, ideas into reality, engagement into meaningful collective effort.

Community does not have to be created in far away rural lands, they can be created wherever you are, in whichever format resonates, it simply requires someone to start. It could be a book club, a singing or drumming circle, poetry nights or simply meeting regularly for food and meaningful conversation.

When life comes to an end, it won’t matter what we owned, but what we built. Not what we gained, but what we gave. Not the skills we mastered, but the kindness we showed. And not the success we achieved, but the lives we uplifted. In the end, what counts is how we loved. Love deeply.

As I move forward, I hold onto the realization that community isn’t something we passively hope for. It’s our presence. It’s something we create. It’s in the invitations we send, the spaces we hold, the love we give without needing anything in return and in the choice to keep showing up.

To those I’ve walked beside, those who have shared their presence with me—you have been my joy, my light. Thank you.

♡ Love note ♡

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. These are personal reflections—born from my own experiences, shared so others might relate. It’s a labor of love and growth. If it resonates, subscribing (it's free), liking and sharing means a lot.