The Utopian Myth of Community

Overnight, we became fluent in a foreign language ushered in by the COVID-19 pandemic. Words we’d never strung together before—flatten the curve, social distancing, mask mandate, herd immunity—became part of our daily vocabulary. But one ordinary word surged to the forefront. It’s proven more persistent—and more vague—than almost any other: community.

It’s used everywhere: in political speeches, corporate values statements, as a label for subcultures both online and IRL. It evokes groups of people bound together, deserving of protection. It conjures an idealized destination—welcoming yet gated, a near-mystical haven with requisite barriers to entry.

So elusive is the concept that we’ll celebrate a mere “sense of community”—a telling phrase that contains a kernel of truth: that community is something we feel. We have a sharp instinct for it, and yet we remain caught in a relentless search to find it.

Lately, I’ve noticed my own shortcuts to approximating community. Before the pandemic, I listened almost exclusively to highly produced podcasts—shows like Serial or Radiolab, with strong narrative arcs and clean editing. Now, I “toss on” loose, unscripted conversations that imitate ambient office or coffeehouse chatter. Without thinking, I reach for my phone, open Spotify, YouTube, or Apple Podcasts, and press play on my own parasocial sound machine.

I see it now as an attempt to recreate what Sociologist Ray Oldenburg called the third place: the informal, communal spaces outside the home (“first place”) and work (“second place”) that once grounded our social lives.

Third places— cafés, hair salons, community centers, and the like—were historically hubs for connection and conversation, when public life was a source a source of social life. These were the first places to close during pandemic, and they haven’t returned in quite the same way since our cities reopened.

Now, public life feels less like something we’re a part of, and more like something we pass through. You can spend an entire day out in public—grabbing a coffee, walking the dog, going to the gym—without speaking to a single person. Cafés are full of headphone-clad patrons hunched over laptops. At the dog park, owners doom-scroll as their pets entertain themselves. At the gym, nearly everyone is listening to their own music—it’s a wonder gyms bother playing music at all.

It’s hard to know where to form a sense of “we” when everyone is busy keeping to themselves—when little lifts the heads of the laptopers, the dog owners, or unplugs the ears of exercisers. But it’s hard to point blame; we’re all simply following suit.

In this landscape, where ambient socializing has grown increasingly rare, we’ve come to believe that connection needs a catalyst—that spaces must do the initiating for us. We look for environments that offer built-in excuses to come together. We join groups organized around hobbies or common causes, outfitted with roles, structure, and policies.

But when our energy is focused on affiliation, we often fall short of what we’re truly seeking: belonging. And when belonging feels out of reach, we’re left wondering—what went wrong? Why don’t I fit in?

Real community, as Peter Block discusses in Community: The Structure of Belonging, isn’t built through roles, services, or even shared ideologies—it’s built through presence, mutual care, and contribution.

I witnessed this up close while managing volunteers at a nonprofit. One volunteer, Lawrence, ignored the assigned tasks and came up with his own: drawing smiley faces on the paper bags that held personal care items. His doodles slowed down the packing process, and others had to pick up the slack. I considered insisting that he stick to loading bags with toothbrushes, but it was clear this small act mattered to him. And, as I came to learn, it mattered to others too. Clients took a real joy in seeing what kind of custom smiley face would appear on their bag each week. Lawrence knew every client and gave each bag a personal touch.

So I pivoted. I added another slot for someone else to pack the toothbrushes. Lawrence’s contribution wasn’t efficient, but it was meaningful. That small shift—valuing what someone can offer rather than focusing on what they lack—is the seed of belonging, and at the heart of community.

This spirit of acceptance echoed throughout our team. Staff extended it to every volunteer, donor, client—and to one another. It’s what transformed us from just another non-profit into a community. It happened when our commitment to the cause was eclipsed by our commitment to each other. When pursuing the abstract moral ideal gave way to the personal and the tangible. We felt responsible to our community because it was undeniable that we were each uniquely a part of it. We were made whole as a group not by being the same, but by being different—by the individuality of each person who came through our doors.

This experience taught me that community is not about what’s being provided to you—it’s about what you contribute and how you show up[1]. For acceptance always starts with giving. And only when your offering bears your fingerprint—honest and unmistakably yours—will you arrive at that feeling of belonging, at that sense of community.

Online communities often echo this spirit of contribution and recognition. Look no further than Reddit, where strangers freely offer advice, expertise, and encouragement in response to life’s most specific and unexpected questions. Redditors have helped me source a rare wallpaper, guided my sister’s honeymoon plans, and supported a friend preparing for back surgery. Users thank each other with upvotes and public praise, and often return with follow-ups. While it’s a testament to how community can show up in digital spaces, online connection alone is not enough. We long to be seen and received in our fullness—not just in curated fragments.

During the pandemic, when it wasn’t possible to be together, “community” was pushed far beyond the horizon. In the absence of thriving third places, we’ve made community into an elusive “fourth place”—something distant and abstract. We chase it in formal settings: with committees, processes, and missions. We look for people just “like us[2]”—with shared interests. But as both Oldenberg and Block argue, real community flourishes when conversation is central, barriers to entry are low, participation is voluntary, and structure is light.[3]

In other words, we don’t need to build “community” from scratch—we can find it in the ordinary rhythms of daily life.

Previous generations understood this intuitively. My parents didn’t search for community in curated spaces or niche-interest clubs. They found it in daycare pickup lines, little league games, carpool rotations. They invested in the places they frequented. The neighborhood—and whoever was a part of it—was their community.

We need to recognize it where it already exists: at the corner store, on your block, in the messy, beautiful middle of where you already are. Community is not something to find, but something to live.

It begins with presence—with generosity of attention. It takes offering something real—something that reflects your gifts and relationships to others—and a willingness to recognize the contributions of others in return.

It starts with our chins up.

________________________________________________________________________________________

[1] A sentiment famously echoed in John F. Kennedy’s inaugural address: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”

[2] However it is important to note that supportive, recovery-focused communities rooted in shared experience or identity can be vital sources of healing.

[3] A community’s rituals and practices reify the community – but they don’t define it.