How I found my tribe
The revival of campus center culture.
Eight months ago, I requested something rather unusual from the universe:
A tribe of people who had the propensity to be extraordinarily extroverted and extraordinarily introverted.
I’ve since discovered a name for this behavior: ambiversion.
My public call came from the longing to live into my full capacity. It came from the realization that my supportive community and amazing group of friends could not help resolve an internal struggle: that my soul was lonely. I craved (and needed) time devoted to ‘learning mode’ (reading, writing, & thinking) in order to grow into the best version of myself. Unfortunately the desire for contemplative time felt at odds with seeing and socializing with those who I cared about most. I had no idea how to reconcile the two.
So I repressed my curiosities. When I’d read inspirational quotes, I would feel moved in that moment and then redirect my attention back to the ‘real world.’ When faced with a topic I knew little about, shame would overwhelm my system and I’d judge myself for being ignorant. Over time, these micromoments of shame ate away at my self-esteem and overall sense of confidence. The more social engagements I participated in, the less happy I felt in general. Whereas social life is meant to enhance the quality of your life, mine was starting to feel like an obligation, or perhaps a distraction from my true callings.
Then, as these things often go, I lost my job abruptly.
(Sometimes it takes an unexpected crisis like death, divorce, or unemployment to force yourself to face yourself.)
I woke up that first Monday of unemployment, stared up at my ceiling, and thought: Now what?
Do I start looking for a new job immediately? Never before had life granted me the gift of time and space. It was overwhelming to face my own freedom.
Within that free space, I woke up to the biggest realization of my short life:
I felt ashamed of my curiosities instead of energized by them.
I perceived the things I wanted to learn as burdens instead of opportunities.
I defined ignorance as stupid instead of simply not knowing.
And for the first time ever, I had a bit of time to actually indulge my imagination.
My intuition then led me to take two very important next steps:
- Ordering 6+ books off Amazon — any books that piqued my fancy.
- Reaching out to some local mamas to see if they needed any babysitting.
And thus began my journey of trying to feed my brain and my belly during a period of uncertainty.
This departure from the “professional world” worked well for a few weeks. At first it felt a bit like an extended vacation — designated time to slow down, replenish, and absorb information unrelated to any specific career trajectory. But it was also lonely. Maddeningly lonely.
My theory on Quiet Tribe evolved based on this short (yet long) period of solo exploration:
I can’t be the only person who craves a culture of learning. I can’t be the only person who doesn’t put alcohol at the centerpiece of her social life.
I CAN’T BE THE ONLY ONE.
So I put myself out there, without much certainty or clarity, and asked if anyone else wanted to revive the old school study group. I asked if anyone else missed the energy of the college library, where we were all there together, studying different subjects and not engaging externally, but accountable and inspired by each other’s hard work (which is truly a contagious phenomenon). Together, we were a community of explorers, deeply supportive of one another because we all sought some version of the same end goal: get the good grade, get the good job, achieve the satisfying life.
I do a lot of work out of coffee shops in San Francisco. Despite the close proximity of the tables, I generally feel like an anonymous stranger within a quiet sea of men coding. It’s not exactly the most inviting space. Sure, you can talk to someone, but most people don’t really dwell in cafes (with headphones on and laptops out) to make new connections. I used to sit in cafes alone, day after day, and wonder whether we could shift the circumstances slightly and build an environment that assumes some degree of kinship or connection. If we could, could we challenge the assumption of anonymity? Would folks feel… a little less like strangers? Could we grant ourselves, and each other, the permission to exist on our own and then take inevitable breaks to engage meaningfully? What I sought was the feeling of the college campus center, where we were all “in it” together (i.e., we went to the same college), but we didn’t necessarily know one another. Yet simply by knowing their association or background, I felt safe.
I reached out to some independent creative types (self-published writers, entrepreneurs, remote workers), and asked what they looked for in a reliable workspace. Interestingly, they all said (somewhat unanimously), “not networking.” They felt strapped to see their friends during their free time, and what they needed was a welcoming space that helped them achieve concentration and flow.
The hypothesis became the following: In order to be of service for others, you first need permission to be utterly selfish for yourself.
Throughout the course of this year, our weekly quiet tribe workspaces have encouraged over 500 people to show up and make space for themselves and for one another. For folks who freelance or work independently, we cowork together during the 9–5. For community members who have physical offices, we offer evening and weekend opportunities to gather. Although we still have a long way to go until we can consider ourselves a viable business, in this short period of exploration I’ve learned more about myself and more about others than I ever thought possible. While it can be incredibly challenging to address our deeper longings, what’s even harder is sustaining the work required to achieve an invisible goal. Especially when it makes you feel alone.
By surrounding myself with peers with big aspirations, it’s been illuminating to watch them grow gradually into their higher selves and simultaneously share this process with others. We all need places that permit us to indulge our deeper questions. We all need people who encourage us to show up unpolished and in process. We all need to make more space.
Learn more about our method of blending community and concentration here.
Jenny Feinberg moved to San Francisco six years ago to pursue her dreams.
She builds workspace experiences for creatives who seek encouragement, honest feedback, and accountability. Learn more about the Quiet Tribe at showupmakespace.com.
