Online Communities are a Façade of the Real Thing ☕️

aka, become a "member" of my "tribe"

Café de la Paix, by Antoine Blanchard #

I’ve noticed a trend lately — perhaps you have, too. There are “memberships” everywhere on the internet. Online retailers and news sites want us to become members, not just customers or subscribers. Internet Thought Leaders™ refer to their followers as their “community,” not just readers, listeners, or viewers. Everything online these days is a community. Become a member and get perks X, Y, and Z. Join someone’s community by signing up for their email list and “you’ll know whenever I create new stuff.”

I’ve been guilty in the past of this practice; here, even. When I first set up this newsletter, I wanted you all, my readers, to feel part of something. I wanted this place to feel like a community …a common place, if you will. With added regular discussions and seasonal book clubs, I wanted this newsletter to be a bright spot on the internet, away from the noise and vitriol. I still do.

The problem, though, is that the words “community” and “membership” have become so overused they’ve lost their meaning. Somehow by following someone on Instagram, unbeknownst to you you’ve become “part of their community.” Internet creators become so desperate (though often well-intentioned) for people to follow them that they feel the need to brand themselves as community leaders: a veritable digital PTA president, scout leader, or online sorority president. Because they’re aware of the competition, they want people to stick around and feel part of their something, so they call their followers members. Part of a community.

(You know, a cozy little comment section on a photo in an app owned by a billionaire.)

I know I sound snarky, and I guess I am a little. I don’t hold these people (many who I consider friends) ill will. I’m annoyed at the system, the platforms, the tech giants that force well-meaning writers and artists to feel like they have to play this game, not these writers and artists themselves. And I’m annoyed at the culture we’ve created that tempts and pressures creative people with the false idea that they need to lead something online in order to matter.

When a brand uses terms like “community” and “membership,” they’re tapping into a core human need for connection. They know that even when we don’t know it, we’re hopping online to look for belonging, so in order to sell their wares, it’s a good marketing angle to become the provider of said belonging. You’re not just buying jeans from a beloved store, you’re joining their tribe of die-hards. You’re not just learning from someone smart on the internet, you’re enlisting in their circle of disciples.

In theory, there’s not much wrong with this. We want to feel a part of something, and there’s something downright cool about feeling like an important part of a community, especially when it’s led by a creator you really appreciate. There’s a thrill to an inside language, a space to dialogue, and a like-minded sense of community.

But it becomes a problem when it replaces in-person community, and unfortunately, this is far too common.

There are unique, occasional seasons when we do need some virtual community — say, when a global pandemic breaks out and most of the world is quarantined in their homes. Other times when it’s hard to scratch that community itch in the real world might be during the season of having a newborn, when you’ve moved to a new place and want to meet locals with a common interest, or when an online community revolves around a unique niche you can’t find in-person (i.e., oyster-loving algae gardeners who are allergic to paprika).

But even though it feels like we’re connecting with each other when we’re interacting online, we’re actually only connecting two-dimensionally, and because we’re three-dimensional creatures, online communities don’t fully meet our deepest, innate need for connection. They might slake that thirst for a while, but long-term they leave us parched, all too aware of our dearth of human interaction. It’s drinking salt water when we’re parched.

I’ve experienced this first-hand. In the past, I’ve used my online friendships as an excuse to not go out and make local friendships. I’ve substituted virtual church for attending a local parish. I’ve felt like I’ve stayed in touch with friends I could theoretically get together with in-person because I follow them on Instagram, so I already know they went camping last weekend or got a new haircut — no need to get together and ask how they’re doing.

There are times that, when Kyle and I catch up, I’ve told stories about friends I know only from the internet and not about my local friends because I honestly don’t know how they’re doing. I’ve gone full days without talking to anyone beyond my immediate family because I don’t feel the need to — I “talked” throughout the day on Twitter and “listened” to people talk to me on podcasts.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the internet in many ways, and knowing the people I know because of it is a bright spot in a landscape of dumpster fires. But connecting with people online simply can’t replace connecting with nearby people in person. It just can’t. Those of you who came to Georgetown in 2019 for our weekend together: think about how great that was to connect in person. It was a delight.

This past week, a friend I first met over the internet well over a decade ago was in town, and we got together over meals while our kids played on the playground. I’m not on Instagram much these days (I check roughly once a week), so while I knew her family was on a road trip, I had no idea they were in Texas. It was a delightful surprise to catch up and hear the things we’d never share online, a good reminder of how the internet ideally should work: as a connector for human beings to eventually meet in the real world. I’m grateful for those rare moments when it happens.

If you haven’t yet noticed, take note of how often brands, companies, thinkers, creators, and influencers talk about their “communities” or ask you to become a member. It’s an interesting trend.

I’ve changed my verbiage here in this newsletter back to a simple “subscribing” instead of “joining.” It’s not because I don’t want you guys to be friendly with each other — I absolutely do. It’s simply that I want our online interactions to buoy and benefit our offline connections, not replace them.

You’ve subscribed so you can read encouragement for your offline life. Deep down, I actually don’t want to be an online community leader. I’m a writer-who-also-podcasts, not a hostess of a digital living room. I want you to interact with what I write in the comments section, but then I want you to close the laptop or put down the phone and meet with a friend over coffee.

I hope this doesn’t sound ungrateful, because I’m truly grateful for every person reading this. I’m simply concerned about our ever-growing trend to replace our real world with the digital world. Lately I’ve become about as anti-Metaverse as someone can get. The more I prioritize flourishing in the real world, the less I feel the need to infinitely scroll, like, and comment. It’s good for my soul.

As 2021 winds down, I’m aware of how grateful I am for the people in my life. As much as I’m thankful for the connections I’ve made online, too, they’re just not the same as the people who chat with me across the kitchen island as I chop the vegetables for dinner. And that’s how it should be.

I hope this is an encouragement to you. I’d love to hear of ways your online experiences have made your offline lives better, instead of replacing them. Have you had any particular moments like that lately? Do tell.*

Oremus pro invicem,

Tsh

*The irony of asking you to leave a comment is not lost of me... But please do so, and then let this letter be some fuel to talk about this topic with a friend in person.