The hidden costs of connection (emotional, logistical, and financial) Why aren't we investing in belonging?

There’s a saying I’ve seen circulating online: 

“Everyone wants a village, but no one wants to be a villager.” 

Obviously it is in the Zeitgeist because it speaks to something many of us are feeling. It can be interpreted in multiple ways, but here is how I see it: We crave community, yet no one is willing to put in the time, energy or money. Because it feels overwhelming, inconvenient, or out of reach.

I NEED community. And for a long time, I’ve been asking myself why it feels so hard to create.

I have always been drawn to TV shows where community is the center of everything. Northern Exposure (which obviously dates me), Friends, Desperate Housewives and more recently Shrinking. What I am drawn to is the way people just show up in each other’s lives. Neighbors stop by for coffee or wine. Game nights and shared dinners are spontaneous and commonplace, not just for special occasions. I want that!

Since moving to Atlanta from Los Angeles, four years ago, I’ve been doing everything in my power to find community. And I want to be clear: it has NOT been easy, and it has NOT been cheap.

I work from home four days a week. Even when I’m in my rented office, I rarely interact with other therapists. While I do connect with my clients, I can’t be friends with them. I also can’t rely on my partner’s workplace for social connection, because he works for a company two hours away. So, I don’t have the built-in network that sometimes comes from a spouse’s job.

So I tried to find a village.

I joined a Temple for culture, tradition and community. I volunteer with The Bagel Rescue, collecting day old bagels that would otherwise be thrown away and bringing them to shelters and food banks. I joined the board of the Smyrna Arts Council, thinking this is how I make creative and artistic friends. I have spent 3 years in a pottery class.

I joined book clubs. Actually, two bisexual women’s book clubs. And while I’m grateful for the space, I can’t help but wonder—what happened to the book clubs I see on TV? The ones where people talk about life, laugh, drink wine, and actually get to know each other? Ours talk about the book. And then the meeting ends. Everyone leaves. No lingering, no deepening, no sense of “let’s do this again.”

I’ve even been on dating apps and friend-finding apps. I’ve gone on hikes and meaningful “first dates” with people. We have shared great meals, beautiful nature and meaningful conversations. They feel promising in the moment, and then… nothing. Rarely a second date.

I’ve hosted gatherings in my home; dinners, parties, one on one hang outs. It took almost three years before people started inviting me into their homes. 

For a long time , I assumed everyone else already had their village. That they grew up here, went to college here, worked in offices surrounded by coworkers who eventually became friends. I told myself I was behind. Late. Missing something.

I realize now something else is happening. Two things, actually.

First: Most of us are waiting. Waiting for someone else to host. Someone else to initiate. Someone else to make the first move. Because everyone wants a village—but no one wants to be a villager.

Second: (no one really talks about this one): building community is expensive. Yes, it takes energy, time, and vulnerability—but it also takes a willingness to spend money. Association dues. Donations. Event tickets. Hosting costs. Gym fees. Dating apps. Museum and Botanical gardens memberships. Classes. All of it adds up. I have spent thousands, and I pay it willingly. Because community is THAT important to my mental health.

Connection doesn’t happen on its own. It doesn’t magically appear because you joined the right group or showed up once or twice, or even a dozen times. Real relationships aren’t built in a single moment, no matter how meaningful that moment feels. One fun date, one beautiful hike, or one lovely dinner can spark connection, but it doesn’t create depth. Depth comes from repetition. It comes from paying our “dues”. The cost of a shared meal, or monthly gym memberships. Even Meetup is charging a fee to create these connections. These fees are necessary because that provides the space to accumulate those ongoing shared experiences, and that allows trust to grow, stories to deepen, and familiarity to turn into belonging. 

It takes an investment of  time, energy and money. I believe you can tell what truly matters to people by how they spend those resources. Not by what they say they value. When you really care about a cause, you will donate your time, your money, or even your blood (thank you, Red Cross). 

Perhaps it’s time to consider a different question: what if I am the cause worth investing in?

So why is it so hard for us to justify spending money on our own connection and community—the very things we say we want most, the things that give us a sense of belonging? I see this pattern over and over again in my clients, in my friends and family, and if I’m honest, in myself too. We easily spend money on things that help us escape or numb out: weekly cannabis, monthly Uber Eats, multiple streaming services, late-night Amazon purchases. These are the ways many of us relax, cope, and try to manage our anxiety and loneliness. 

And yet, so often, the anxiety is still there. The loneliness is still there. The inner critic is actually getting LOUDER

So many of us are spending a monthly average of $250 on all the other things that are only providing temporary distraction, and not long term connection. When I suggest spending that time and that money on something that could actually reduce anxiety, build skills, and create real connection, something that asks us to show up rather than check out, like a class, a membership, or a retreat, I hear the same response again and again: I can’t afford it. 

Because I couldn’t find the kind of connection I was craving, I decided to create it. I chose to invest my own money, time, and energy, because  a village only comes to life when someone chooses to be the first villager.

That’s why I created my retreats—not to escape or promise transformation—but to intentionally spend time differently, share meaningful experiences with the same people. To make art together. To move our bodies together. To eat, talk, laugh, and maybe even cry in the same space.

This isn’t a sales pitch. It’s an invitation—and maybe a gentle challenge.

If you’ve been spending your time, energy, and money everywhere else, what would it look like to spend some of it on yourself? On connection? On being part of something that doesn’t happen by accident?

You don’t have to do everything. You don’t have to build the village alone. But you do have to decide to be a villager.

If this resonates, please consider joining my community. I’ll be in 

• Atlanta at the beginning of Feb

• San Diego mid Feb

• March in New Mexico

• April at Esalen in Big Sur, CA

• Aug at Omega in NY

• Or consider joining my online community

  
  

I hope it’s the first of many moments where we stop waiting—and start creating something real together.