a note on community and closeness.
Wheelchairs, second lining, and FOPO.
I’ve been thinking a lot about community. It’s a theme that’s been lingering on my mind for almost a year now and it all came together for me this past weekend. The message that keeps coming through is that we need community. We need people in our corner. We need to laugh and talk and share. It’s deep in us.
Recently, I’ve been getting myself to the gym thirty minutes earlier (tips on how are coming in Sunday’s Flow Zone email, so stay tuned). I try to go three to four times a week to run on the treadmill, something that always makes my head clearer and my mood exponentially better. (I know running isn’t for everyone and I know it’s no longer the “must-do exercise” according to any fitness influencer on Instagram or TikTok, which is totally fine with me, but I’m going to keep running because I like how it feels, so please don’t come at me.) Anyway, I love grabbing this one treadmill at the far end of the row of treadmills that’s in the middle of the cardio section at my gym. I stretch and get myself going, headphones on and Big Bootie or my “Instant Happy” Spotify playlist blasting.
But getting there thirty minutes earlier inevitably means that the people I get to observe from the cardio area, facing the weight lifting floor and entrance, are different. And gosh, this one man and woman have absolutely captivated me each morning. From my row of treadmills, there’s another row of treadmills meant for inclines or sprinting two rows in front. Each day, there’s a slim and vibrant blonde woman, with stylish leggings and the kind of thigh gap that I can’t believe someone actually has, that walks in with this man, perhaps in his thirties with a slim frame and buzzcut, who is in a wheelchair.
I’m human. Immediately, I start to wonder about his story. Accident? Genetics? Disease? War? I realize it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here—and he’s always got a smile on his face, he’s always talking with the woman. He parks his wheelchair at the back of the treadmill, two rows directly in front of mine, and she helps him hoist himself up until he’s standing. She stands directly behind him, straddling the belt, arms around his waist. They start the belt and he walks, slowly. Right foot, left foot. She helps and he uses his strength to hold himself up as best he can. Together, he walks.
He has good days and bad days. Sometimes he walks for a few minutes. Sometimes it’s less than sixty seconds before one of his feet curves in and he crumbles to the belt as she hits the emergency stop button. He sits on the belt and then she sits with him. They chat. They laugh. Eventually, she helps him get back into his wheelchair and they head to a stationary bike.
The human spirit is f*cking amazing. I can’t imagine how soothing it must feel to have a sense of togetherness as this man works on building up his strength. Whatever his story is, he has someone supporting him in it. This woman—his mother, wife, friend—it doesn’t matter. She just sits with him, laughing, holding space for his pain, his progress, his growth. Humans weren’t meant to do things alone. We lived in communities for a reason—children, grandparents, parents, cousins, aunts, uncles all operating as one. We help fill in each other’s gaps. We cheerlead for each other. I cheerlead for him quietly, running two rows back as lyrics from Big Bootie 22 play in my head. They sing about similar themes:
“We only get what we give.”
“Run fast for your mother, fast for your father, run for your children, for your sister and your brother.”
“I will survive.”
“There’s no stopping us right now, I feel so close to you right now.”
Community is essential. Without it, we are incomplete. We live in this world now where we all have our own apartments, our own houses, our own lives. We’ve stripped away, in many ways, large structures that held us all together.
That takes me to this past weekend. My partner A. and I headed to New Orleans for his friend’s wedding. It was Easter weekend, and we were traveling from a remote town in Colorado, so it wasn’t exactly cheap. Plane tickets paired with hotel and Lyft rides and food and gifted wedding money added up quickly. The bachelor party that A. attended in Chicago was another layer of financial consideration. All of this could have easily held us back. We could have dwelled on expenses. But I can’t even begin to describe how worth it it all was.
The wedding itself was gorgeous. From the plants hanging on the walls and ceiling to the flowers to the arches and the architecture of a historic New Orleans building, it was simply flawless. The colors they chose were earthy, the weather was fabulous, and there was just a general sense of happiness and joy in the air. There was so much undeniable love. We got to see and catch up with a bunch of A.’s friends from college, people that I’ve always really enjoyed but never get to spend much time with since moving to Colorado. I felt myself with them—joking around, having fun, celebrating love. Community.
And then we went second lining. If you’ve never done this before, I recommend convincing one of your friends to get married in New Orleans to experience it (there are other ways, too, but roll with me). I had done this one other time for a sales conference that was in NOLA, but the fun of it never dies. According to neworleans.com, the local African-American community began second lines as neighborhood celebrations, as a way to advertise, and as a way to honor members who died. The Black community of New Orleans second-lined on June 11, 1864 to celebrate the end of slavery with an Emancipation Jubilee. Feel the depth of that history.
So I love this tradition—especially for weddings when you celebrate the beginning of a new life together. We were all given handkerchiefs that listed the groom and bride’s families at the start of the ceremony and we all headed outside afterwards, champagne cups in hand, to line up behind the grand marshal, the jazz band, and the bride and groom with their family. As the guests, we made up the second line. And then we just partied down the streets of NOLA, shaking our handkerchiefs and dancing to the jazzy beat. People everywhere stopped to watch us, take pictures, wave, laugh. Man, it was cool just to feel this community and togetherness. To be part of a historical tradition that goes so far back. To be in celebration. To have our hearts all beating collectively.
And of course, we partied. We partied at the wedding, on the dance floor, in the French District, on Bourbon Street, at the casino. And I had so much freaking fun. Living so far away from my family and most of my friends back East, it can feel isolating sometimes. It’s weekends like this past one that remind me how much I love being around people.
Which is ironic. For many reasons that we don’t need to get into right now, I spent so much time trying to get away from close relationships and running from the people around me. I wanted to be alone for so long. I felt unsafe being vulnerable with people, exposing myself, losing friendships, keeping friendships. I pushed away until I was truly alone. I spent so much time running only to find out that relationships are literally all that matter.
I’ve spent the last year consciously trying to rebuild these relationships, nourish them, and make time for new ones. And so it was great to be around A.’s friends in this new version of myself who actually wants to be close with them. I’ve attended retreats this past year and made an effort to keep in touch with the soul friends I’ve met at them. I’ve reached out to and rekindled old friendships. I’ve visited home more than usual just to be in the presence of the people who love me unconditionally. I’ve even decided that I’ll probably create a life in the near future where I can live between New Jersey and this new remote place that I love in Colorado. People matter. Love matters.
Community is in our DNA. In our ancestor tribes, being part of the group was the most important thing. In fact, that need to be accepted runs so deep that we’ve been programmed to care what people think of us. In the past, not being accepted by the group and thus being exiled meant death without access to the resources and skills of a tight-knit community. That’s obviously not the case anymore, but this instinct is ingrained in our bodies. This FOPO (fear of people’s opinions) can be debilitating, which is why it’s so important to cultivate your tribe. Find your people. And love the f*ck out of them.
(If this topic interests you, I highly recommend listening to this episode of the Ten Percent Happier podcast with host Dan Harmon and guest Michael Gervais. It was a phenomenal conversation.)
People matter. Whether they’re helping you out of your wheelchair, celebrating with you down the streets of New Orleans, becoming friends with your friends, sharing food with you around a family table, or making the trek across the country to see your face. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of closeness. We need it and we crave it.
It can be scary to put yourself out there and be vulnerable. It can feel like a barrier to have to spend money to keep relationships alive. It can feel hard to change out of your sweatpants and get yourself to a party or bar when you just want to stay in and read or watch TV. It can be awkward to reach out to someone that you haven’t talked to in a while. But if there’s anything that I’ve learned over the last few years, it’s always worth it. Every single time. (Well, if the people are your people, that is. Otherwise, stay in your sweatpants and finish Gossip Girl, boo.) Ten out of ten times, it’s worth a phone call or a FaceTime or a surprise visit. It’s worth going to the gym and learning to walk again. It’s worth all of us learning how to be in community again.
I just keep coming back to this: the human spirit is f*cking amazing and our light is only amplified in the presence of others. There’s something about the energy of 2024 that feels like we’re all trying to come back into our grounded, rooted, and relational selves. We’re wanting to being around people again and having deep, intentional conversations and relationships. Maybe it’s the emergence from the isolation of COVID, or maybe it’s just our civilization wanting to get back to the basics, back to simplicity. Whatever it is, I’m HERE for it.
Can you feel it?