The Introvert’s Guide to Building Community
I never really learned how to talk to strangers. Somehow, it still worked.
Did anyone else miss the lesson on how to talk to strangers?
I’m the kind of person who almost never makes the first move when it comes to meeting someone new.
If you see me at a party or some other event with a lot of people, you’ll find me standing off to the side with a drink in my hand, seemingly lost in deep thought, when in reality I’m just observing.
I listen to snippets of conversations. I notice details that no one else picks up on. Not because I’m shy, but because I’m comfortable that way — standing on the sidelines, observing from the outside.
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When I first started writing online, I decided this was a problem.
How do you build a community around your writing if you physically can’t bring yourself to make the first move?! If the thought of commenting on someone else’s profile with “Hi, I like your work!” makes you feel a little anxious? If the term “networking” sounds to you like some kind of UFO?
I read the advice. It was all variations on the same theme: “Be active!” “Post every day!” “Build a presence!” “Get out there!” As if building a community were ultimately just a matter of volume and frequency. Like an advertising jingle — repeat it enough times and people will remember.
I tried. I felt like an extra in a play written for a different kind of person.
Then I stopped trying to do it “right” and just started writing what mattered to me. Not so much to build an audience, but because things were piling up inside and needed to come out.
Honestly, sometimes awkwardly, with that specific aftertaste of “Was it a good idea to publish this?” after hitting the button.
But to my surprise, people started writing to me. Not many, and definitely not right away. But they were specific. Not “great article!” but “I read your essay three times, and on the third read, I realized why I’ve been feeling more drained by my work at Substack lately.”
There aren’t many of these messages. But they carry different weight.
I realized I’d been doing things backwards. I thought that to build a community, you had to go out to people. Knock on doors. To show up everywhere.
Like those people (I don’t know exactly what they’re called) who go door to door advertising kitchen knives or $6,000 vacuum cleaners.
But for introverts — at least for me — the opposite works. You write something honest enough, and people come to you. And that’s by no means the shortcut, but it’s the safer path and infinitely more satisfying.
There’s something about the honesty of writing that does the exact opposite of what you’d expect: instead of isolating you, it connects you with people you’d otherwise never meet.
Because what you write about isn’t just yours. It’s just that most people don’t say it out loud. You do. And they find you.
But let me be clear here, because I don’t want this to sound like “just write and wait for a miracle.” There are things I actively do that just aren’t the things people usually talk about.
I respond to every comment thoughtfully, with a full sentence, not just an emoji. When I read something that moved me, I write to the author, not with “awesome!”, but with the specific thing that struck me.
Sometimes I take someone else’s idea that I disagree with and respond to it with a full essay in my own newsletter. These are conversations, not advertising. And it is precisely these that build what others call a “community.”
You don’t need an audience of thousands. You need twenty people who care. Or five. Or even just one who reads everything you write and occasionally sends you a sentence that lets you know you’re in the same world.
Introverts excel at depth, not breadth.
And when you stop struggling to expand and let that depth work for you, things fall into place more naturally.
You write consistently, not because it’s a “growth strategy,” but because you can’t stop thinking about the things you write about. You ask questions of your audience because you’re genuinely interested in them, not because “engagement boosts algorithmic reach.”
There was a moment, maybe a year ago, when someone wrote to me: “I read your work for a long time before I found the courage to write. I felt like I knew you.”
We had never spoken. We had no mutual acquaintances.
The only thing that connected us were the words I’d left on the internet, trying to figure something out about myself.
That’s community. Not a stage and spotlights.
But recognition, as if you’ve just witnessed yet another Karen at the supermarket checkout and exchanged glances with the other customers in the store, and with just a look you’re asking each other— “You find this just as annoying as I do, don’t you?”
If you’re an introvert trying to find your people online, you don’t need to become more outgoing.
You need to be more genuine and then do the few things that come naturally: respond thoughtfully, ask a question, and check back next week with something new. Don’t just wait. Just the kind of presence that doesn’t drain you.
I still don’t make the first move. I still stand on the sidelines at most gatherings. But I have people I talk to about things I wouldn’t otherwise talk to anyone about. We found each other, not because I was everywhere at once, but because I was present enough in one place.
I think you can, too
One of the most liberating realizations for writers is that "community building" is usually just marketing jargon ( by someone who is marketing their own jargon ) for behaving like a Labrador retriever at a networking event.
Run over. Smile. Shake hands. Collect contacts. Repeat.
For the same personalities that approach 100 random women to get one date and resort to calling her "babe" because they didn't bother to learn her name, well... that works beautifully.
But for those of us who authentically care, it feels like trying to sell a $6,000 vacuum cleaner to people who are clearly hiding behind the curtains pretending they're not home.
The irony is that many of the strongest communities aren't built by broadcasting. They're built by recognition.
Someone writes down a thought you've carried for years but never articulated. You read it and immediately think, "Finally. Someone else sees it too."
That's not audience building.
That's finding community.
I love finding community.
And in a world increasingly optimized for reach, there is something almost rebellious about finding your people through depth instead of volume.
The Western Refugee phenomenon grew much the same way. Not through advertising, but through thousands of people quietly discovering they weren't the only ones looking around and thinking:
"Wait... does anybody else feel like this place has become a little strange?"
Look me up, give me all your platforms, your YouTube, your TikTok, your IG, wherever you use your voice I want to hear it.
Community matters.
Very nice observation on life