When Belonging Became Embarrassing
Rethinking Online Community in the Age of Individualism
In an era obsessed with individuality, performance, and personal branding, online community isn’t disappearing—it’s being redefined.
I was deep in my daily doom-scroll when I came across a clip of Scot Louie recounting an interaction with a supporter who hesitated before calling themselves a fan. Not because they didn’t admire his fabulosity, but because the word itself felt embarrassing.
That pause stayed with me.
How did we get here? To a point where everyone wants to shine, but no one wants to be seen admiring someone else? Where being a “fan” feels like a loss of autonomy instead of a shared joy? Where alignment and admiration are quietly replaced with distance, irony, or detachment?
The more I sat with it, the clearer it became: this discomfort isn’t really about fandom at all. It’s about how deeply individualism has replaced community—and how uneasy we’ve become with belonging to something bigger than ourselves.
We champion “main character energy,” self-sufficiency,, and hyper-independence, yet quietly long for connection. We want to be witnessed, but not attached. Seen, but not associated. And somewhere along the way, community began to feel…awkward.
Overfed on Content, Undernourished in Connection
We are more connected than ever…yet somehow more isolated.
We talk daily through stories, comment sections, group chats, voice notes, and timelines. We announce our wins publicly and process our grief in fragments. We’re chronically online, fluent in digital intimacy, yet still walking around with an unshakeable sense of emotional solitude.
Community has become aesthetic. Performative. Something we reference more than we actually practice.
And maybe that’s why belonging now feels uncomfortable—because so much of what we’re offered online isn’t community at all. It’s audience-hood.
We are encouraged to gather, but only around brands. To connect, but only through consumption. To participate, but never too deeply. Most platforms are built for visibility, not connection. Virality, not vulnerability. Engagement, not intimacy.
Which raises the question: what would it look like to design online spaces that actually hold people?
When Community Is Designed on Purpose
This is where Tea Time enters the conversation.
Founded by Tierra Foley, Tea Time was created in response to what she describes as a quiet crisis of disconnection—particularly among Black women. A crisis that often goes unnamed because it hides behind productivity, caretaking, and resilience. Through curated creative gatherings, conversations, and reflections—many of which Tierra explores further on her Substack—Tea Time functions as a digital third space designed for presence over performance.
“We’re scrolling, we’re in group chats, we’re chronically online,” she told me, “but so many of us still feel alone with our thoughts, our wins, our grief.”
Tea Time didn’t begin as a grand vision for a digital third space. It began as a book club. But something shifted as the community grew. After one call, Tierra noticed no one wanted to log off. The conversation lingered—not because of the material being discussed, but because of the space being held.
What was meant to be a meeting slowly became a place to land.
That’s when Tierra stopped thinking of Tea Time as “just” content and began treating it as community. The design shifted. The rituals deepened. The intention sharpened.
“We’re overfed on content,” she said, “and undernourished in connection.”
What Makes a Digital Third Space Actually Work
What makes Tea Time work isn’t virality—it’s intention.
Tierra describes a digital third space as somewhere you can exist without performing. Not work. Not home. But a place in between where you don’t have to audition for belonging.
Digitally, that looks like warmth over spectacle. Familiarity over scale. Members are known by name. Their absence is noticed. Conversations continue even when nothing “big” is happening. There are rhythms—monthly reads, shared playlists, recurring gatherings—that create continuity instead of noise.
There are also boundaries, which is where many communities falter.
Not everything is recorded. Quiet participation is welcomed. Cameras can be off. Listening counts. Vulnerability is encouraged, but never exploited. People are allowed to be tender without becoming content.
Language matters here too. Tierra is intentional about not framing Tea Time as a fan base.
“We’re not building followers,” she said. “We’re building a family-style community.”
That distinction changes everything. When people aren’t treated like an audience, they show up as collaborators. When care becomes the metric, trust has room to grow.
The Labor, and Possibility, of Trust Online
The biggest challenge in forming real relationships online isn’t access—it’s trust.
Many people have been burned by so-called “communities” that turned out to be marketing funnels. Spaces that encouraged oversharing without support. Intimacy without accountability. Visibility without protection.
Tea Time counters this by moving slowly. By prioritizing integrity over growth. By treating moderation as an act of care rather than control.
Tierra pays attention to patterns—what conversations linger, what topics spark private messages, what moments make members feel seen in ways they didn’t know they were missing. From there, the community evolves in response to real needs: rest, healing, accountability, softness.
And the results are tangible.
Women who once stayed silent begin speaking. Creative projects are launched. Therapy is normalized. Collaborations form across cities, countries, and time zones. One member told Tierra that Tea Time helped her remember she was more than her job title. Another said it was the first time she felt truly understood.
This is what happens when community is treated not as content, but as infrastructure.
The Cultural Shift We’re In
We are in the middle of a shift.
Influencer-centered spaces are giving way to community-centered ecosystems. People are tired of feeling like spectators in their own lives. Tired of being talked at instead of spoken with. Tired of performing for algorithms instead of showing up as whole human beings.
The future of online connection doesn’t look like massive audiences or endless scaling. It looks like smaller digital neighborhoods. Familiar names. Spaces that feel like a cozy corner of the internet.
Hybrid models are emerging. Platforms built specifically for connection—not retrofitted social feeds.
Digital spaces that feel less like stages and more like rooms.
