Community is often touted as one of the greatest gifts of minimalism — yet for many of us, finding belonging while living intentionally can be its own journey. This post explores that quiet tension.
Since my journey into a simpler life has paralleled my growth in stability and sobriety, I often have to remind myself that this is not about perfection. Many aspects of my life have improved dramatically, yet one area still feels unfinished — cultivating community in a way that truly fulfills me.
It’s a constant work in progress. One of the core benefits of minimalism we often highlight is an enriched connection with others. In my previous life, I was immersed in underground music culture. I built a modest but lively network of musical connections — my sense of community for many years. The people were great, but as an introvert, I had to be honest with myself. When I let go of that identity and the party lifestyle, it became clear that many relationships no longer aligned with my core self.
I made huge changes, yet others still saw me as the version they had always known. This shift in lifestyle is one we rarely talk about. Deep connections can fade as shared interests dissolve. The idea of cutting everyone off is overwhelming, so it feels natural to try blending your new life with the quality connections that remain — the real ones who would show up for you in an instant.
Still, in the name of minimalism, the priority must stay rooted in your own needs. My late nights turned into early mornings. Sleep — once something I neglected — became sacred, and I began protecting eight full hours each night. When you build your schedule around that, a 5 A.M. workout means a 9 P.M. bedtime. It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it quickly eliminates most nightlife and spontaneous shows. It’s possible to make exceptions, but when connection is built around nightlife, reinvention becomes necessary.
As health has taken center stage in my life, I’ve grown fond of slower gatherings — sharing home-cooked meals with loved ones. You know the ingredients, the conversation lingers, and no one’s rushing you from the table. Yet in a city like Los Angeles, that kind of culture can be hard to find. The default social plan for many is a restaurant, which feels less appealing the more I learn about the oils and processed ingredients used in most kitchens.
I’ve also spent more time outdoors, though I feel a bit like Goldilocks about it. LA trails often feel too crowded, too exposed, or simply not my style. I’ve considered joining meetups to connect with new people, but honestly, I’m content finding the quiet trails that fit my pace and mindset.
These lifestyle shifts have naturally limited some of my interactions with old friends. But when we do connect, I show up more present and grounded than ever — even if those moments come fewer and farther between.
Life evolves, and so do our relationships. There’s always work to do in this space, but I wanted to share this struggle because minimalism is often painted as a perfect formula for better relationships. In truth, making space in this realm requires another kind of letting go — one that can feel unfair to others at times.
At the end of the day, the people who care about you won’t want you to live overextended.
As financier Bernard Baruch once said:
“Those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter.”
