Why I Shut Down Both of My Meetup Groups
Trying to build real community shouldn’t feel this lonely.
After RealRoots, I realized I didn’t want to hand the reins to anyone else again. I didn’t want to get assigned to a group or curated into a match or treated like a lonely soul in someone’s spreadsheet. If what I wanted didn’t exist, I could try to make it. How hard could it be? (Famous last words.)
So I started a Meetup group for neurodivergent people in the Bay Area.
Not to make friends for myself (though sure, I wouldn’t have said no). But really, I wanted to create the kind of space I wish had existed for me. A space that could’ve helped me years ago. A space that could still help someone now. A little corner of the world where you don’t have to explain why you talk the way you talk or think the way you think or need five minutes alone in the middle of a party. A place where people like us could just… exist. Together. Ideally in chairs. Possibly with snacks.
I said I’m an ADHD coach. I made it clear it wasn’t going to be group therapy. But also, it wasn’t going to be small talk about traffic and whether Mercury is in retrograde. It was going to be structured enough to feel safe, open enough to feel human. A place where people could talk about what it’s like to be wired differently: how it shapes your work, your rest, your calendar, your executive function, your total collapse into the couch at 4pm.
And people joined. A lot of people.
I posted events. One was a Zoom where I read from a book on ADHD and resilience. We paused and talked about how it hit us. It was solid. People who showed up liked it. Most of the ones who said they’d show up, didn’t.
I kept trying. More posts. More events. RSVPs slowed. Then stopped. Then I became that person posting “hey just checking in 😊” into the abyss.
So I thought maybe what they wanted was something in person.
I found a library that was semi-central. I booked a room. I planned a gentle, welcoming event. More structured than I wanted future meetups to be, just to help people not freak out. Because let’s be honest: walking into a random room of strangers to talk about your brain? Not a casual Tuesday.
I almost brought snacks. I didn’t. And I’m glad. If I’d had to carry a tray of uneaten mini muffins back to my car, I might’ve needed to be sedated.
I got there early. The librarian told me I couldn’t access the room until at least two more people showed up. I wandered around the building pretending to read posters on community composting. I updated the app. I waited.
Eventually one person showed up. She was kind. We waited together. No one else came.
At some point the librarian said we had to give up the room. I posted on the event page: hey, if you’re coming, let me know. We just need one more person.
No one replied.
We lost the room.
So we sat in a quieter part of the library and talked for a while. It was a genuinely good conversation. I thought maybe something had started.
Later that year, I messaged her to say Merry Christmas.
She never replied.
I drove home that day with tears in my eyes. Not because no one showed up. But because I tried. I created something that could’ve been good. I carved out time, energy, brainpower, hope — actual hope. I showed up early. And I got ghosted by people who were literally in a group for neurodivergent people who say they want connection.
I followed up with some of the RSVP people. Everyone had a reason. One even said she came but couldn’t find us. We were right near the entrance. She didn’t message. She just left. Like it was a spy drop gone wrong.
So I tried charging a small symbolic fee next time. Not a big deal. Just enough to make people think before clicking yes.
No one clicked anything.
I kept the group open for a bit. Then shut it down. Not because I didn’t care, but because I cared way too much. It started to feel like I was hosting a rejection simulator. Like the whole platform was a prank to see how many ways people could disappear.
And then… I started a second group.
This one was just for fun. I’ve loved Britney Spears since forever. She basically raised me. I’ve never had Britney friends. I thought maybe, finally, I could meet someone who got it. Someone who wanted to sing or scream or dance or just feel all the things at once about her.
So I made a Meetup group for Bay Area Britney fans.
Two people joined.
They were both nice. One told me she wouldn’t be able to meet up for the next few months. The other quietly vanished. I posted light ideas. Nothing intense. No pressure. Just “hey, would anyone want to maybe meet sometime soonish in the general future?”
Crickets. For months. For nearly a year. And then, finally: delete.
And listen, I know. I know people are tired and overstimulated and dealing with five group chats and twenty browser tabs and their therapist being on vacation. I know. But this wasn’t a Tinder swipe or an “interested” click on a Facebook event. This was me actually building something. With time. With thought. With care. With literal money. I was paying a monthly subscription to offer people a chance at something better.
And they didn’t take it.
Or maybe they did, in theory. But not enough to show up.
I wasn’t trying to make a new best friend. I wasn’t trying to get validation or attention. I wasn’t trying to get anything at all.
I was offering something. A real thing. A thing that could’ve helped someone. A thing that could’ve felt good for once. A thing someone probably needed and didn’t even know they needed.
But they didn’t come.
They clicked yes and disappeared. Or they said nothing. And over time, the silence started to feel like the answer.
I’m not bitter.
Actually, no — I am a little bitter.
But mostly I’m just sad that the thing I made, the thing I still believe mattered, got treated like spam. Like background noise. Like someone else’s emotional to-do list. I’m mad that I made room for something people said they wanted… and they left me standing in it alone.
I’m mad that I made space for people who said they were craving connection… and ended up sitting in it alone.
And the thing is? I know I’m not the only one. That’s what gets me. I know there are people reading this who’ve tried to start something and watched it go nowhere. Who got ghosted by a group they built. Who planned, and showed up, and stood there with hope and maybe hummus, and felt like a fool.
You’re not.
You’re just early.
This was the second post in my installment The Friendship Project. For more, please consider subscribing. It would make me feel a little less alone :)
❤️