Why I Do What I Do
Throughout my childhood, I was on the receiving end of relentless bullying, which led to a deep sense of insecurity and isolation (helloooo fellow GenXers!). Despite my best efforts to fit in (a litany of sports, camps, clubs, activities and extracurriculars — of all types), I felt like an outsider searching for belonging. It wasn't just about finding friends; it was about finding a space where I felt seen and accepted for who I was. A place where I felt safe.
I visited Kathmandu in 2004 (being a nomadic experience junkie is a great way to isolate oneself and distract from trauma), where I talked for hours with a ridiculously brilliant, energetic young boy loitering outside a Temple. This kid stuck with me. This kid, brimming with potential, was living in a dead-end situation he’d never get out of. He’d never be able to offer his potential to the world. Maybe this is the kid who would cure cancer someday? We’d never know. I couldn’t get it out of my head: how many others are floating around in an ocean of untapped potential because they lack opportunity? Because they lack support? What a fucking waste. What an utter tragedy.
(Let me pause here to acknowledge my massive privilege — I am a White American Man with easy access to opportunities many could only dream of; and while life experience and trauma are relative and unique to each individual, they’re real for everybody, including me. So if you’re looking to cancel somebody about cultural relativism or imperialism or whatever, please close your computer and go yell out the window until you feel better.)
That experience hit me particularly hard because it came in the wake of my third time attending Burning Man, where I’d discovered a place where brilliant nerds, freaks and geeks could get out from under the shadow of social ostracism to have their moment to shine. I thought of it as “Freak Show Summer Camp” (and sometimes perhaps a “Goat Rodeo”), and thrilled at the expressive freedom we enjoyed, devoid of shame, judgment or reprisal. The sense of belonging and a community was magnetic, because I could — finally — be my actual true self.
One night, I made my regular pilgrimage to the farthest reaches of the event site (aka the trash fence — IYKYK) to survey the whole of Black Rock City in all its vibrant glory (imagine Vegas on acid). Typically I’d be just jaw-droppingly awestruck, but this time I found myself in tears when I realized just how powerful it would be to share this experience with every kid out there looking for their life raft, searching for belonging, struggling to fit in. I resolved to try. So the next year I joined the Burning Man staff — first as a volunteer, then as an employee — dedicating my skills to support this community and culture so more people could experience it.
A stupid amount of human potential is squandered when people don't have a platform to stand on, or a community to support them. Individual talent only takes you so far; achieving anything significant requires a team. A tribe. Isolation is frustrating, lonely and stultifying. “If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go together” as the African proverb goes. (And all those “solo artists” who we laud? Don’t believe it; they all have a team.)
That’s why I do what I do. To me, it’s not just about making a living, or doing cool shit. It’s about creating (or supporting) spaces and experiences where people can feel safe, empowered, and authentically themselves, surrounded by like-minded people. I feel like I’m building life rafts for people adrift in the ocean, trying to figure out which direction to swim.
I’ve learned how to create spaces and experiences that not only make people feel seen and safe, but inspire them to participate in the betterment of their communities. As the world becomes increasingly polarized and siloed, I’m encouraged by how Burning Man — explicitly an ongoing social experiment — provides a Petri dish to see the fruits of connection, participation, inspiration and, ultimately, self-actualization. Luckily, creating community platforms doesn't require expending massive amounts of resources; it just needs to be the right space, with the right features, in an accessible place, and a proper invitation for people to participate.
So, that’s what I do. I craft well-designed, form-fit spaces and experiences, looking through a community lens, because everybody should have the opportunity to find their people and their place, and the means to realize their full potential, so they can participate in the creation of a more connected, less divided world.
If this resonates with you, I’d be happy to hear from you.
This was written by a human.™ Thanks for reading.