After years of PCS moves, temporary addresses and starting over, there is something almost embarrassingly comforting about walking into a place where somebody already knows your name or your coffee order.
Military life taught me how to arrive in a new city and rebuild with terrifying efficiency. Find the grocery store, school, church, gym, pediatrician, coffee shop and fastest route to Target, and eventually the unfamiliar becomes navigable. What took me longer to understand was that belonging isn’t created by knowing where everything is; it grows when you return to the same places often enough that people begin to know you.
Not long ago, I was lamenting the fact that so many of my closest friends live too far away from me.
Military life has given me some of the deepest, most abiding friendships I could have ever hoped for, but it has scattered those people across the country. We have maintained those friendships over state lines, time zones, deployments, PCS moves, babies, career changes and all the other circumstances that make adult friendship wildly inconvenient. We call. We text. We travel to see each other when we can. We show up for the important things.
What we haven’t often had is the privilege of living life-on-life together in the traditional sense.
I missed having people who were simply there.
Then a fellow wrestling coach invited me to trivia night.
Every week, he showed up at McKinney’s Irish Pub, where he had quietly helped build this eclectic little community of coaches, parents, locals, regulars and a few cool people like himself. And, listen, I know I am about to age myself considerably, but imagine Norm walking into Cheers. This coach is totally Norm, the Patron Saint of Being a Regular. He completely embodies the ability to “walk into a room without having to earn his place in it” kind of vibe.
He told me to come. So, reluctantly, I did.
I genuinely did not know places like that still existed.
Apparently, while I had been busy lamenting the difficulty of finding local community, this amazing little ecosystem of people had been growing inside an Irish pub. People came in, pulled up a chair, watched football, argued over trivia answers, told stories, laughed too loudly and generally seemed delighted to be in one another’s company. There wasn’t a networking objective or carefully curated community-building initiative. Nobody needed a name tag. They just kept showing up.
Eventually, I did too.
There is one particularly hilarious detail here: I don’t drink. So my contribution to Irish pub culture is occasionally rolling through the door carrying a giant Peach Cream Slush from Sonic…and art supplies.
Because somehow I have become what I can only describe as McKinney’s unofficial artist-in-residence.
I have a little corner where I can set up my paints, pull out a canvas and work while everyone else does whatever we’re doing that night. My favorite bartender, Mads, greets me when I walk in. People wander over to see what I’m painting. I can join the conversation or quietly disappear into my work while still being surrounded by people I genuinely enjoy.
One night, I had planned to go Latin dancing. Instead, I stayed at the pub and somehow convinced everyone to let me kidnap the jukebox.
If Megan wasn’t going to bachata night, apparently bachata night was coming to McKinney’s.
This is my life now and I absolutely love it.
Somewhere between the Sonic slushies, paintbrushes, wrestling stories, football games, trivia questions and wildly inappropriate amounts of sarcasm and “Your Mom” jokes, I realized I had become a regular somewhere.
More importantly, I had become known somewhere. There is a difference.
Community Isn’t Found. It’s Built.
I think we talk about community as though it is something we stumble across fully formed.
“I just need to find my people.”
I’ve said it too.
But increasingly, I think community is less something we find and more something we build through repetition. You go back. You sit in the same corner. You learn names. People learn yours.
You hear somebody’s story one week and remember to ask about it the next. You notice when someone hasn’t been there. They notice when you aren’t.
Eventually, familiarity becomes connection, and connection becomes affection, and one day you walk through the door and realize these people are genuinely happy to see you.
Belonging sneaks up on you that way.
Sometimes Someone Has to Leave You an Open Chair
There is another part of this story I don’t want to miss. I didn’t discover McKinney’s on my own.
I was invited.
Someone already inside that community looked at me and essentially said, You would fit here. Come sit with us. That matters. This amazing coach had already helped build something beautiful, and instead of guarding it, he made room. He left an open chair.
I am profoundly grateful for that.
It has made me think differently about all the communities I am already part of. Who is standing just outside of them? Who would probably love this weird little collection of humans if somebody simply invited them in? Who needs to hear, “Hey, we’re going to trivia Thursday. Come with me”?
Sometimes creating community means being brave enough to show up and sometimes it means being the person who notices someone else needs an invitation.
Find Somewhere That Wants You There
After years of military life, I think I underestimated the power of being a regular.
Find a place where you can show up often enough to become known.
Maybe it’s a coffee shop, gym class, bookstore, church, art studio, restaurant, volunteer shift or Saturday market.
Maybe, apparently, it’s an Irish pub where you bring your own Sonic slushie and paint in the corner.
The location matters far less than the repetition.
Keep going.
Let people learn you. Learn them. Bring something of yourself into the space instead of waiting to determine whether you perfectly fit inside it.
Give familiarity enough time to become friendship.
And when you finally find a place where you are known, loved, wanted and celebrated, don’t forget to look around for the person who hasn’t found their chair yet.
Scoot over.
Make some room.
Tell them to come sit with you.
Because community isn’t something we find waiting for us.
We build it together, one open chair at a time.
Shout out to Ye Ol’ Padre, keeper of the community keys. Thanks for the open seat, broski. This Energizer Bunny is grateful to have a spot in the space!
