When I first left the comfort of my family’s ranch to head off to the big, buzzing metropolis of Laramie, I figured friendship would follow naturally. I had this notion that community just happened—like wildflowers blooming after a spring thaw. After all, growing up in a small town, finding “your people” wasn’t really an option. Families stuck together. Neighbors stuck together. Even the tourists I guided on horseback rides ended up feeling oddly like family, especially when they had the nerve to match me, pancake for pancake, at the chuckwagon breakfasts. But in college, where personal freedom ran as deep as coffee-fueled all-nighters, I quickly learned that finding a true community took more than just showing up—it took effort and more than a fair share of awkward trial and error.

Friends Aren’t Found; They’re Built (Sometimes Over Bad Pizza)

My first attempt at friend-making went sideways in the university dining hall. I spotted a group of flannel-clad students who “looked” like they churned their own butter and handed out sourdough starters on the side. They had that outdoorsy charm that reminded me of home, and I thought, "These have to be my people."

Wrong.

Turns out, their version of “outdoorsy” meant buying Patagonia jackets and sipping local IPAs on rooftop patios. I was talking elk migration patterns, and they were discussing which hiking boots were chic enough for TikTok. One guy generously offered me a slice of tomato basil flatbread from a communal box that looked suspiciously like something Domino’s calls artisan. I stuck around anyway—small towns condition you to tough it out—but that lukewarm pizza taught me an important lesson: proximity doesn't equal connection. Just like on a bad first date, mutual geography isn’t enough to build something that lasts.

Pay Attention to How People Make You Feel

The search for my people took a sharper turn during my sophomore year, after I joined a mixed cohort of wildlife biology majors and poetry enthusiasts for a volunteer trail restoration day. It was unglamorous work—hauling gravel and digging out invasive weeds—but something clicked over sunburns and peanut butter sandwiches. These people? They loved the mix of mud and meaning that I’d been chasing for years. They could quote Aldo Leopold one minute and recite the opening stanzas of some Mary Oliver poem the next.

What struck me wasn’t just our shared interests, though that definitely helped. It was how I felt after spending time with them—seen, not sized up. That particular spark of belonging taught me one of the biggest truths about finding your people: they’ll always make you feel lighter, not heavier. If someone’s company exhausts you, drains you, or makes you feel like you’ve got something to prove, there’s a good chance they’re not your crew.

Be the First to Reach Out—Even If It’s Awkward

Fast-forward a few years, and I found myself wearing a park ranger uniform in Grand Teton National Park, walking the trails solo more days than not. Hitching your wagon to the majesty of the natural world was fulfilling, sure, but even eagles and grizzlies weren’t exactly high on group bonding. I craved regular, human connection—and this time, I decided to tackle finding my people with some mountain-tested grit.

Turns out, friendship requires courage that’s every bit as bracing as climbing your first ridge at sunrise. Some of my best connections began because I dared to send an awkward text, like, “Hey, I’m pretty sure you said you were into campfire chili. Wanna swap recipes?” A shared pot of chili turned into a weekly Sunday potluck at one friend’s cabin, complete with mismatched chairs and a dog's wet nose nudging at the table legs.

Whether you’re looking for friends, mentors, or even romantic partners, I’ll tell you this: initiative matters. Waiting around for invites is the social equivalent of leaving a campfire unattended—you’ll miss the whole magic of it.

Shared Purpose > Perfect Match

I used to think my “people” would be mirror images of myself: live off the land types who could name every constellation in the night sky and sharpen a knife on their boot heel. Turns out, the best communities are united by shared purpose, not carbon-copy personalities.

One of my most rewarding friendships formed with a woman who’d never hiked a day in her life but was captivated by the idea of wildlife conservation. We met at an open mic night in Laramie (the kind of place where barely tuned guitars outnumber decent vocalists) and bonded over the oddest of combinations: a mutual love for CCR and a tendency to over-analyze the migratory patterns of fictional birds in Wes Anderson films.

It’s easy to write people off because they don’t fit your mental image of a perfect friend or partner. But people surprise you, and friendship grows more from shared effort—late nights spent plotting trail-building projects or laughing over failed batches of homemade granola bars—than surface similarities.

Be Vulnerable Without Apology

Here’s the thing about finding your people: you can’t do it while pretending to be someone else. For years, I’d tone down the “cowboy” in me around classmates, ditching my beat-up boots for something more polished, rehearsing casual quips about indie bands I didn’t actually like. It’s no coincidence that the shallowest relationships I built were the ones where I was half-hiding who I was.

Belonging follows vulnerability. You’ll only connect with people when you’re honest about your stripes—quirks, flaws, and all. When I finally stopped apologizing for my slow Western drawl or my obsession with tracking cougars, I started meeting people who not only accepted those parts of me but downright celebrated them. Some of those friendships still flourish today (and, yes, some of them even come with cougar-tracking jokes).

What Finding Your People Is—and Isn’t

Here’s the kicker: your “people” aren’t just the folks who tag you in memes or know your regular coffee order by heart. They’re the ones who’ll answer your midnight calls when life goes sideways, or surprise you with extra snacks on the trail because they noticed you ran out last time. They push you to grow—not through criticism, but through encouragement.

But finding your community isn’t about chasing happiness 24/7 either. It’s messy. Sometimes you’ll outgrow old friendships, or realize you signed up for the metaphorical pizza party with the wrong crowd. That’s okay. Each stumble leads you closer to what matters—the folks who’ll meet you halfway, no strings attached.

These days, my life feels braided with connections that matter. They’re not all in the same place, or even the same chapter of my life. Some are here in Wyoming, laughing around the very potluck chili pot we first shared. Others are far-flung, friends I met while planting trees in Costa Rica or sipping beers at a pub far away from the open plains. But they’re my people nonetheless—keeping me grounded, seen, and celebrated, even from miles away.

So call that friend you’ve been thinking about. Host a potluck, even if you burn the cornbread. Join that hiking group or Sunday book club. If you’re waiting for the magic of community to come knock on your door, let me be the first to tell you: it probably won’t. But that’s okay. The best things in life—friendships, relationships, really good chili—they take work. And they’re worth every single ounce of effort.