When I was eight years old, fresh off an airplane from Lagos and clutching my mother’s hand like it was my lifeline, I didn’t know what loneliness was. Brooklyn was loud, fast, and strange, but it still smelled like home because my mother was there. Fast forward two decades and a handful of life detours later—I was staring at my phone in an upstate New York apartment, wondering why I felt a pang of emptiness while scrolling through Instagram Stories. Weddings, baby showers, Saturday brunches—group photos with captions like “my people” made me feel like everyone else was in a club I didn’t get the invite to.

I didn’t just want people—I wanted my people.

But here’s the thing: finding your people isn’t like making instant ramen (three minutes and done). It’s more like perfecting jollof rice—you need patience, the right ingredients, and a bit of trial and error. My journey to building a tribe wasn’t Instagram-pretty, but it taught me lessons worth sharing.

Welcome to the Wilderness: Feeling Alone Is Normal

Picture this: you’re Tarzan swinging from vine to vine, except the vines are friendships that keep breaking mid-swing. That’s pretty much what adulthood felt like for me after college. My siblings had all scattered across the country, and childhood friends were busy building their own lives. Teaching in Queens consumed so much of my time, I barely noticed I hadn’t made new connections outside work.

But loneliness has a way of sneaking up on you—often during moments of stillness. I learned not to beat myself up over feeling isolated. It wasn’t a “me” problem; it was a “life gets complicated” problem. The real revelation? I wasn’t looking for just any friendships—I was looking for connections that felt like family, like home.

That’s when I reflected on those “ingredients” for finding your people. What did I actually value in relationships? Who did I want in my proverbial corner?

Finding Your Ingredient List

It’s tempting to cling to old friendships like worn-out sneakers—comfortable but no longer functional. Before I could find my people, I needed clarity on what I was looking for. Here’s what worked for me:

  • Shared Values: I realized I gravitated toward people who respected ambition, creativity, and kindness. If someone rolled their eyes when I mentioned writing romance novels, odds were we wouldn’t vibe.
  • Cultural Resonance: As someone deeply tied to both my immigrant upbringing and my Brooklyn grit, I sought those who could at least try to grasp the duality of that experience. They didn’t have to relate directly, but that effort to understand mattered.
  • Reciprocity: Friendships thrive on equal give-and-take, not one-sided emotional Olympics. I left behind relationships where I was constantly the “therapist” with little support in return.

When you clarify what matters to you, you shortcut wasting emotional energy on mismatches. It’s like writing your list before heading to the grocery store—otherwise, you’ll wander aimlessly in the snack aisle for hours.

Say Yes (and Mean It)

Growing up as the oldest of five taught me to shoulder responsibility but also fed my default excuse: “I can’t; I’m busy.” Busy was my armor—the socially acceptable way to say no to plans without looking like a jerk. But in my twenties, “busy” kept me from trying new experiences or spending quality time with folks who might’ve become great friends.

I had to retrain myself to say yes, even when it felt inconvenient or out of my comfort zone. Case in point: when a coworker in Queens invited me to a Jamaican game night with her friends, I almost bailed because I was worried about being awkward. Instead, I showed up—and you know what? It was more dominoes than Monopoly, more rum punch than beer, and a lot more fun than sitting at home overthinking my next novel plot.

Those moments of saying yes—even when insecurity whispered otherwise—taught me that showing up is half the battle. Friendship doesn’t happen by schedule; it happens by proximity and shared experiences.

Build Around Passions

One summer, while browsing a local bookstore in Brooklyn, I stumbled across a chalkboard promoting a weekly poetry slam. It felt like a sign—a chance to combine my love for words with meeting people who also appreciate spoken rhythm.

Fast forward to me nervously reading a piece about my family’s migration during my first poetry night. To my surprise, strangers came up afterward, clapping me on the back and sharing their own similar stories of cultural straddling.

Your tribe is often hiding where your passions live. Whether it’s signing up for a salsa class, joining a Sunday cycling group, or volunteering at a food pantry, shared interests naturally spark conversations. The best part? Passionate activities strip away pretenses—no one’s pretending to like salsa dancing if they hate moving their hips.

Quality Over Quantity

Ever notice how romantic comedies always feature a tight-knit group of best friends (usually three or four max) rather than a sprawling entourage? There’s a reason for that. Relationships thrive on intimacy and dedicated care, which is hard to spread thin across dozens of people.

I used to measure social success by how many people sent me “happy birthday” texts, but as time passed, I began craving depth over breadth. I started focusing on cultivating deeper connections with a small circle of people who genuinely mattered. From discussing dreams over late-night phone calls to supporting each other through career changes and heartbreak—you can’t put a price on that level of trust.

The Power of Letting Go

Not every friendship survives the test of time, and that’s okay. I’ve had friendships fade out because our lives diverged—whether geographically, emotionally, or circumstantially. I used to cling to these relationships out of guilt, like holding onto seashell fragments that once sparkled in the sun but now cut my palms.

Here’s what I learned: Letting go doesn’t undo the beautiful moments that friendship brought you. It just makes space for new connections, ones that fit where you are now.

What Community Can Teach You

The beauty of finding your people is realizing they don’t exist to complete you—they highlight what’s already there. My chosen family has taught me more about patience, vulnerability, and forgiveness than I ever thought possible. They’ve sat through my long-winded novel ideas, danced with me to Fela Kuti at random house parties, and reminded me that community isn’t a luxury—it’s life’s grounding force.

If you’re still searching for your people, take heart. They’re not unicorns or Internet folklore. They’re out there, possibly browsing the same used book stall or standing next to you at the farmers’ market. Be open, be patient, and most importantly, be yourself. Because the best connections are built on honesty and mutual effort, not pretense.

And if you ever feel discouraged, remember: even jollof rice takes time to simmer, but the end result? Totally worth the wait.