We Is Greater Than Me
A monologue on the power of community in a culture of separation
This is a story about the cost of comfort and the return to connection.
There once was a neighborhood tucked inside the heart of America. It wasn't wealthy, but it was rich in something deeper. Children rode bikes until the streetlights came on. Grandmothers sat on porches shelling peas. And in the middle of it all was a shared fire pit, built with stone, surrounded by benches carved from old oak, and lit every evening without fail.
They called it “the fire,” but it was more than that. It was where stories were passed, where apologies were spoken, where songs were sung long after the radios went silent. It was the heartbeat of the block.
And for a long time, no one questioned the fire. It was just understood: this is where we gather, this is where we stay warm, this is where we remember we belong.
But one day, a man stood up from the fire and said, “Why share what you can own?” He walked back to his yard, built his own fire pit, and surrounded it with a tall fence.
Others followed. One by one, houses that once opened their doors began to shut them. People bought fire pits of their own, sleek, modern, self-contained. Each yard had a flicker, but the central flame grew smaller... forgotten. Neighbors waved less. Laughter faded. The old benches at the center cracked from being underused.
Then one winter, the storm came, the kind that takes power, breaks branches, and silences cell phones. In their separate yards, people clung to their own fires. But wood ran low. Fences blocked help. And pride whispered, “Stay put. You chose this.”
Some fires died out. Others burned too fast.
And in the quiet that followed, someone remembered the center.
Cold and humbled, they walked back to where the old flame used to be. To their surprise, it still burned... dim, but alive. An elder had been tending it all along.
Word spread. Slowly, others came too, carrying what they had left... coals, blankets, bread. No one asked who had left. No one cared who had stayed.
They circled the fire. Some cried. Others sang. The benches were mended... and so were the people.
Someone finally said what had been buried under years of fences and slogans: “The fire was never just about warmth. It was about us.”
We live in a time where everyone’s building their own fire... private success, personal platforms, curated lives behind digital fences. And yet, somehow, we've never felt colder, never felt more alone.
The illusion is that independence will keep you warm. But in truth, it's our connection to one another that sustains us through the storm.
Community isn't just where we go to be seen. It’s where we go to be held. To be reminded that we were never meant to survive alone, let alone thrive that way.
The fire in the center still burns. The question is, will we return to it?
“I am because we are.” — African Proverb (Ubuntu)
Beginning again with truth in mind, let me state it plainly: We were never meant to do this alone. Not healing. Not grieving. Not rising. Not the remembering of who we truly are.
We live in a culture that celebrates the solo act, the lone genius, the grind-until-you-glow ethos. But beneath the surface of that story, there’s an ache... the kind that reminds us no amount of achievement can replace real belonging.
“We don’t think ourselves into a new way of living. We live ourselves into a new way of thinking.” — Richard Rohr
And community, real community, is how we live into that new way.
Because what good is success if you’re too isolated to share it? What good is healing if you have no one to bear witness to it?
This culture tells us that independence is strength. But strength without connection becomes exhaustion.
We weren’t created for hyper-individualism. That’s not freedom... that’s fragmentation.
“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” — African Proverb
Community is not a backup plan. It’s the ancient way, the sacred design.
Before there were brands or platforms, there were circles. Fireside gatherings. Shared meals. Open arms.
It’s the neighbor who brings soup when grief takes your appetite. It’s the elder who calls you back to your name when the world has mislabeled you. It’s the friend who sits in the wreckage and says, “You don’t have to fix this alone.”
In a world obsessed with scaling, community invites us to slow down... and come home.
“The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. It is connection.” - Johann Hari
That line is true beyond the clinical... it’s spiritual. Because disconnection is at the root of so much suffering. Not just addiction, but violence, burnout, and despair.
And what heals it is not more hustle, but honest human presence.
In community, you don’t have to monetize your wounds to be seen. You don’t have to be impressive to be loved. You don’t have to be strong to be carried.
Here, worth is not earned... it’s remembered.
“Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.” — Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
And real love, love that transforms, is not just emotion. It’s structure. It’s sacrifice. It’s the rhythm of showing up when it’s inconvenient. Of forgiving when it’s not deserved. Of choosing presence over perfection.
The world wants you isolated and distracted. The algorithm wants you consuming instead of connecting. The system wants you to see other people as competition, not kin.
But community invites you to rebel. To slow down. To ask better questions. To build a life that’s less about visibility... and more about roots.
We resist the myth of self-sufficiency by leaning into shared sufficiency. We resist the illusion of perfection by showing up with our imperfections, together. We resist the lie that we are alone... by choosing to belong, again and again.
“My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.” — Desmond Tutu
So when you feel yourself withdrawing, isolating, performing... take a pause.
Ask yourself: Who reminds me of who I really am? Where can I be held, not just seen? What kind of world are we building together... not just for us, but for those coming next?
Because we is greater than me. Because freedom is communal. And because love, when practiced together, becomes the most powerful rebellion of all.
