Building a small life in a big city

“Hey buddy! You’re early today!”

Nearing the end of week four of my NYC Reintegration Plan, I’d established myself as a regular at my diner. Even my schedule change was clocked by my waiter! I was no longer invisible!

I’d found pockets of this recognition in Leeds during The Half Pint Pilgrimage, but returning to NYC would be my white whale. With two italicized project names in just three paragraphs, this must be a Serious Pursuit.

How does one build a meaningful public life in America’s largest city while also refusing to sit at a table with more than one other person? That’s the constraint I’ve imposed on myself after my brain imposed it on me in job after job after job after cob after lob after fob. Groups + me = incompatible. And this time, it’s them. But also me?

This wasn’t the first time I’d tried to build a small life in NYC. When my partner and I moved to our current neighborhood, I took steps to “get involved.” I volunteered, played softball, bought season tickets to a local team, and tried to act like things were okay at my public sector job. Frankly, I’m kinda proud of that season! But it didn’t stick.

My career catatonia didn’t abate, my autism diagnosis landed in my inbox like a protected PDF (I don’t know why I used a simile there, it was a protected PDF), and I failed to turn my volunteer shifts into repeat appearances which could become a social scene which could become a social fabric. (No pressure though!)

This time would be different! I returned from West Yorkshire with a new formula!

repeat appearances (familiarity & trust)
+ standing (retain my agency)
+ mingling (1:1)
+ leave whenever I want (still retaining my agency)

Easy peasy!

I put this formula to the test all over town. A coffee here, an ale there, I bopped all over the public realm. Wherever I saw signs of recognition between those around me, I added it to my roster for a return visit. I didn’t go 21 straight times anywhere, but I found recognition with staff and regulars at a couple of spots. I waved at newly familiar faces at the bar, at the cafe, and on the sidewalk. A fellow volunteer told me I showed real leadership potential by getting out of weeding. I told them to get back to work.

Then I stumbled into an interest-based meetup, felt unwelcome and borderline-rejected by the group, and spent much of the next week recovering. It was the kind of episode I’ve become reluctantly familiar with, where I just have to sit around with Netflix and wait for it to pass while my brain won’t focus on anything. After 8 days of being unable to do my work (luckily my boss is me, and he was too busy talking about a pub to care), the fog eventually lifted. This was a cruel reminder that not only was my West Yorkshire Formula inadequate, but when I fail to meet its conditions, the price I pay lingers long past the original event.

Once my brain came back online, I rolled my chalkboard out again to see what I’d missed. We’d been standing and mingling. I even left when I wanted! This wasn’t a repeat visit…but that’s normal with a new scene. What could have fallen through the cracks?

Then it hit me. What if it matters how we treat each other? Could who we perceive as worth talking to and who we push to the side shape the tenor of a scene? My walk group tends to be welcoming, open, and curious. The meetup that wrecked me? Closed-off, performative, one big status game. Perhaps it worked for the others (though I’m skeptical), but I knew I needed to account for this in my formula.

I erased the whole board and scribbled furiously, chalk dust settling on my face. When I finished later that night and stood back to admire my work, I couldn’t believe my eyes. On my chalkboard was the outline of my Leeds pub. But something was off. In place of the traditional grey stone, I saw mathematical notation. When I closed one eye, I could just make out a revised formula.

repeat appearances (familiarity & trust)
+ standing (retain my agency)
+ mingling (1:1)
+ leave whenever I want (still retaining my agency)
+ welcoming and curious culture (psychological safety + not making me want to jump off a bridge)

That’s where this story pauses, because I’m still living it. I won’t know how much Leeds changed me until I see whether the West Yorkshire Formula can be replicated here. What I do know: The Half Pint Pilgrimage was proof that I can exist in public life without paying the prohibitively high cost that groups usually extract from me.

In my private field notes, friends tell me they often just check out in groups or feel bored. What they experience as boredom, I must experience as distress. When I look away or pick at my nails, it’s not that I’m bored (though, honestly, I might be). It’s self-preservation, and I’m trying to ensure I’ll still have a brain three days from now.

When the West Yorkshire Formula works, the five terms collapse into one feeling of belonging. I’m a participant again, not just an observer. Society might call this a small life—not defined by NYC’s world-class amenities or by being a champion of industry—but it’s larger than how I lived before, when those same things drained me. Small, because it’s built offline, over a pint, cuppa, or stroll. Large, because it lets me keep showing up.

Back at the diner, my waiter leans onto the counter next to me, remote control between his hands.

“Let’s turn something on. You seem bored,” he says.

“Did you see me staring out the window?” the thought falls out of my brain.

He smiles and turns to The Today Show, cementing our little ritual. Bit by bit, I’m speaking—and being heard—in public again.