Why I'm Building This Mostly Offline

A rendering of one of my favorite places to run with my kid.

There’s a kind of magic that happens when people gather in real life. When voices mingle in a shared space, when someone offers a cup of tea or a seat by the window, something shifts. Strangers become neighbors. Ideas take root. There’s warmth, weight, and wonder in those moments—and that’s the kind of world I want to help build.

Wyrdstead is a slow project. A stitched-together dream of third spaces and small sanctuaries rooted in community, creativity, and nature. But even as I build it in 2025, I’m choosing to do most of it offline, intentionally and with both feet on the ground.

I’ve spent nearly a decade working in digital marketing. I’ve helped build B2B and B2C brands across industries, led teams, and built (and rebuilt) agencies from the ground up. I still love that work. It’s thoughtful, challenging, and creative. But I’ve also seen how even the best digital strategies can leave a shallow footprint. A great post might get a thousand likes, but it rarely changes someone’s Tuesday afternoon.

What does? Showing up. Listening. Sharing space.

That’s why Wyrdstead exists at the intersection of handmade and high-touch. Yes, there’s a website. Yes, I’ll post now and then on Instagram. But the heart of this project lives in the Piedmont soil—in bookstores and backyards, at barter markets and running clubs, in shared meals and mossy corners where people can just be.

I’m intentionally leaving this digital space a little imperfect. I’ve spent hundreds of hours crafting polished websites and strategic social feeds for brands—building full content ecosystems from long-form SEO pages to precise ad funnels. But with Wyrdstead, I’m resisting the urge to optimize. I’m letting the site be quiet, handmade, and a little undone, because I want to pour that energy into the physical. Into the tables and trails and tiny events where the real magic happens.

This isn’t a rejection of the internet. There are already brilliant people working hard to make the digital world more humane and hopeful—people like Hank Green, Brené Brown, the folks at the Center for Humane Technology, and many others quietly tending digital gardens instead of chasing algorithms. Their work matters deeply. I’m just doing something different.

Because while we connect more than ever online, research shows we’re lonelier than ever, too. The Pew Research Center and Cigna have both reported dramatic rises in loneliness, especially among younger adults. The U.S. Surgeon General recently declared loneliness a public health crisis, with health risks on par with smoking. And third spaces—those essential gathering places that aren’t home or work—are becoming rarer, as noted by writers like Ray Oldenburg and organizations such as Strong Towns.

I want to be part of a movement to bring those spaces back. Not in theory. In wood, brick, and welcome signs.

Part of this is selfish, too. I’m good at internet things. But I want to stretch. I want to learn how to build picnic tables, host potlucks, create real-world spaces with light and love and leaf-littered paths. I want to see what happens when I bring my whole self into a space—not just the curated digital slice of me.

This project is an experiment. A slow-growing field of ideas. One day, I hope it becomes a homestead, a market, a sanctuary, a shop—a constellation of beautifully strange places. For now, it’s a seed in the soil. And the best way I know to help it grow is to be here, hands in the dirt, listening to the people around me.

If you're nearby, I hope you'll come say hello. Not just with a like or a comment—but in person, when you’re ready. There's always room at the table.