When Something You Built No Longer Fits

A few years ago, I started a book club for a simple reason—I loved to read, and I wanted to spend time with people I cared about.

It started small. Six of us. Easy conversation, shared books, something to look forward to each month.

And then it grew.

At one point, there were nearly 30 women. Especially during COVID, it became something more than a book club—it was connection, community, a reason to gather when we all needed it most.

Somewhere along the way, though, my role changed.

What I started for joy slowly became something I was managing—organizing, hosting, filling in the gaps when plans shifted. And while I cared about the group, I could feel myself getting further away from the original reason I created it.

So in January, I did something that wasn’t easy.

I let everyone know I was stepping away.

We had a full meeting that night—so many people showed up, which meant more than I can say. Some offered to step in, to keep it going, and I truly hoped it would continue in a way that worked for everyone.

And then…I stayed away.

February passed.

March passed.

I gave myself space to see what I actually missed.

In April, I went back for a night—just to see everyone, to reconnect, to step into it without responsibility.

It was good to see familiar faces.

But it was also clear.

The conversations were lighter. The book itself was almost an afterthought. And many of the people I had hoped to see weren’t there that night.

And maybe what surprised me most was this:

When I stepped away, life kept moving—for everyone.

There weren’t lunches planned or side conversations that continued. The connection, for the most part, lived inside that one monthly meeting.

And that made me realize something I hadn’t fully named before:

I didn’t just start a book club because I love reading.

I started it because I wanted connection.

Real connection.

Time together.

Friendship that extended beyond a calendar invite.

And somewhere along the way, those two things separated.

There was another layer to it, too—one I didn’t expect.

In conversations here and there, I began to realize that some people had been walking through really hard things… things I didn’t even know about.

And that gave me pause.

Because for a long time, I thought we were closer than that.

I thought those connections were deeper.

And maybe in some ways, they were.

But maybe they were also more surface than I had realized.

That’s a hard thing to sit with.

And to be fair, I have to take some responsibility in that too.

Life gets busy. We assume there will be more time. Sometimes reaching out turns into a quick text instead of a real conversation. And maybe I could have done more to stay connected outside of that one monthly gathering.

But I also know this:

Connection isn’t meant to feel one-sided.

And whether real or just perceived, I started to feel that imbalance.

So while it was a little bittersweet to see it clearly, it was also clarifying.

I didn’t make the wrong decision.

I simply outgrew the version of it that existed.

And now, I get to choose differently.

To read what I want.

To spend time with people in a way that feels more personal.

To create connection that isn’t limited to once a month.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t leaving something you built.

It’s admitting that what you really wanted from it…

isn’t what it became.

But there’s something really freeing on the other side of that truth.

Because it gives you the chance to begin again—

this time, a little closer to what you actually need.

Not everything we build is meant to last forever—but it can still lead us exactly where we’re meant to go next.

—Julie