01–16–25

The day before my plane landed in San Francisco, buildspace died.

I had already dropped out of school, lost friends, and committed to moving states for what some might call a "cult" - though we preferred to call it a "startup." Standing in the terminal of Phoenix Sky Harbor, scrolling through the announcement of buildspace's closure, I faced a choice that would define the next chapter of my life: follow through with uprooting everything to chase my dreams in San Francisco, or retreat to the safety of my half-finished degree and stable future.

To understand what the fuck happened, we need to go back to where it all began - back to when buildspace was still just a glimmer of possibility on my insta feed.

that's what the landing page proudly proclaimed.

Of course, it was made by tech people and the vibe mostly attracted those akin. But there was plenty of space for other creative mediums like film, content, music, painting, crafts… dreamers. Dreamers of every variety.

I discovered buildspace during a pivotal moment in my own creative journey: I'd stepped back from my data science studies to shoot a documentary about the teacher crisis in Arizona. The project was part of my fellowship with the Steve Jobs Archive, an opportunity I was desperate not to fuck up.

The problem? I didn't know what I was doing at all, and I was finding it hard to be self-motivated because of that.

But sitting on the bed of my dank student apartment, literally surrounded by tripods, lenses and hard-drives, I thought this might be my chance to find a community of like-minded creatives that would keep me accountable.

And I was right about buildspace - the online program was flush with people throwing stones into the void, seeing which one of their ideas might land and give them the opportunity to make a life for themselves outside of corporate tech.

I knew nothing of this world, of these dreams. I had only ever had the vague urge to make things, without much thought for the kind of life that kind of path could create for me.

I would come to find out that this intoxicating belief in one's self can actually be very destructive.


After six weeks of twitch streams and documentary updates, I landed in San Francisco for "buildspace irl". My hostel was overtaken by an international contingent of tech bros - and I had the only non-technical project among them. I nervously clung to my data science background like a (in)security blanket, as I navigated attempts to make friends.

Fort Mason greeted our loosely forming friend-group the next morning; its historic building perched above the bay's churning waters on stilts that seemed too old, and too rotten to be safe. Inside, I was immediately swept into buildspace's chaotic experience: merchandise thrust into my arms, the constant buzz of "what are you building?" floating through the air. I found myself at a table of strangers with an awkward "heyyyyy can I sit here?" - and sit I did. I was surprised but delighted to find that the majority of the event was dedicated to working rather than lectures. One of my new friends even dubbed my working-face as “brin mode.”

The three-day event culminated in huge demo day, but the most vivid moment of my experience came the night before, when a group of about 100 of us ported over to buildspace's main campus. The space defied reality - I'd honestly never seen an environment like that in real life, usable yet brimming with character. It was the kind of 'office' that I thought only existed in Disney movies or magazines: Japanese lanterns cast warm light across the room, complemented by tiny circular desk lamps. An amphitheater of birchwood stairs, cushioned in white, faced a stage where members of "SF1" (buildspace's first residential cohort) sat sharing their experiences with the crowd.

I watched from the back of the room as Farza, buildspace's founder, circled around with a nervous smile. Something about his energy, the space, the community - it planted a seed in my mind, though I wouldn't recognize its significance until later.

“Interesting” I had thought.

I left feeling inspired and determined to continue being a part of buildspace’s semesterly online and irl programs.

That feeling of relative indifference changed a few months later. I made a little money from my startup and immediately blew off uni classes and moved into a cabin in Idaho to make a folk album with two strangers (another story). Being there—creative and unrestricted—made me realize that going back to school was the last thing in the world I wanted.

Then, I got this email in my inbox from buildspace saying that applications for the second class of 3-month fellows in SF were closing soon. I stared at the screen as if a golden ticket had just appeared on it. If I could get into this 'SF2', I could keep making things. I could meet other people who also only wanted to make things.

Upon arriving to the first day of SF2, having just moved into my temporary housing on Lombard Street, I was surprised to recognize a few of the other members of the 20-ish person class.

The main person I recognized from the irl event was Sommaiya: a musician from New Delhi, on a mission to bring Hindi-pop to US audiences. Sommaiya and I were about the same age, which made us among the youngest in the group: most other members were a few years beyond their uni graduations.

The vision and drive of my cohort were inspiring, and even more so illuminating of my own uncertainty - I was still dragging along my documentary project, and the editing process was killing me. The footage was there, but I'd hit a wall of burnout I'd never experienced before. For that first month, I just went through the motions, giving soul-less updates at our Friday check-ins.

But every night, after about 5 pm, I would slide over to the music "studio" (office with a microphone and guitar), to do what I didn't yet allow myself to accept was what I really wanted to do: be an artist.

This is where Sommaiya and I started to become friends with Kat (aka Mayv.) Also coming from a technical background with a few years of the corporate ring, Kat showed me that it was possible to be skilled and enjoy coding, while still acknowledging that it may not be what you're meant to spend your life doing.

Kat, Sommaiya, Bronson (another musician), and I spent hours upon hours in the music room creating together. It felt so right.

Emboldened by the buildspace musicians, and the rest of the cohort who were suddenly beginning to feel more like family than friends - I made the terrifying decision to set aside my documentary and focus on finding my artistic voice halfway through SF2.

Spoiler alert: I failed.

The results of my work were messy, experimental, and often painful - but subsequently vulnerable and honest. I am still, a year later, picking out pieces of magic in these objectively terrible attempts at creating beautiful songs. So I think it takes something like years and years to develop and execute a unique and authentic vision.

But in order to understand that, I first had to accept my inadequacies, and gain metrics to measure the gap between my skills and the vision I had for myself.

buildspace taught me the harsh reality that doing your own thing is incredibly hard to succeed at. At SF2, I learned that failure was inevitable and imminent; that I should decide quickly if I really want to pursue an artist’s life, because it will take years upon years to see a glimmer of my dreams come to fruition.

But it is possible, after all.

Behind every failure and disappointment at buildspace, there was always that hidden reserve of energy and hope, often waiting to be shared by another member of our little community.

Well I figured that out when I left SF2, and ran out of energy and hope. I finished the documentary, retreated back to school, back to familiarity...


I was no longer able to drag myself away from just doing what the fuck I wanted to do, like I had at buildspace. I was constantly ignoring assignments. Just the sight of a LinkedIn notification genuinely made my stomach turn. 

The pull between the dreams I’d left in San Fransisco, and the reality I faced at home created a canyon of depression and isolation. I was only briefly re-animated by quick visits to my friends back in the bay.

Finally, on one of my pilgrimages to SF, I decided to just… not get on my flight back home.

Sitting on a bench overlooking the marina, I realized that the past was not salvageable; I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to, there was nothing there for me anymore. My only choice was to move forward; To stop throwing stones, and start pushing boulders into the void of "artisanship".

But I wasn't the only one seeking new beginnings: the founder of buildspace decided to close the organization, and terminate all future plans for the community that was now about 200,000 members strong.

Obviously, I was devastated: I was poised and ready to move my entire life to San Francisco, centered around the fact that I would be able to be a small part of helping buildspace grow.

The timing seemed cruel, but the community had already given me what I needed most: the courage to embrace uncertainty as an old friend. Kat and I found an apartment in a historic neighborhood, creating our own little creative outpost in the city.

While Founder's Inc. (buildspace's primary backer) graciously kept the physical campus open to the remnants of our community, something fundamental had changed. Our group, though smaller now, still gathers to remember, and of course, keep building. We joke about buildspace being a "failed cult," but it was everything but a failure (so yeah maybe a little bit of a cult lol).

It didn't last forever, but the best things never do: I will always remember buildspace as this glimmer of hope during a dark time in my young life. An opportunity to re-invent myself, unconstrained by the expectations of traditional success. I learned that it's not just fun, but important to build things you think are cool, and give them back to the world. This place and these people taught me that you can build a life that revolves around your interests, that you can be chaotic and sometimes just fucking weird.

The physical traces of buildspace are fading from Floor 2 South, Fort Mason. The decorations are being cleared away, the space transforming into something new.

The space where I learned to play chess, learned to produce music, play guitar, shed the parts of myself that were manufactured. The space where I learned that community can be found, and that sometimes the only thing you can do to save yourself is leap into uncertainty with open arms.

The space where I learned to love my life, maybe the most important lesson I’ll ever learn.

So they can turn off the lamps, clear the desks, and trash the lanterns: these changes don’t scare me anymore because I know that love can’t be erased, even if it’s on a whiteboard.