They May Not Come

They May Not Come

19 October, 2026

*image // Karolina Grabowska

There is a particularly seductive promise made to people who make things.

Build it, and they will come.

Make the book. Build the business. Write the thing that has been trying to exist. Put it out into the world. And somewhere, somehow, the people who were waiting for it will find it.

I understand why we want this to be true. The problem is that within it there is a second promise we rarely notice.

Not merely that you can make the thing. But that, having made it, you can somehow make another person respond to it.

The Correction

So if they won't come simply because we built it, perhaps the answer is obvious: start with them.

Find out who they are. Ask what they want. Understand the problem. Discover the desire. Study the market. Look at what people are already buying, searching for, talking about, asking for. Gather the evidence. Build from the outside in.

It sounds sensible because it is sensible. And there is a great deal of very good business built around this idea.

If the first promise was build it and they will come, the correction says: don't be ridiculous. Find out what they want first. Better inputs. Better data. Better prediction. Therefore, better human outputs.

Except that prediction is where it starts to become interesting.

I have watched this happen in smaller, rather ordinary ways.

A friend who teaches yoga had people repeatedly asking her to run classes. So she did. She set them up. She offered evening sessions. She extended into a neighbouring town. She found organisations willing to host them. People had asked for this. Then the first class arrived. Crickets.

Not entirely, of course. Some people came. Some came and went. Some stayed. The evening and remote sessions found a life for a while, then petered out. She still has a weekly class that runs, but there are other things she has offered since that simply haven't seemed worth the effort.

I’ve had my own version of this.

February is statistically miserable, so several years ago now I thought: perhaps people would enjoy a little daily happiness challenge to carry them through?

I asked. People said yes. So I built the thing. Properly. Voice notes. A group. Handouts. A whole little experience. I showed up. Then I announced it. That thing you said you wanted? Here it is.

About two humans turned up. They loved it. Which somehow made it both better and worse.

The point isn't that the research was wrong. The people in both cases weren't lying when they said they were interested. They probably meant it. The problem is what we expect that information to tell us.

Market research, at least when we use it as predictive evidence, is trying to see into a future response using information gathered in the past. It is modelling. And modelling can take you a long way. But it cannot take you all the way around the corner.

You can narrow the variables. You can make the methodology increasingly sophisticated. You can gather better samples, better data, better evidence. You can make the resulting deck look extremely convincing.

Or you could consult the cards.

The difference is that one looks much more authoritative. But both are, in their own way, asking the same question:

Can we know what another human will do before they do it?

There is dark matter in the system. Something consequential that cannot be fully seen, measured or accounted for. The other person. Not the demographic. Not the segment. Not the avatar.

The actual human, with their particular day, history, mood, fears, distractions, desires, timing and entirely unreasonable capacity to do something you did not predict. And then there is another problem.

Research is necessarily a record of what was true before. It captures the moment before the moment. It tells us what people said, wanted, noticed, bought, ignored or responded to when the thing—or something sufficiently like it—was already part of their world.

Then we make the thing. And the world is not quite the same anymore.

This, I think, is the quiet lie inside so much of the outside-in promise. Not that the research is false. That the truth it contains will remain true. That the conditions under which we gathered the evidence will survive the arrival of the thing we are about to make.

But sometimes making the thing changes the conditions.

Sometimes the thing itself introduces something that wasn't there to be researched. A possibility. A language. A recognition. A question someone hadn't known how to ask.

You cannot research the response to this particular thing before this particular thing exists. The missing information isn't better information. It's the moment itself. 

The missing information isn't better information. It's the moment itself.

And perhaps this is where research becomes much more interesting again.

Not as fortune-telling, but as observation.

What actually happened? What did people notice? What did they ignore? What did they misunderstand? What did they return to? What did they ask about? What stayed with them? What did they share? What did they walk away from? What did they come back to six months later?

That is information. Something happened.

And something happening gives you something that prediction never can: evidence of the world as it is now, rather than a model of the world you hope will remain.

This doesn't mean we should stop looking, listening or paying attention. Quite the opposite.

I want to be where people are looking. I want the thing to be discovered when someone has a reason to find it. I want to understand what is happening in the world around the work.

But there is a difference between making yourself available to an encounter and believing you can manufacture one. At some point, the thing has to leave the model. It has to become real.

And then we find out.

The Uncomfortable Middle

And then we find out.

Except that finding out isn't quite as straightforward as it sounds.

We make the thing. We put it into the world. Someone encounters it—or perhaps they don't. They notice it, or overlook it. They are interested, but not now. They intend to come back. They misunderstand it. They recognise something in it that we never intended. They read it, think about it, and carry on with their day.

Or they do nothing at all.

The difficulty is that we rarely know which of these things has happened.

Other people have their own lives. Their own priorities, histories, fears, desires, distractions and reasons for doing—or not doing—something. They may genuinely want the thing we've made and still not want it enough to change anything about their circumstances. They may recognise its value without being ready to act on it. They may be ready, but occupied by something more urgent.

The status quo has its own gravity. And wanting something is not the same as being willing to move towards it.

We know this about ourselves. We can be interested in something for months without acting on it. We can encounter an idea, dismiss it, then return to it when a question arises that makes it suddenly relevant.

Something that would have meant very little to us six months ago can become precisely what we need today. The thing may not have changed. We have.

Yet when someone doesn't respond to our work immediately, we are remarkably quick to make that absence about us.

Perhaps it wasn't good enough. Perhaps we didn't explain it properly. Perhaps they misunderstood. Perhaps we weren't visible enough, compelling enough, clear enough. Perhaps we need to change the thing.

Sometimes we do. But the absence of a response doesn't tell us which explanation is true.

The same observable outcome can have entirely different causes, and we can construct a perfectly convincing explanation without ever knowing whether it has anything to do with what actually happened.

We want a reason, an explanation, because a reason gives us something to work with. If we did something wrong, we can correct it. If the positioning was wrong, we can reposition. If we weren't visible enough, we can become more visible, or visible elsewhere. We can make ourselves responsible for an outcome we don't fully understand, and call that control.

We can make ourselves responsible for an outcome we don't fully understand, and call that control.

But influence is real without being absolute. We affect one another all the time. We notice, respond, withdraw, return. Something passes between us, sometimes without a word being spoken. An encounter develops in ways neither person could have predicted beforehand.

What happens next may be shaped by both of us, but neither of us necessarily knows what we have set in motion. There are consequences to what we make and how we show up. There are ripples we never see. And there is no reason to suppose that the consequences will always be the ones we intended.

Someone encountering our work brings their own meaning to it. They interpret it through their own experience, values, desires and expectations. They may find precisely what we hoped they would find. They may find something else entirely. They may recognise something we hadn't realised we'd expressed.

We make the thing. But we do not make every meaning it acquires.

Even the evidence we collect has limits. We can count views, clicks, likes, comments, signups and purchases. We can establish that someone arrived at a page, spent time there, or followed a link. We can ask people what they thought. We can gather more information about what happened. But the numbers cannot tell us everything that happened inside the person.

Did a sentence stay with them? Did they disagree and keep thinking about it? Did they recognise something but have no reason to act? Did they decide it wasn't for them? Did they leave intending to return? Did they simply close the page and forget it?

We cannot always know.

And what, exactly, are we measuring when we ask whether the work mattered? A like? A purchase? A reply? The decision to follow?

These are events we can observe. They may be useful signals. But they are not a complete account of significance.

Someone might enthusiastically share an essay and never think about it again. Someone else might read it quietly, recognise something they have been struggling to articulate, and carry that recognition into a decision months later.

The first response is visible. The second may never be. Which encounter mattered more? We cannot tell from the notifications.

Perhaps it mattered simply because someone noticed, appreciated the work and went on with their day. Perhaps it mattered because something shifted. Perhaps it didn't matter at all. We don't know. And the uncomfortable possibility is we may never know.

The absence of a visible, tangible response is not proof that nothing happened. Nor is it proof that something meaningful happened beyond our view. Both are possibilities. We don't get to choose between them simply because one explanation is more comforting.

This is the middle: the space between making something and knowing what becomes of it. Not an empty space, necessarily. Things may be happening there. People may be noticing, interpreting, remembering, reconsidering. The work may be travelling beyond the encounters we can see, or it may be going nowhere at all. We cannot assume either.

You don't get a notification every time your work matters. And you cannot make the notification stand in for everything that might matter. The work enters a world of other people. They encounter it on their own terms, in their own time, with their own reasons for responding—or not.

We can influence the conditions of an encounter. We can make the thing clear, compelling and available. We can pay attention to what happens and learn from it.

But we cannot fully determine what another person makes of it. Nor can we reliably diagnose the encounter from what we happen to see afterwards.

Which leaves us with a question. If we cannot own the encounter, the interpretation or the response, what, exactly, is ours to own?

What Is Yours?

You can make. You can take an idea that has arrived, something you've noticed or connected or received, and give it form.

You can write the book, build the thing, clarify the thought. You can take something that exists only as a possibility and bring it into the world.

And then you discover what happens when it meets reality.

The idea may have arrived fully formed in your mind, but ideas don't concern themselves with the little things. The practicalities. The limitations. The bits that don't quite work.

You discover those in the making.

Sometimes the first iteration is rudimentary. A little lopsided. Nothing like the thing you might eventually want it to become. But it lives. Something that existed only as a possibility now exists in the world.

And in the process of making it, you've learned things you couldn't have known when it was only an idea.

Sometimes the making reveals that the idea is smaller than you thought. Sometimes it reveals that it is considerably bigger. Either way, something has happened that couldn't have happened without the making.

Perhaps this is how things work more generally. Possibilities being tested. Boundaries being explored. The universe discovering what can exist by allowing it to exist.

We are part of that process, receiving ideas, giving them form, finding out what happens. But making the thing is only one part of the story. Once it exists, you can put it somewhere. Make it findable. Make it available.

You can continue to work with it, talk about it, carry it into the world. You can participate in what happens next. What you cannot do is determine what happens next. That belongs, in part, to other people.

Their attention, their interpretations, their circumstances, their readiness to recognise something in what you've made. You can influence the conditions in which recognition might occur. You cannot manufacture the recognition itself.

And if the thing doesn't travel? If it doesn't find the people you hoped it might, or go anywhere beyond the fact of its own existence? That doesn't make it pointless.

You've learned something about yourself. About the world. About the idea you were entrusted to steward.

All of that goes back into the pot, into the soup that gets made again, reused, repurposed, carried forward into whatever comes next. Nothing needs to have travelled very far in the world to have travelled a considerable distance through you.

Nothing needs to have travelled very far in the world to have travelled a considerable distance through you.

And sometimes, much later, you discover that the things you thought were unrelated or have left behind have been connected all along.

An old idea finds its place in a new one. Something you made years ago turns out to be precisely the experience you needed for what you're making now. Connections emerge that you couldn't have planned, and could not have recognised before.

Sometimes it feels as though things have come together for a reason. As though the world has been quietly arranging its pieces while you were busy elsewhere. You don't always know what something is going to become when you receive it. You don't always know what it will teach you. And you certainly don't know where it will lead. But you can make it real. And then, while that thing finds its own way in the world, another idea arrives.

Something else catches your attention. There is more to make, more to discover, more to explore. You don't have to stop creating while you wait to discover what happens to the things you've already made.

You can keep making while the world catches up.

The World Gets a Vote

You can make the thing. You can put it into the world. You can make it available to be found. And then the world gets a vote.

Not necessarily when you want it to. Not necessarily in the way you hoped. Not necessarily in the form you were looking for.

Someone might recognise something in it that you hadn't even realised was there. Someone else might misunderstand it entirely. It might travel further than you expected, find an audience you hadn't anticipated, or sit quietly where you left it. And sometimes the response is nothing.

For a while, perhaps. Or longer.

We are remarkably good at interpreting silence. We decide it means the thing wasn't good enough, that we got it wrong, that nobody wants what we have to offer. We reach for explanations, corrections, improvements. Perhaps if we change this, refine that, make it more appealing, more obvious, more something, the response will come. Perhaps.

But silence isn't always a verdict. Sometimes it is simply the absence of a response. We don't necessarily know why. We may never know. The world is not obliged to respond on our timetable, in our language, or according to our understanding of what matters. And we are not obliged to spend every quiet moment trying to make it do so. We can leave the work where it is. We can remain open to what comes back. We can listen, learn, and respond when there is something to respond to.

Or we can turn our attention to the next thing. We have made it. It exists. It is out there, available to encounter. Let the world respond.

The Tipping Point

We like to imagine there is a tipping point. Do enough things, reach enough people, publish enough work, and eventually something happens. The right person sees the right thing at the right time, and everything changes.

Perhaps that happens. But perhaps recognition is quieter than that. Less a tipping point than an accumulation of encounters, connections forming in ways that are difficult to predict or measure.

Someone reads an essay. Someone else encounters the book. A conversation happens. Someone mentions your work to another person. Something you said months ago finds its way back to you through someone you hadn't expected to remember it.

You don't necessarily know which encounter matters. Or whether any single encounter matters at all.

I think about a friend I’ll call Nola.

We'd been part of the same online community for a while. We'd connected on social media, probably exchanged the odd comment, and knew of one another without really knowing one another. They hadn't read my essays or my book. Those things came later, and had little to do with how we first connected.

Then, during a group call, they mentioned their original training and background that just happened to be part of my story also. It caught my attention.

We had something in common beyond the subject that had brought us into the group. So I reached out and asked if they'd be interested in a conversation. They said yes, arranged a call, and we began to get to know one another.

It was one of those conversations that felt like catching up with an old friend, despite the fact that we were still learning the basics about each other. We discovered what we were each doing, what we were thinking about, and how much more there was to explore outside the confines of the group conversations. I had things I'd made, ideas I'd spent time developing, ways of thinking I'd worked to articulate. They weren't what brought us together, but they were part of what I brought to the conversation. They gave me things to talk about, connections to make, a language for what I was doing.

Perhaps that matters too. Not everything we make needs to find its audience immediately. Sometimes the things we've been working on become part of what we're able to offer when an entirely different opportunity arrives.

We decided to keep talking, to keep up the exchange. We've since spent multiple hours in conversation, and we're still getting to know one another. There is no particular deal to be made, no outcome that either of us needs to secure. We have each found someone with whom we can think in a particular way, and that is reason enough to continue.

I couldn't have engineered that particular connection. I could only notice something that interested me and act on it. And Nola had to be interested too. Now there's a relationship that didn't exist before. What it might become, I don't know. Perhaps that is the point.

Not every encounter needs to lead somewhere else to have been worth having. The relationship is already an outcome. Anything further is allowed to emerge. Perhaps the tipping point isn't a point at all. Perhaps it's simply what we call the moment we notice that something has been accumulating, without knowing quite when it began. We don't know which encounter will matter, or how. We don't know what someone will remember, what connection they'll make, or what might eventually come of it. We can only be present to the possibilities, make the things that are ours to make, and remain open to what happens when they meet the world.

::

Build it and they will come.

It's a lovely, wonderful, comforting promise. Make something worthwhile, put it into the world, and trust that the people who need it will find their way to it.

But you can build it and they may not come. Not because the thing is wrong. Not necessarily because you've failed to make it well, or failed to explain it properly, or failed to find the right people.

Sometimes the world simply doesn't respond in the way you expected. Sometimes it responds much later. Sometimes it responds in ways you couldn't have anticipated, through people or connections or opportunities you weren't looking for.

You don't know which encounter will matter. You don't know which sentence will stay with someone, which idea will find a home, or what someone might make of the thing you've made. You don't know whether this is the first thing they encounter or the fifth. You don't know whether they'll come at all.

And you cannot make them. You can make the thing. You can put it somewhere it can be found. You can remain open to what happens next. You can learn from what you've made, carry that learning forward, and allow it to become part of whatever you make next.

The work goes out into the world. You carry on living in it.

Perhaps someone will find it tomorrow. Perhaps years from now. Perhaps it will travel somewhere you never expected. Perhaps it won't. You can keep making. They may come. They may not. Let the world respond.