Letters from the founder

Yes, I'm a man who helps women find community. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with my mom. If you're curious how a guy ends up here, here's the story.

The truth is that I've always connected more easily with women than with men. I spent most of my life as the sensitive kid on the edge of male spaces, and it was women who made me feel seen (and watched The Notebook with me). In 2019, I got the itch to honor and celebrate these spectacular humans, and texted my friend Laura: “I want to host a Ladies' Wine Night. Want to come?” She replied, “Tell me more.”

That night was magic — because that's what happens when incredible women gather with intention. I knew I had to do it again. Seven years later, that one wine night has grown into hundreds of women gathering across five cities.

If you want the deeper why — well, I told you to take it up with my mom. So meet her. She raised me in a middle-class home in Dhaka, Bangladesh, then gave up her own dreams so I could have an education and a life in America. And she never stopped gathering people — in our home, there was always a spot at the table for one more. So it's no surprise that the son of a serial entertainer became a gatherer. I am my mother's son.

So this isn't a man's idea of what women need. Women showed me what it feels like to be embraced, and Tribe is just me returning the favor (with a lot of help). I don't run these rooms; women do. Every club is led by women from that city. My job is everything behind the scenes: the structure, the spreadsheets, the standard of hospitality.

When we launched our first four women's clubs, I flew to each city to host the opening night myself so members could size me up before I handed over the keys. I later found out that more than a few of them shared their location with a partner on the way over, in case the whole thing turned out to be a scam. By 10pm those same women were texting to say they'd be late (we ran long because no one wanted to leave).

I think I passed their test. Many of those early members are still my friends.

And yes, Tribe is a for-profit business, because I think the people who fight loneliness for a living deserve to get paid for it. Your fees go to real hosts, real venues, real staff — most of them women.

You and I may never meet. But if I've done my job right, you'll know me anyway — in the way a host hugs you at the door, in the care package that shows up when someone hears you're sick, in the fact that nobody here is allowed to pour their own drink. Everything at Tribe was built with intention. I hope you can feel it.

Come to a gathering. Judge us by the room — and while you're there, let us take care of you.

With love and gratitude,

“How can I be in a city of 14 million people and feel so alone?”

Four years after arriving in the US from Bangladesh, I had just graduated college and moved to New York for my fancy Wall Street job. Ammu was proudly circulating my latest Facebook photo in Times Square to every auntie in our middle-class family. What my social media conveniently left out was me sitting on my couch in Hell’s Kitchen, rewatching college videos and crying.

College had been such a high (this F.O.B. kid made a lot of American friends). And then, overnight, I got thrown into this big city with zero friends and no RA to check in on me. Bars were full of small talk. The only thing my roommates and I had in common was that our LinkedIns said “Analyst.” I joined the “Spikeball NYC” Meetup group. I was even ghosted by randos on Bumble BFF. It was the loneliest year of my life.

Twelve months later, I moved to SF and felt that same pain. So I started a little rebellion in my apartment — hosting dinner parties and cooking for strangers to bribe them for their friendship. Operation “Friends on a Platter.”

Seven years, a perfected butter chicken, and a pandemic later, the scale of the problem started to become painfully clear.

Our cities are broken.

They deliver anything to your door in twenty minutes, but it takes years to find someone who’ll show up when it matters. They filled buildings with amenities and called it housing, but left out the connection that makes it home. They built the neighborhoods, but we forgot how to be neighbors.

We’ve lost our village. It’s time to build it back.

I’m 34 now. I’ve had to rebuild as old friends drifted. But what I crave every time is embarrassingly simple — a friend I trust who just says, “Come over. Let me introduce you to some people you’ll love. I got you.”

Tribe is that friend.

It’s the manifestation of the wisdom that how we gather is how we live. We don’t need more networking events that end with “we should connect on LinkedIn.” But a cozy potluck where strangers greet you with a bear hug and send you off with gluten-free brownies and a “text me when you get home”? That feeds our soul.

So, join our rebellion — this collective effort to transform our cities into villages. We’ll be here with you through the moves, the career pivots, the seasons that shift who you need around you. We’ll bring the gatherings, the rituals, the unreasonable hospitality. Your part? Just show up.

I never could have imagined that what started on July 13, 2023 with 50 strangers in SF would turn into a movement spanning 6 different cities touching thousands of lives. And yet, I know that the future holds so much promise. We’re only just getting started.

Join our movement

If you’re looking for your people, become a member.

If you’ve got the heart and the gift to bring people together, become a host.

If it’s neither, but something here grabbed you — send this to the person you thought of while reading it. They need to find us.

If all of us who ache for a more connected world actually move together, it’s only a matter of time before we reclaim our cities, restore our villages, rebuild our tribes, and repair our world.

Shall we begin?

With love,

She was right.

For my first three decades, I’d mostly given up on men. Growing up, whatever respect I earned as a half-decent soccer player got wiped out by judgment over how I dressed with flair, cried at rom coms, and ripped my pants a little too often on the dance floor. My closest friendships were with women.

So when my friend Hanna challenged me at a Ladies’ Wine Night I was hosting, I could feel my chest tightening. The next day, I scoured my contacts for men in SF I actually trusted, hand-picked twenty of them, and invited them to my first Men’s Fellowship Night (to make it sound manly). I arrived with name tags, La Croix, and a three-course tasting menu of conversation. I opened by confessing: “Boys, I’ve never done this before.”

The next three hours were pure magic. We played, we laughed, we shared some of our struggles. We also spent a solid chunk of the evening debating whether utensils go in the dishwasher handles-up or handles-down.

The highlight was Allen, near the end: “So, how’d we do compared to the women?” (For the record, they did pretty well.)

The way those men showed up that night healed something in me I didn’t know was still broken.

Almost as if the universe had been waiting for permission, it started introducing me to men who broke the mold. Paul is a brilliant data scientist and a beast at CrossFit — and we write each other poetry. Harris has the trendiest fits in town and crushes P90X; he’s also pulled me into a hug and prayed over me in the middle of a coffee shop. These men (and many others) have since sat with me in the mud when I struggled and celebrated my growth when I succeeded. With them, I could explore my masculinity, my faith, my identity. I love them like my brothers.

Today, I feel called to build that for you: a community of heart-centered, pattern-breaking men coming together to play, adventure, and grow; who show up and call each other forward to be better sons, brothers, friends, fathers, and leaders.

In May, five of us were cooking in a 220-degree sauna sesh in SF. By minute 10, the heat had roasted our defenses and the conversation got real, fast. Later that evening, I dropped the photo in our group chat — faces flushed pink, ears burning, hearts full — with the caption “Hot Boys Club.” Kabir renamed the chat before I put my phone down.

Now we’re recruiting.

With love,

PS — Hot Boys Club officially launches in SF later this year. It’s going to be a hoot.