Building a neighborhood to call our own

Why we need community-driven software

When I first moved to my neighborhood in Sandy, Utah, I turned to an app called Nextdoor, hoping to meet friendly faces, borrow a tree trimmer, and share local tips about restaurants or hiking spots. Instead, I found political rants and the same anxiety-tinged debates that fill so many corners of online social media.

It left me wondering: Why does a San Francisco company mediate my neighborly chats? Will they ever care about my street in Sandy (technically—White City!) as much as I do?

This somewhat unsettling experience got me thinking more deeply about who controls our digital spaces. Apps like Nextdoor aren’t solely designed with our local needs in mind—they’re also built to sell ads, collect personal data, and keep engagement high.

Building software requires either capital or volunteer work (e.g. open source). Typically, corporations have been able to raise capital to build the software that mediates most of our digital interactions with others. Communities—while perhaps better suited to designing for our holistic health and well-being—often can't afford to make and maintain the underlying software that mediates our digital spaces.

But what if our communities could build software? We spend up to 16 hours a day in digital spaces. Imagine if the tools we used were truly designed by and for the people actually involved—our neighbors, classmates, congregation, or local nonprofit volunteers. I believe that future is coming—because of AI, the rise of No Code software, and volunteerism.

Instead of chasing ad revenue, imagine if the platforms we build could prioritize the everyday needs of our actual communities: organizing potlucks, bringing parents together, getting a babysitter, helping someone who’s ill, or finding out who fed the horses this morning. Maybe someone would design an AI chat app that pulls together a quick summary of who’s driving the carpool, or an app that helps neighbors build a shared emergency-alert system.

Of course, corporate apps aren’t inherently “bad.” They’ve opened up global connectivity and convenience we couldn’t have imagined decades ago. But corporate software tends to optimize for scale and profit, not the nuanced well-being of, say, a cul-de-sac in White City or a tight-knit youth choir trying to share practice times.

That’s why the push for community-owned technology is about adding balance. It’s not about dismantling every big platform, but about ensuring smaller, locally focused needs can be met without forcing us into a one-size-fits-all social media experience. And when it comes to hope and action, where better to start than locally?

This transition toward community tools won’t happen overnight. It starts with small, tangible changes—like a volunteer group designing a shared calendar and text thread that automatically summarizes recent discussions, so nobody misses a detail. Or maybe a neighborhood app that lets people pitch in a few dollars a month to keep it ad-free and privacy-focused. Ultimately, people adopt what truly solves their problems, so the more these grassroots platforms help us in everyday tasks, the more likely we’ll see them thrive.

Are the tools we use truly serving us? If the answer is no, then building our own solutions may be not just possible, but essential for restoring genuine connection in the places we call home.

Interested in chatting? Contact me at duane88b@halecraft.org.