The First Six Months (Or: How We Learned We're Not Superheroes)

Opening day came and went. And then... silence.

Well, not complete silence. But there were days—more than we'd like to admit—when we unlocked the doors, turned on the lights, and saw absolutely no one. Memberships were trickling in, but "trickling" is the operative word. We'd gone from the excitement of grand plans to the reality of empty rooms and the echo of our own footsteps.

So we got creative. We offered painting classes. A basic laser workshop. We even incorporated AI into some sessions, showing people tools they didn't know existed. We booked a couple of party rentals, including the Sherman family gathering that filled the space with laughter and reminded us what we were building this for.

But we were learning a hard truth: as capable as we were, we couldn't do it all on our own. Not with day jobs that kept us financially afloat. Not with a building this size and ambitions this big.

Thankfully, we had something better than superhero powers—we had people.

Our enthusiastic band of supporters started bringing us things. Lots of things. Rob built us a giant 3D printed mascot dragon that now greets visitors at the entrance. We named him Hubert, naturally. Bill and Jackie Sherman donated supplies—and we're not talking about a bag or two. Jewelry-making tools. Leather working equipment. Resin molds. Paper crafts. Electronics components. It was like Christmas kept happening.

The Waltons brought us stained glass tools. I'd always wanted to try stained glass, and suddenly there it was, a whole new possibility we hadn't planned for. We added felting. Some metalwork. XTool sent us supplies to support our laser cutting equipment. Each donation opened a new door, expanded what we could offer, and reminded us that this wasn't just our dream anymore—it was becoming a community project.

The meeting room transformed into the D&D room, complete with a projector mounted on the ceiling to project game boards onto the table below and cosplay foam weapons on display.

We gave more tours. Talked to more groups. Made social media posts. Designed and distributed flyers. But the to-do list never seemed to shrink. For every task we completed, three more appeared. Making a space truly accessible and functional—not just open, but ready—takes more hours than exist in a day.

Andrew took Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Barry covered Thursdays and Fridays. I handled Saturdays and Sundays. Between the three of us, we kept the doors open and people started coming more regularly. Momentum was building.

But we were spread incredibly thin.

Here's what we did right: we showed up. We said yes to opportunities. We built relationships. We created experiences that people remembered and talked about.

Here's what we didn't do: leave ourselves time for craft markets where we could promote The HUB. Networking events. Getting out into the rest of the world to tell our story. We were so busy being at The HUB that we couldn't be out there bringing people to The HUB.

It's a common trap for passionate people running a passion project—you pour everything into the thing itself and forget that the thing needs ambassadors, not just caretakers.

Those first six months taught us we were building something real. The community support proved people believed in this vision. The empty days taught us patience. The full days taught us we needed help.

We were figuring it out, one donated supply box, one workshop, one dragon mascot at a time. But we were also learning that sustainable isn't the same as manageable, and we'd need to make some changes if we wanted this to work long-term.

Ready or not, we were in it. And slowly, The HUB was becoming what we'd hoped it could be—just not quite the way we'd imagined.