Digital Cover Story - Ryan Hunley

Building the Kind of Community That Doesn’t Need a Feed

Ryan Hunley doesn’t just design beautiful brands—he designs belonging. As the founder of Second Street Creative and the organizer behind Indianapolis’s Creative Mornings chapter, Ryan is quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) building spaces where people show up for one another, where connection isn’t curated but lived. His work isn’t about campaigns or clout—it’s about cultivating something deeper: real, interdependent community.

And while his wife, Andrea Hunley, might be making waves at the Statehouse as a senator with big ideas and bold convictions, Ryan’s mission is equally civic, just closer to the ground. He’s the kind of leader who turns his backyard into a community hub, his design studio into a listening post, and every conversation into an invitation to belong. “The empty calories of social media don’t provide any sustenance,” he says. “But when you help create a space for people to be in actual proximity to each other, they keep coming back.”

We talked about legacy, creativity, community, and why Indianapolis still has a lot of soul to celebrate—if we’d only stop apologizing for it.

Per usual, we’ve edited the transcript for clarity and brevity.

Polina Osherov: You’re a designer, sure, but I know you think of yourself as something more than just a guy who makes things look good. What is it that you actually do?

Ryan Hunley: Yeah, I’m a designer and art director, and I run a small boutique shop here in Indy. But really, design is just the way I get across the table from people. I’m good at it—but if it all went away tomorrow, I wouldn’t lose sleep. What I’m really after is proximity to people doing meaningful work in this city. Design is just the easiest way in. I don’t get my identity solely from being a designer. Whether it’s CreativeMornings, Friday Fire, or volunteering, it’s all about building spaces for shared purpose.

PO: How did you find your way to this work—and this way of thinking about work?

RH: I actually got started in high school journalism. My wife Andrea and I fell in love in our school newspaper class. I was also playing football at the time, so I had this layered identity—athlete, artist, journalist. Nobody ever made me choose one lane. That complexity really shaped how I move through the world today. We aren’t meant to be any one thing.

And to be real with you, I come from some tough circumstances, so there wasn’t really any choice but to have a complicated sense of identity. My dad was an alcoholic and left my Mother to raise us by herself when I was young. So from early on, I knew what not to be. By the time I got to high school, I was desperate for some kind of stability, and I found that through community. Coaches, teachers, teammates. I was eager to build and belong, so I got entrusted with real responsibility at a young age. So while I crave stability, I’m also not afraid when things shift or fall apart. That resilience came from living through instability. 

PO: That makes a lot of sense. You’ve mentioned Friday Fire earlier—can you talk about what that is and what it means to you?

RH: Absolutely. Friday Fire started during COVID—just a handful of neighbors getting together in my backyard. Now, five years later, it has grown into this multigenerational gathering of creatives, community leaders, and just good humans doing good work. There are often 30 or 40 men there these days. I invite everyone personally and individually. It’s sacred to me, to us.

We laugh, cry, vent, grow. We don’t document it, we experience it. The only rule is no assholes allowed. I’ve seen real friendships and real change come out of it, big and small. I’ve also seen tough, courageous conversations and conflict resolution happen there. What I love most? It doesn’t rely on me. I can leave and come back, and it’s still going. That’s how you know something’s real. It’s community, not content.

PO: What’s your working definition of creativity? It’s a tricky word that means different things to different people.

RH: Yeah, it is tricky. I like to start with what creativity isn’t. It’s not a skill reserved for the “chosen ones.” It’s not just for designers or poets or people who know how to use Photoshop. Creativity is a practice. It’s energy that exists between things. You learn to tap into it. Everyone has it, but not everyone is comfortable with the messiness it requires.

And here’s where it gets interesting. I do believe everyone is creative, but I also believe there’s a meaningful difference between people who create to live and people who live to create. For some folks, creativity is a mindset they apply to their work, their parenting, their problem-solving. It’s additive. It enhances what they already do. But for others? It’s non-negotiable. They don’t choose it—it chooses them. It’s how they process the world. It’s how they survive.

PO: That sounds like a deeply spiritual view of creativity—something sacred, almost.

RH: Absolutely, I believe the creativity that sparks me to move through the world I do is Divine. And while I believe everyone has creative capacity, there’s definitely a distinction: some people have to create. It’s like breathing for them. And as a society, if we can’t make space for those people to survive and thrive—we’re screwed.

All social progress starts with art and storytelling. That’s why it’s always the first thing attacked. So yeah, supporting those artists? That’s essential if we want to move forward as a culture.

PO: Are we doing that well in Indy? What’s your take on how we’re doing with creativity as a city?

RH: I think we’re doing better than we were. Even just hearing more people use the term “creative economy” is a good sign. But we still undervalue art and culture. We treat them like nice-to-haves instead of the engine that drives everything else—education, business, even sports.

And we’ve got this weird Midwestern self-loathing where we downplay our talent. We try to repackage what’s already happening here to make it palatable for outsiders, instead of just resourcing and celebrating it for us. That’s the shift I want to see—creating for our own joy, not just some visitor’s consumption.

PO: One thing I’ve seen in the nonprofit arts world—and I’m sure you’ve seen it too—is this scarcity mentality. It’s understandable given how underfunded the space is, but it also leads to silos and territorialism. Everyone’s guarding their piece of the pie. How do we move past that? What needs to shift?

RH: Yeah, I get it. The scarcity is real. We’re in a city that under-resources the arts, and that pot of money gets sliced thinner every year across more and more organizations. And a deficit mindset like that is not conducive to growth or progress. Instead of collaborating, we get obsessed with visibility, leadership, and credit. Everybody wants to be the founder, the face, the person on the mic. Especially men—we just dive headfirst into building new things without even checking to see who’s already doing the work.

And all that duplication? It waters everything down. It spreads attention and dollars too thin. Meanwhile, we’re losing opportunities to actually build something meaningful together. I think a lot of that comes from fear. If I’m not the one in charge, am I still valuable? Will I still matter?

And that fear doesn’t just live in the nonprofit world. It’s in the corporate world, too. These fiefdoms get built—people protecting their turf, their reputation, their metrics. It’s all vertical. No one’s thinking horizontally, about how this all connects. But real impact requires interdependence. It’s not sexy, and you don’t always get your name on it, but it’s the only way we move the whole thing forward.

PO: We’ve seen the research. Sentiment among locals about Indianapolis is often lower than among people outside the state. There’s a lot of skepticism. Do you run into that? People who are just kind of down on Indy?

RH: Yeah, I do. And honestly, I try not to get too caught up in that energy. I don’t see it as my job to convince anyone. Telling people they’re wrong doesn’t work. But what does work—what always works—is inviting them in. Bring them to Creative Mornings. Bring them to my backyard. Let them be around these people who are doing incredible, hopeful work in this city. That’s where the perspective shifts.

Hope is a decision. And honestly? I live in a house where negativity isn’t really acceptable. Andrea is the most optimistic person I’ve ever met. Not some fluffy, naive positivity, it is hard-earned hopefulness—and it’s contagious.

PO: That really resonates. We see it with our interns and fellows, too. Students come in skeptical, not sure if they want to stick around in Indy, but once they spend time with the people and the spaces that make Indy special, it flips. It’s like: don’t tell them Indy is great—show them.

RH: Exactly. Show, don’t tell. Because right now, especially online, people know the right thing to say. They know how to sound like they care. But they’re not doing the work. So the only thing that really breaks through is experience. Let people feel it for themselves. That’s what sticks.

PO: Last big one: What’s the legacy you care about most?

RH: I come from an abusive, alcoholic father, and he came from one too. I’ve got two teenage kids. They’ll never feel the pain and abandonment I grew up with. That’s all the legacy I need. I’ve broken a generational cycle of suffering. Everything else—awards, logos, public recognition—it’s just noise.

I care about cultivating spaces where people feel like they belong. I care about building the kind of community my kids can grow up inside of and carry forward. I care about creating conditions for courage, empathy, and hopefulness to thrive. That’s the work. That’s the legacy.

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This story was made possible thanks to the generous support of our friends at Life in Indy.