I tried Peoplehood, the SoulCycle founders’ new ‘guided conversation practice.’ I still don’t know what that means.

• I tried Peoplehood, a "guided group conversation practice" from the founders of Soulcycle.
• The hour-long sessions involve answering prompts and practicing listening.

When I first heard about Peoplehood from a friend during book club, we all had a lot of questions.

The concept, recently launched by the founders of SoulCycle, is billed as a "guided group conversation practice designed to improve our relationships." It costs $55 for a newcomer 3-pack or up to $165 a month to participate in hour-long sessions either virtually or in-person in New York. Per the website, it involves speaking "freely" and listening "deeply."

Which is a bit ... vague.

My book club wondered: Was it just spin class without the bike? A peer-support group without the shared history? Speed dating without the flirtation? Or, was it just like us: "book club" without the book? If so, we thought, Peoplehhood ought to at least serve cheese.

According to the founders, Elizabeth Cutler and Julie Rice, Peoplehood is a "practice" best thought of as "a workout for your relationships," they wrote me via email. "In a time when 61% of American adults self-classify as lonely, we believe this practice is more vital than ever before."

Intrigued but still confused, I asked Peoplehood if I could attend a "Gather" – its name for each session – to find out more. The company waived the fee and I joined a conversation at the Manhattan location in March. Here's what it was like.

The space looked like a group fitness studio – at first

When I arrived at Peoplehood in Chelsea around 10 am on a snowy Tuesday morning, my hair still wet from a swim at a nearby YMCA before, I felt good. I'd taken care of my body; now I was going to take care of my mind. Or, was it my soul?

The small, bright space was at first reminiscent of a fitness studio, outfitted with lockers, a coffee bar, and swag. Yes, you can buy a "PPLHD" sweatshirt or a jar simply labeled, "transparency."

Later, Peoplehood's public relations contact told me that the jars are from a Danish company that combines "a sculptural aesthetic with layered pondering and understated humor to create iconic pieces for reflection, conversation and manifestation." Right.

I checked in, received a number indicating where I'd sit, and grabbed a sparkling water. A Gen Z-er who seemed to be a regular bantered with employees.

So far, so SoulCycle.

A few minutes past the allotted start time, the other Peoplehooders (Peoplehoodlums? Peoplehoodies!) and I were ushered into a dim room where nine chairs circled a large candle and Coldplay set the tune. Anticipatory smiles – and an actual space heater – helped warm the space.

Most participants were white women under 40, like me. With my wet hair and sweatpants, I was relieved to find they were also comfortably dressed. Our "guide," or moderator, was an effusive young former Rumble boxing instructor named Juliana.

Peoplehood told the New York Times its guides undergo days of training and weeks of practice, and aren't stand-ins for therapists (though it's hard to guarantee some people won't see them as such).

"Guides are storytellers, super connectors, DJs and empaths with big hearts and even bigger smiles," the company website says. "They know what you're going through, because they've been there too."

The topics ranged from grief to dating woes

After leading us through some deep breathing and light stretching, Juliana disclosed a personal struggle, which I suspect intended to set a tone of vulnerability. While she seemed genuine, the format felt abrupt. We didn't even know one another's names.

That soon changed. After establishing the guidelines – only respond by snapping your fingers or putting your hands over your heart — we shared our names and something else about us at that moment, be it a chore we'd left undone or a difficult phone call we were reeling from. Snaps, nods, and heart-holding abounded.

This was the first of many times that hour I struggled to keep my mouth shut. What if I let an "mmm-hmm" slip? At what point does the purpose of keeping mum backfire, leading to more self-monitoring than presence?

Next, we answered two more prompts as a group, including Peoplehood's signature question: How are you doing REALLY? (The "really" is, in fact, capitalized on the company's coffee sleeves.)

Members divulged feelings of grief and longing, and brought up self-aware concepts like self-bullying and self-sabotage. One participant even self-criticized her own self-doubt. "Imposter syndrome is so 2017," she said. And yet, she still suffered from it. More snaps ensued.

I couldn't help but think the kinds of people drawn to, and able to afford, such listening circles are those least likely to need it. Still, I found the exercise comforting: Despite appearances, everyone is going through something.

When we paired up to answer prompts, I messed up — but I don't regret it

Next, we paired up to answer the last two prompts, including one about our favorite traits in ourselves. Here's where I blew it.

While each person was supposed to share, uninterrupted, for three minutes, my partner finished about a minute early. Sheepishly, I whispered: "I know this is cheating, but ..." and pointed out a pattern I'd noticed in her response.

She seemed grateful, but Peoplehood was not. "Active listening is listening without interrupting, offering advice, or giving an opinion," the founders wrote when I asked about the interaction later.

But active listening can also mean asking follow-up questions or restating the speaker's thoughts. Otherwise, the listener could be drafting their grocery list and the speaker could be left feeling even more unheard, Dr. Jessi Gold, a psychiatrist at Washington University in St. Louis, told me.

"If you went to a psychiatrist who just stared at you, you would feel very hurt," she said.

Happiness researcher Sonja Lyubomirsky was also stumped by this aspect of Peoplehood. "I would like to see some more opportunities for the other person to show authentic interest and that they understand and care," she said.

Does what happens in a Gather stay in a Gather?

After a final group prompt and some music, we all filed out.

Here too, I was unsure of protocol. Could I chit-chat with participants by the coffee bar? If so, could I offer the name of a doctor to someone who'd said they were stuck with a bad one or commiserate with fellow self-sabotagers? If I see Imposter Syndrome woman on the Subway, should I look the other way?

Cutler and Rice told me everyone's different: Some want to connect post-class, others want to remain private. Some want to attend a regular, say, Tuesday night session, others want to switch it up. (The concepts and intentions change weekly, and the company is introducing spinoffs including "Couplehood," "Fatherhood," and "Singlehood.") Unsurprisingly, though, they say everyone should attend consistently to improve their "practice."

But the squishiness of those non-guidelines can be a fault, Gold told me. "Really making sure that people understand the role of the group, what they're signing up for, what they're paying for, is critical in these kind of situations," she said.

Still, Lyubomirsky and Gold both said they see more benefits than potential harms in Peoplehood. We're in the midst of a loneliness crisis, and if the venture helps fight it, great.

Even if you never see them again, Lyubomirsksy said, "research shows that just chatting with strangers like your barista, or your Uber driver or your neighbor makes people feel happier and more connected."

While I appreciate Peoplehood's mission, I don't think I'll return

Peoplehood promises one thing: That you'll walk away feeling better than when you arrived. I suppose I did, albeit incrementally.

In a city full of people you rarely make eye contact with, it was refreshing to cut to people's hearts. Research shows questions that probe beyond small talk can accelerate intimacy between strangers.

But I also left feeling even more confused than when I entered. Peoplehood is like a class, but without an advancing curriculum or growing camaraderie. It's like a coffee shop or bar, but without the coffee or cocktail or workout that got you in the door to begin with.

And with so many aspects it lacks, it's hard to justify the one thing it has: A cost. So for now, I think I'll stick with book club. And If Imposter Syndrome Woman is reading, she's invited too.