It’s hard to be shocked by much these days. But I still find the oft-quoted statistics about how disconnected we’ve become a bit startling.
There are the men who can’t name a single close friend.
Nearly 30% of people my age report feeling "frequently" or "always" lonely.
But what really gets me? The stats on younger folks—high school and college students. Fewer are dating, hanging out with friends, or even going to parties. The kinds of reckless socializing that used to get kids grounded are now things we look at and say, “Huh… maybe that wasn’t so bad. Maybe it kept us connected. Maybe the kids should party more.”
Of all the issues former Surgeon General Vivek Murthy could have chosen to champion, he chose this one: loneliness. And he paints a picture that feels eerily familiar.
“College dining halls,” he said, “used to be the loudest places I remember. Now they’re quiet. People are listening to something in their earbuds, scrolling on their phones, on their laptops. And when conversations get uncomfortable? It’s easier to just pull out your phone.”
It’s tempting to blame failing institutions for our societal unraveling—but maybe the unraveling started long before. Maybe we missed the warning signs of social collapse.
Of course, I’m not the first to notice.
Sociologist Robert Putnam made this his life’s work. He studied what happened when Italy was reorganized into regions and found a clear pattern: the places with the most community participation—people in clubs, associations, leagues—were the ones that thrived.
Later, he spotted a strange trend in the U.S. Bowling alleys were still busy, but league participation was plummeting. People weren’t bowling less—they were just bowling alone.
This shift tracked almost exactly with the decline of institutional trust and civic engagement in America. Putnam’s findings, laid out in Bowling Alone, hit like a warning bell in the early 2000s. That bell has only gotten louder since.
A recent documentary, Join or Die, revisits his work. It’s full of small-town pastors, historical leaders with membership cards overflowing from their wallets, and moments that made me want to sign up for a book club, a rec league, and maybe city council all at once.
Because participation matters.
It might sound simplistic—even naïve—to say that joining a club or going to a party could be an antidote to social decay. But maybe it’s not.
The internet has made it easy to see people as little more than walking opinions. Some are constantly shouting theirs; others keep theirs tightly wound. Either way, online, we sort and shelve each other into neat categories: agree, disagree, block, unfollow.
But real life won’t let you do that so easily.
Face-to-face, we’re wired to seek positive interaction. There’s no handle to hide behind, no block button to press. Just another human being in front of you, shaped by a thousand unseen experiences.
Beliefs, after all, are snapshots. They shift over time. Mine certainly have. I’ve had to unlearn things, let go of assumptions, and open myself to perspectives I never considered. Reading helped. So did travel. But more than anything, it was being around other people—really being around them—that pushed me to grow.
One of the most underrated joys of community is that after-event buzz. A play, a game, a fundraiser—and suddenly, you're seeing familiar faces in the crowd. You chat with someone from your small group, nod to someone from work, hug a friend you didn’t expect to see.
It’s not just hanging out with friends. It’s the feeling of belonging to a larger circle. It’s a feeling I used to have in college all the time. These days? Not so much.
But every now and then, it still happens. A few months back, I went solo to a party at the improv theatre I perform at. There were games, karaoke, snacks—and for one night, the place was just for performers. I arrived alone. But the second I stepped inside, I felt like I was among my people.
I didn’t have to know everyone. I just had to know I belonged.
In 1974, Kurt Vonnegut told a graduating class:
“The most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured.”
It’s easy to scoff and say “kids these days” need to just go outside and socialize. But that’s not fair. Community doesn’t just happen. It takes time, effort, space—and those are all in short supply.
Even for me, an unapologetic extrovert, it took years in a new town to build any kind of meaningful rhythm. People are busy, burnt out, working two jobs, living hour to hour.
Putnam once argued that a decline in social bonds can be just as dangerous as an economic collapse. In truth, the two are often entwined.
There’s a theory that suggests a full social life follows the 5-3-1 rule: five interactions a week, three close relationships, one hour a day for connection. Sounds lovely. But who has the time?
Still—when we do get those chances, when we’re offered a sliver of connection—we can choose not to pass it up.
If you’ve got an interest, however small, find a group. If someone invites you to join something, say yes.
Because in the end, the most meaningful things we do will always involve other people. And it’s far too easy to forget that.