When I was very small, I knew a girl who stopped going to ballet on Saturday mornings because she didn’t want to be away from her mum. At the time, this shocked me, because it just didn’t make any sense. Nobody wants to be away from their mum – obviously – but I had never been given a choice. This may have been driven by my parents’ desire for a few hours of peace and quiet at the weekend, but as I understood it, getting out, taking part and committing to things was a non-negotiable part of life. I didn’t know you could opt out.
I’d forgotten about that until about a month ago, when my Instagram feed started to be flooded with influencers posting videos about their “typical evenings” as a twentysomething or thirtysomething woman with no friends. They usually involve a very cosy-looking, pristine flat, scented candles, a beautiful and balanced meal for one, sparkling water poured in a wine glass, an LED skincare mask, a fluffy, talkative cat, a puzzle, a BookTok hit on Kindle and a 9pm bedtime.
There is little to distinguish them from the other 200 aspirational, lifestyle mini-vlogs passively eroding my self-esteem every day except for the hook: “no friends”. It’s okay, and in fact quite glamorous, these videos seem to say, to be introverted to the point of reclusive because look: life can still be fulfilling and, crucially, look pretty.
Everyone knows that we are living through a loneliness epidemic, and that young people are feeling more socially isolated than ever. There are all sorts of reasons why: Covid-disrupted educations, astronomical student debt, a flatlining job market, home working, a housing crisis and social media addiction. If videos that make having no friends look calm and enriching bring sincere comfort to anyone without a big, supportive group or a kindred spirit to whom they can tell anything, then great – well done for shifting the stigma.
But I’m not convinced they’re doing anything but making all this isolation worse. Because loneliness doesn’t usually look as serene as a Netflix binge and a squeeze of the cat. In fact it’s not serene at all – it’s a torment. It feels like rejection and exclusion and loss and regret, it makes life a silent drag, it can lead you to stop taking pride in yourself and your environment and involves an awful lot of mind-numbing screentime until three in the morning in a misguided attempt to latch on to the outside world. It is very hard to like yourself when you are lonely. It isn’t something we should surrender to and pretend is aspirational.
It’s something we should challenge. Because we are supposed to be connected to each other. Companionship, love, support, trust and a duty to other people are what make us human. But at some point – and social media, again, is largely to blame – the world began to preach that a successful, happy life is rooted in selfishness. We are told to “protect our peace”, reminded that “‘no’ is a full sentence”, ordered to stop people-pleasing and cut off friends and family the internet informs us are “toxic”.
We prioritise “agency” and “boundaries” so much that we have forgotten that we bear a responsibility to show up for other people and do things we don’t want to sometimes. We have forgotten the importance of being out of our comfort zones. Not going to birthday parties because we don’t know anyone or aren’t in the mood, not meeting up in person because we can’t be bothered, not going to the office because it’s quicker to get the job done at home, skipping the coffee shop to save money, ducking out of work drinks because we’re not boozing or want to stay professional… These might seem like they’re making our lives easier, making us more independent, leading us to seek less external approval. But shrinking our interactions is making our worlds smaller.
Loneliness makes us human too, of course. We all feel it at some point, whether it is entrenched because of our long-term life circumstances, low confidence, or because of acute grief, heartbreak, a new city or a new job. And yet talking about it still feels shameful – like admitting there is something defective about oneself, rather than voicing an emotion that is universal. It is immensely courageous to be vulnerable enough to say that you have no friends, and yet it is precisely in that vulnerability that other people recognise themselves, bonds form – and it starts to relieve the problem.
Talking about it – either publicly or to one person alone – is difficult and bold. But it is in doing difficult and bold things that our lives, perspectives and hearts expand. We have been given too much permission to opt out of things that require effort or discomfort, and encouraged instead to romanticise self-reliance and autonomy. But promoting a life that is cut-off and quiet doesn’t make having no friends any easier – it just makes us all lonelier.
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