Having no one to share your everyday thoughts, burdens, or joys with can be overwhelming in ways you might not notice, until the silence stretches too long. You might convince yourself you’re fine, that independence is enough, but deep down there’s usually a reticent ache. As people, we’re built to connect. You don’t need a crowd of friends cheering you on. Just one or two who truly listen, who see you as you are, is often enough.
To be human is to interact, and to interact is to be human. It’s almost like breathing—you don’t think about it much until it’s missing. Without community, or even the comfort of simple exchanges, the days can feel hollow. Especially now, when trust feels more fragile, and betrayal seems to hover closer than reassurance.
Notice how many of us keep to ourselves? It isn’t just shyness any more; it feels more like a shift in how we’ve learnt to exist. With how the world is moving, it’s no surprise that many in our generation lean towards introversion. Sometimes it feels safer not to say anything at all. You might wonder why you should open up if people don’t care, or worse, if they’ll turn your words against you. So you stay quiet, scrolling through your feed, hiding your thoughts behind the safety of a screen.
And yet, being part of a community matters. Even in the smallest ways. It isn’t about gossip or passing time with idle chatter, but about being understood. Of course, online spaces offer comfort too. You can send a message, share a post, and get replies in seconds. I do it myself. But if you’re honest, how much of that feels lasting? How much of it actually reaches that part of you longing for connection? Messages can be thoughtful, but they rarely replace someone’s presence in the same room; the tilt of their head when they’re curious, the grin tugging at their mouth, the warmth in their voice. Those things carry meaning that you just can’t capture with text alone.
You don’t need to be surrounded by people all the time, and you don’t need dozens of friends. What matters is having those you can trust enough to share your unfiltered self with. People who don’t interrupt, who don’t compete, who don’t make you feel small for speaking. Those relationships, however rare, aren’t just good for the mind; they affect your body too. Loneliness wears on health in a peculiar way, while laughter, shared silence, and genuine care can ease heaviness no pill can cure.
Think about the small interactions you pass through each day. The smile at a café, the hello from a neighbour, the colleague who asks about your weekend and listens to your answer. They might feel fleeting, but they anchor you to the world. From passing words to long, unhurried conversations, those moments are irreplaceable. No emoji or text bubble ever comes close to the grounding presence of someone sitting across from you.
Social media has taught us to project a kind of unapproachability, something that feels quite different from the older generation. The “Gen Z stare” is a good example of this; that blank, detached look so many of us carry. I understand it. We don’t always feel like adults, and perhaps the pandemic has something to do with it. It left us suspended in time, still half teenagers in our own minds. So, when someone turns to us for an answer, we instinctively look around for an adult, forgetting that we are adults now.
What is striking is how easily the stare becomes a habit, a wall we build without noticing. It does not protect us so much as it pushes others away. Yet the smallest gestures can pierce that wall, a fleeting smile, a glimmer of warmth in the eyes, can feel inviting. So, if you ever catch yourself doing it, remind yourself to breathe out and just respond; it never hurts anyone.
So maybe the question is this: are you willing to risk being open? Because yes, there’s always the chance of being hurt or misunderstood, but there’s also the chance of being seen. Of being known in a way no screen can replicate. Life doesn’t need millions of followers or a crowd of acquaintances. It just needs those small, real moments… the kind that linger in your memory longer than any notification.
When you strip it all back, that’s what it means to be human. To talk, to listen, to share your burdens and your joys, and to let someone else do the same. You might think you’re fine on your own, but the truth is, you’re better when you’re connected. And all it takes is one conversation, one friend, one moment of openness to remind you of that.
