Loneliness is the price we pay for convenience
How we traded real connection for comfort without realizing the cost
My sisters asked if I still kept in touch with a certain friend, Sarah, and I immediately responded, "Oh yeah, we're still really close." But as soon as the words left my mouth, I realized something unsettling: when was the last time I'd actually spoken to Sarah? Not just double-tapped her Instagram story or responded with the perfect emoji to her latest life update, but had a genuine conversation?
It had been two years.
Two whole years without a real exchange, yet I felt completely up to date on her life. I knew about her job change, her recent vacation (looked amazing), and even what she'd had for lunch that day. But I couldn't tell you how she was really doing—what kept her up at night, what she was excited about, what she was struggling with beneath those perfectly filtered photos.
This is the central paradox of modern life: we're more connected than ever, yet authentic connection feels increasingly out of reach. We say we want community. We talk endlessly about finding our "village." But everything about how we've structured our world makes genuine connection harder to maintain.
The truth is, we've traded connection for convenience, and most of us didn't even realize we were making the trade.
When our homes became too comfortable to leave
There's been plenty of commentary about how our social infrastructure has fundamentally changed. The organizations and spaces that once naturally fostered community—neighborhoods where you actually knew the people living next door, religious institutions, civic groups, even public spaces designed for gathering—have either disappeared or transformed into something unrecognizable.
But I think there's something else happening, at least here in America, that contributes significantly to our disconnection: our homes have become too comfortable.
I live in New York City, so compared to many Americans, my living quarters are fairly cramped. But even in my modest Brooklyn apartment, I have access to comforts that would have seemed magical just a generation ago.
With a few taps on my phone, I can have literally any cuisine in the world delivered to my door. Afghan food? Ethiopian? Thai? Peruvian? It's all available without my having to step outside, interact with another human, or even put on pants.
Need something from a store? No need to venture to a mall or shopping center where you might bump into an acquaintance or make small talk with a cashier. Just order it online and have it delivered the next day (or the same day, if you're willing to pay a little more).
Entertainment? I don't need to go to a movie theater or concert venue. I have multiple streaming services offering more content than I could watch in several lifetimes.
All of these conveniences have made our lives undeniably easier. But they've also eliminated countless small opportunities for human interaction that once peppered our days.
As an introvert, I'm particularly vulnerable to these patterns. My natural comfort zone is staying home, enjoying the space I pay rent for, and recharging in solitude. If someone cancels plans, I'm secretly relieved. But this natural tendency, combined with a world that makes isolation increasingly effortless, creates a dangerous combination.
I often find myself wondering: Am I engaging in intentional solitude, which is healthy and necessary for me as an introvert? Or am I avoiding connection because it's become too easy to do so?
How quarantine killed our social skills
We can't talk about social disconnection without acknowledging how the pandemic fundamentally changed our behaviors. While some regions in the US remained relatively business-as-usual, places like New York took quarantining and social distancing very seriously.
After months of minimal human contact outside our households, many of us found our social muscles had atrophied. Small talk became awkward. Eye contact felt uncomfortable. The rhythm of conversation felt unfamiliar.
For some, especially younger people who were in formative social development stages, these effects linger. I've seen countless posts from people in their late teens and twenties expressing genuine discomfort with basic social interactions—especially with strangers.
Even more concerning is the rise in antisocial behavior in public spaces. Before the pandemic, it was rare to see someone taking a call on speakerphone in public or watching videos without headphones. Now it seems like everyone treats shared spaces as if they're private, with no regard for others around them.
This shift creates tension and potential for conflict. When simple requests like "Could you please use headphones?" are met with hostility, people become less likely to engage with strangers at all. Public spaces begin to feel like minefields rather than opportunities for connection.
Double-tapping our way to disconnection
At the heart of our disconnection paradox is social media—perhaps the perfect example of how convenience breeds loneliness.
Before social media, staying in touch required effort. You had to call, write letters, or meet in person to maintain relationships. These interactions involved genuine exchange, vulnerability, and presence.
While organizing old files recently, I stumbled across emails I'd sent my sisters years ago. I was shocked to find these weren't quick notes but long, thoughtful correspondences—sometimes a thousand words of sharing experiences, responding to their struggles, offering support, and asking questions.
I had completely forgotten that we once communicated this way. Today, most of our exchanges happen in bite-sized pieces—quick texts, emoji reactions, or comments on each other's social posts.
This shift has created a simulation of connection. We feel like we're keeping up with people's lives because we see their updates, but we're not actually connecting with them in any meaningful way. We've replaced dialogue with a series of parallel monologues broadcast to an audience rather than shared with an individual.
The result is a peculiar kind of loneliness—one where you're technically "in touch" with hundreds of people yet haven't had a real conversation with any of them in years.
Alone together, even at home
This disconnection extends even to our most intimate spaces. Think about how family time has evolved in just the past decade.
Six or seven years ago, my family regularly gathered for movie nights. Even without planning formal "family movie nights" with popcorn and special snacks, we'd often find ourselves organically coming together in the living room, watching something as a unit, sharing the experience in real time.
Now, despite living in the same apartment, we're frequently "alone together"—each of us consumed by our individual devices. I might be watching a show on the TV, my oldest daughter absorbed in her iPad, and my youngest scrolling through her phone. We're physically present but mentally elsewhere. We're physically present but mentally elsewhere.
Some of this is age-related—my tween and teen naturally seek more independence than they did as small children. But much of it stems from the evolution of technology. With individual devices and streaming services, we can all consume exactly what we want, when we want it. No compromises necessary.
The convenience is undeniable. I can start watching a Netflix show on my TV at night and continue it on my phone during breakfast the next morning. But something valuable is lost: those natural conversation moments that happen when you're sharing an experience.
As a parent, I now find myself creating deliberate connection points that once happened organically.
Sorry, something came up (again)
Perhaps the most heartbreaking symptom of our disconnection crisis is what I call the "flakiness epidemic."
I've seen countless stories online of people planning gatherings—book clubs, birthday parties, dinners—only to have everyone cancel at the last minute. These aren't unpopular people being rejected; they're ordinary individuals discovering that social commitments have become strangely optional in our culture.
With smartphones keeping us constantly connected, canceling plans is as easy as sending a quick text. There's no need to make a phone call where you might hear disappointment in someone's voice. No need to face the consequences of your flakiness in real time.
Making and maintaining friendships as an adult is already challenging enough. When you add this casual approach to commitments, building trust becomes nearly impossible. Why put yourself out there when you can't count on people to show up?
I'm not claiming to be perfect in this regard. As an introvert, I've certainly canceled plans when my social battery was depleted. But the more I think about it, the more I realize how essential it is to honor our commitments. In a world where everything seems designed to keep us isolated, showing up when we say we will is one of the few things within our direct control.
Finding our way back to each other
So what can we do about all this? I don't have all the answers, but I can share what's working for me.
First, I've found tremendous value in standing dates. My friend Loren and I have a weekly walking date in Central Park. It's not formally scheduled—we don't meet every Wednesday at 10 AM sharp—but there's an expectation that once a week, we'll make time to walk and talk.
Similarly, my sisters and I maintain a daily group chat where we share quick updates and memes throughout the day. But we recognized that these bite-sized interactions, while fun, aren't enough on their own. So we've created an expectation (not a rigid schedule) of catching up on video about once a month, connecting us across two continents and a 12-hour time difference between New York and Hong Kong. We also try to plan an annual sisters' trip—often to Europe as a midpoint between Asia and North America. Having these layers of connection, from casual daily texts to meaningful face-to-face time, creates a framework that helps us stay truly connected despite the distance.
I'm also becoming more mindful about how I use technology. I've started leaving my phone in the living room at night instead of bringing it to bed. I'm making conscious choices about how and when I shop online versus in person. Small changes, but they add more human interaction to my days.
Will I ever become an extroverted social butterfly who knows every neighbor and volunteers for every committee? Absolutely not. That's not who I am, and that's okay. But I can still honor the connections I have and be deliberate about creating new ones.
The odds feel stacked against us in building meaningful connection—and as an introvert, I feel those odds even more acutely. But I know that even small moments of genuine connection matter.
As you move through your day, remember that convenience isn't always worth the price. Sometimes the least efficient option—the in-person meeting instead of the email, the store visit instead of the online order, the face-to-face conversation instead of the text—might be exactly what your spirit needs.
These small choices won't solve our loneliness epidemic overnight. But they might just help us find our way back to each other, one genuine connection at a time.
"or some, especially younger people who were in formative social development stages, these effects linger". Yep. I feel deeply for the younger generation, kids who were still at school during lockdown, who experienced the world differently, Their education was effected, their personalities affected, and worse, the most sady, many teenage suicides occured during this time. During covid i lived in Sydney, Australia, and my daughter's high-school cohort saw mental health issues skyrocket. But I've gone on a tangent. Great article.
You probably heard about a book by the name of "Bowling Alone" written in 2000 by Robert Putnam where he talks about how once we bowled in leagues, and how we have become increasingly disconnected from one another and as you too so aptly describe in your piece. Your suggestions are good ones. Get out there and talk to people. Look them in the eye. Smile. When you are at the grocery store, don't keep your head down talking on the phone while the person who is checking you out at the register tries to get your attention. Connect to other human beings especially those who are serving you in a restaurant or at the check out counter. Thanks for the reminders Carmen. Connecting in all the ways you suggested big and small on a daily basis is good for all of us.