“The dynamic of friendship is almost always underestimated as a constant force in human life. A diminishing circle of friends is the first terrible diagnostic of a life in deep trouble.” 

- “Friendship” by David Whyte

I remember the early months of the pandemic as one recurring day. 

Morning: Wake up. Peloton. Meditate. Breakfast. Work. 

Afternoon: Lunch. Coffee. Work. 

Evening: Dinner (delivered). Netflix (Sex Education, mostly). Read (... Twitter).

My routine turned into choreography — the movements seamless and familiar. I found it wonderfully efficient. Zero commute to the gym, to work, or to meet friends. During the day, focus time filled the void: I took on extra projects at work and started writing this newsletter. 

Solitude and I became fast friends. For those of you who know me personally, that will come as no surprise. I’m an introvert. I love alone time. I’m generally subdued in groups. Crowds are something of a personal nightmare. My main hobbies — reading, writing, meditating — are all hopelessly solo endeavors.

Yet I was still surprised by how easily I transitioned into a solitary lifestyle. After a week or two, it became ordinary — even normal. Technology made it easy. Everything was remote: work, learning, exercise, entertainment, food delivery. To conquer my to-do list, I barely had to leave my seat.

Without much fuss, in-person interactions joined the humble ranks of hand-written letters and Friday nights at the movie theater – of things made inefficient and unnecessary by technology. 

But then a hollowness started to creep into the passing weeks. The initial thrill of efficiency started to fade. The unhurried days began to feel empty. The unease triggered a quiet, unsettling question.

What am I giving up for all this efficiency?

The answer felt obvious: novelty. I’d noticed this pattern before. As steady routines took hold, novelty and spontaneity suffered. And during the pandemic, my days (and everyone else’s) were too repetitive and predictable. 

2021 offered a solution – heaping piles of novelty. 

I traveled for half the year. In the winter, I worked from the beach in Maui (so much for wintering). I spent part of the summer at a Buddhist monastery in Vermont. In October, I lived in Mexico City and celebrated Day of the Dead in Oaxaca. In November, I retreated to the Catskills for a month alone to write, hike, meditate, and watch the leaves change. These were all exciting firsts for me. 

And yet, the craving for novelty lingered.

It only disappeared on busy weekends. A friend’s wedding in Austin. A birthday party in NYC. A bachelor party in Cancun. A weekend with college roommates in Boston. 

This didn’t surprise me. Reunions with old friends are a sure path to a full heart and sore liver. 

What did surprise me? The craving also disappeared at the Buddhist monastery in Vermont. Not right away, but slowly, as I grew closer with the people there. The monastery reminded me of the subtle joys of living with others — of the baseline comfort and happiness that comes when good conversation and light-hearted banter are always just a few steps away. From my first post on the monastery, “The quality of conversation struck me the most. People talked for hours without interruption or distraction… In this environment, I noticed how quickly people got to know one another.”

It turns out there’s a gulf between what I think I want and what I actually want. As I tried to distill lessons from 2021, I realized my persistent craving wasn’t for novelty. It was for community.  

Until college graduation, close friendships and community came easily. In high school, I spent most waking hours with friends and teammates. In college, the same was true, plus we lived together. I’d still have alone time to recharge, but it was the exception instead of the rule. Those years were the opposite of loneliness.

That changed after graduation. The inertia in college is to build friendships; the inertia after college is to lose them.

This trend is normal. College friends move to different cities, get jobs, move on with their lives. Close constellations of friends start to all speed away from one another, like celestial bodies in space. And unlike high school graduation, another community doesn’t await you on the other end. 

There’s work — and coworkers — but that’s different. It helps, but often pales in comparison to former communities. Formality, spreadsheets, and the eggshells of office politics are not exactly kindling for close bonds. I’ve never laughed until my eyes watered at work; I’ve never supported a coworker as they mourned a breakup. 

After graduation, I was too focused on work to notice that the waves that had propelled my friendships were now receding. Success became my primary goal. Community was ancillary. I’d like to attribute my priorities to well-intentioned ambition, and there was some of that, but it was also rooted in convenience and unexamined cultural values. Progress at work is tangible and linear; rewards from meaningful relationships are not. Brainstorming startup ideas is easy; forming new friendships as an adult is not. Financial success is celebrated in society; strong communities – and especially communal living – are not. 

It appears I’m not the only one to undervalue friendships and community. The trend is so common, particularly among men, that it inspired a hilariously cringey SNL skit a few months ago. According to a recent Economist article, “In 1990, 55% of American men reported having at least six close friends; today only 27% do. The survey found that 15% of men have no close relationships at all, a five-fold increase since 1990.” More broadly, rates of loneliness have more than doubled since the 1980s. 

We claim to be living in a time of immense progress, and yet we appear to be failing miserably at the single greatest predictor of human happiness.

To Be Continued…

So how can we rebuild strong relationships and community in adulthood? This year, I’m trying a bit of everything. In my next post, I’ll walk through strategies I’m using and lessons learned so far. 

Grateful for this Middle Path community,

Mark