A funny thing about being human:

We invented more ways to connect than at any point in history, and somehow ended up feeling more alone.

I know you’ve felt it.

When the WhatsApp group explodes with holiday pictures, but you’re eating soup at home.

When you scroll past everyone’s celebrations, families, matching pyjamas, and your brain quietly asks: 

‍“Shouldn’t I have this too?”

Welcome to the beautifully cruel world of digital connection.

The Promise Was Connection

When the internet arrived, it promised belonging.

It promised access, community, tribe, all neatly packaged in glowing pixels.

And we believed it.

(I still want to believe it every Monday morning.)

But research has now done that awkward thing it always does.

It comes in, clears its throat, and says:

“Actually, about that…”

Long-term studies show that both passive and active social media use correlate with higher loneliness over time. And multiple reviews of digital “connection tools” found limited long-term effects, even when designed to reduce loneliness.

Translation:

Our screens are very good at interaction, and very bad at intimacy.

The Body Isn’t Fooled

Here’s the key part:

Your nervous system cannot be tricked by pixels.

Belonging is biological.

Safety is biological.

Trust is biological.

Your body needs live micro-signals:

eye contact, tone, breath, facial cues, body language, synchronised rhythms.

You don’t get any of that through a screen.

You get approximations.

Shadows of real interaction.

No wonder we feel a strange emptiness afterwards.

The Paradox

Digital life allows us to be “always connected,” yet somehow never fully reached.

We know what people had for dinner.

Where they travelled.

Who they’re dating.

What they think about politics, parenting, burnout, and oat milk.

We are constantly updated on each other’s lives and yet, when something really unravels, many of us pause before reaching out.

We hesitate.

We wonder: “Who would actually come over? Who would sit with me without fixing, advising, or distracting? Who would stay when there’s nothing to say?”

This is the paradox of our time.

We are informed, but not held.

Seen, but not felt.

Connected, but not contained.

Because intimacy doesn’t come from information.

It comes from shared time, shared space, shared nervous-system states.

We don’t need more access to each other’s highlights.

We need more embodied time, time where bodies share a room, breathe slowly together, and silence doesn’t feel awkward but safe.

December And The Comparison Machine

If there is one month when social media should come with a warning label, it’s December.

Because the comparison is Olympic-level.

Perfect family portraits.

Storybook traditions.

Candlelit dinners.

Twinkling living rooms.

Children smiling on cue.

Couples wrapped in rituals that look effortless.

Except… we don’t actually know that.

We don’t know what happened before the photo.

We don’t know what was edited out.

We don’t know who felt lonely at that table, or who wished they were somewhere else.

We only know what was posted.

And December, with all its cultural expectations of warmth and togetherness, turns comparison into a full-body experience.

It doesn’t just live in the mind, it tightens the chest, shortens the breath, and quietly whispers that we’re somehow behind.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

And in December, it’s handed a megaphone, a spotlight, and a soundtrack.

Why This Matters

Loneliness doesn’t appear overnight.

It accelerates quietly, through small daily patterns.

It grows when:

• we are digitally connected but physically absent.
• we compare instead of participating.
• we observe other people’s lives instead of inhabiting our own.
• we replace presence with updates.
• we trade an invitation for information.

The nervous system doesn’t interpret notifications as safety.

It doesn’t relax because someone “liked” a photo.

The body doesn’t need an update.

It needs company.

It needs other bodies nearby.

Familiar voices.

Shared silence.

The subtle regulation that happens when we’re not alone in a room.

So What Do We Do With That?

The answer isn’t radical.

It’s almost boring in its simplicity.

We show up.

We meet.

We sit down.

We look at each other without multitasking.

We stay a little longer than planned.

We choose presence over polish.

We choose imperfect gatherings over perfect posts.

We choose being together over being impressive.

Screens can be incredibly useful.

They can open doors.

They can reconnect old threads.

They can bridge distance when there’s no other option.

But they cannot replace what happens when two nervous systems share the same space.

Screens can be a bridge.

They just can’t be the destination.

Let’s Wrap This Up

Scrolling is not belonging.

Messages are not presence.

Likes are not love.

Your nervous system is wired for proximity, shared time, and the tiny soothing signals we only exchange in real life.

So here’s a gentle invitation this December:

• meet someone in person
• put phones away
• talk without multitasking
• go for a walk
• drink a warm something together
• invite someone in
• be physically present

‍

Personally, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing this holiday.

Whenever the simple thing would be to send a message, I’ll pick up the phone instead. I’ll suggest a coffee, make an actual appointment, or (my personal favourite) invite people into my home.

And yes, sometimes I’ll even invite myself into theirs.

Because closeness often begins with simply showing up.

Screens don’t make us lonely.

They just don’t make us less lonely.

Connection is a physical event.

‍

Lots of love,

Stina

‍