The Day I Forgot How to Make Friends

 I don’t remember the exact day I stopped using social media. It feels like many years ago, maybe even before the pandemic—but it’s hard to say for sure. What I do remember is the slow shift. I was no longer enjoying it. I began to feel like I was living through it instead of actually living.

Everything started losing its taste, its meaning. A sunset wasn’t just a sunset anymore—it was a photo on a board, waiting to be liked. My life was becoming something to curate instead of something to feel.

Eventually, I understood something simple but powerful:
My profile isn’t me.
And people aren’t profiles either.

We’re all too layered, too contradictory, too beautifully complex to be summed up in filtered images or short captions. And when we try to compress ourselves into those spaces, something gets lost—something essential.

I didn’t want to live like that. And the more I stayed on those platforms, the more I felt anxiety crawling in, slowly but surely. At some point, even looking at someone else’s page would make me uncomfortable. So I left.

And leaving gave me space.

Suddenly, I had room to think. I started having deeper conversations with the people around me. I became more intentional in how I sought information, no longer blindly accepting what I was fed by algorithms. I began reading again—really reading—and reflecting. I started listening to the world and myself with more patience.

But while I was gaining all this inner richness, I was also losing something just as important:
connection.

As I pulled away from online spaces, my circle of friends grew smaller. Part of that was natural—life takes people in different directions, and many of us moved to different countries. But part of it was my own doing, too. I was becoming quieter, more inward.

Now, it’s just me and my love, living in a new country. I know one person here. And while I’ve grown in many ways, I’ve also become afraid. Afraid to meet new people. Afraid of not knowing how.

Sometimes I feel like one day I knew how to make friends, and the next day I just… forgot.
(Yes, I know it’s a metaphor—but it feels real.)

This forgetting happened slowly. I closed myself off gradually, in the name of healing, reflection, rest. And while I don’t regret that at all—I'm grateful for the journey—I woke up one day realizing I didn’t remember the steps to connection.

Meeting people now feels like a brand-new experience. I’m rediscovering how to say hello, how to hold small talk, how to read the subtle language of expression—especially across cultures. Living in a new country makes it even more complex. It’s not just the words we say, but the meanings underneath them that can feel different, translated not only across languages, but across emotional tones and habits.

It’s beautiful.
But it’s also hard.

So here I am.
No longer “social” in the conventional sense.
More thoughtful.
More present.
More uncertain.
And learning.

The Neuroscience of Connection

It turns out, this feeling has a basis in neuroscience.

We are social mammals. Our brains evolved to connect—literally. From birth, our nervous system relies on others for regulation, through a process called co-regulation. This is part of the polyvagal theory developed by Dr. Stephen Porges [2], which explains how the vagus nerve (a key part of the parasympathetic nervous system) helps us feel safe, connected, or threatened depending on social cues.

When we isolate ourselves—whether by choice, trauma, or lifestyle—our ventral vagal system (responsible for social engagement) can become underused, making connection feel less natural and more threatening over time.

Emotionally, this leads to what some psychologists describe as social atrophy—just like muscles weaken without use, our social instincts can feel “rusty” when we’ve been alone too long [3].

I’m not broken. I’m just out of practice.

Cultural Displacement and the Language of Connection

Living in a new country adds another layer. I’ve learned that connection isn’t just about speaking the same language—it’s about understanding the emotional codes behind words. Eye contact, humor, pacing, small talk—all of it shifts across cultures. That requires time, presence, and patience.

But when you're carrying anxiety or social fears, these small cultural gaps can feel like cliffs.

I’ve realized that relearning how to connect is part of my healing. It’s not a step back. It’s a return—to something ancient, biological, and human.

If You Relate…

If you've stepped away from social media and found yourself both freer and lonelier—you’re not alone.
If you’ve spent time healing, and in the process forgotten how to connect—you’re not alone.
If you're in a new place, unsure how to navigate the emotional “language” around you—you’re not alone.

Relearning connection is not weakness.
It’s growth.

And if you feel scared or tired or awkward starting over—remember:
You’re not starting from scratch.
You’re starting from experience.

I don’t know if this will ever fully be over, or if the day will come when I’ll feel less anxiety—when I’ll be okay being around people again, reconnecting, having coffees, going to parties, laughing and talking with ease.
But I know this:
I will keep learning. I will keep living.
I will try.

That’s what we can do.
We can face life and try.

Why?
That’s a hard question. And unfortunately, everyone has to find their own answer.
There are many reasons.

But sometimes, trying is the reason.
And that’s enough.

Ithaka

C. P. Cavafy

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don't be afraid of them:

you'll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won't encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you're destined for.

But don't hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you're old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you've gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.