I want a real story

Last week, I invited internet strangers to breakfast at an undisclosed location. One by one, we  pushed tables together, pulled up chairs as more shuffled in, and leaned into conversation with a familiar - albeit unfounded - comfort. 

It was scary (for me, at least). And special (for all, I think). 

Thompson’s essay, “The Anti-Social Century,” and the broader “Loneliness Epidemic” discourse leave me unsettled. The language feels clinical, presenting a sobering diagnosis yet leaving you wondering how you arrived here. My unease isn’t with the data itself - I trust it - but with the implication that any one could story could contain the complexity of lives it aims to define.

It’s hard to hold so much truth in so few lines. 

When I was a child, I’d beg my parents to “tell me a story.” Sometimes, they’d start with “Once upon a time,” and I would interrupt to instruct, “No, I want a real story.” 

I don’t know what inspired my insatiable desire to understand people, the choices we make, and the stories that we go to live. I’m sure it would have been easier for my parents to make up a fairy tale, but it was far more captivating to hear of heartbreak first from that of their own. I had to know - the characters, the back stories, where these people were today - and I’d keep asking until one of us fell asleep. 

Thompson offers a chilling reality more than he does a fairy tale, but his data-driven narrative evoked a similar feeling of discontent that echoed the days of “Once upon a time.” I wanted a real story - to know the people behind the facts he presented, to understand how we got here, to begin to see where we could go now.

So, I did something that felt both terrifying and natural: I invited strangers to breakfast and hoped we’d get closer to the real story. 

I opened with an explanation of my impulse: I find it nauseating to read facts postulated by others concerning the lives of many. I wanted to ground our conversation in your facts, I said, inviting everyone to share their name, the last time they felt connected to community, and whether they had a “third space” in San Francisco.

Just as I began to settle, relieved the container was set and my role complete, someone turned the question back to me: “Caroline, why do you care about this?” 

I was caught off guard, hesitant to say too much and risk a monologue. But as I rushed to a quick response, I found familiarity in his inquiry. He wanted a real story. Not the scripted intro. Not the perfect preamble.

I grew up in Memphis, I said. 

I grew up in community, I clarified. I didn’t realize how rare it was until a few years ago, and I’ve been on a desperate exploration to determine if and how it can be recreated, I explained.

My aunt and cousins lived two blocks away from me, as did the friends I walked to school with every day. My grandmother often picked us up from school, ferrying us to sports practices, while my mom’s three best friends - just a few doors down - shared childcare like it was second nature. Every Monday, they gathered after hours as “The Front Porch Committee.” Twice a week, my great-grandfather cooked dinner for my entire extended family. They were Italian Catholics, and I thought this was normal.

It wasn’t the city’s design that fostered this closeness. Memphis - with its persistent economic injustice, revitalizing spirits of white flight, and car-centric sprawl - is hardly a beacon of communal infrastructure. 

It was a choice - a deliberate one, though often difficult and not always desired - to sustain community in and outside of our nuclear walls. 

That notion of choice became a cornerstone of our breakfast discussion. 

“It’s work - but it’s worthwhile,” someone said as we unpacked what it takes to rebuild belonging. We questioned the need for such work, contemplating the paradox of engineering what should feel effortless: casual, chance encounters.

In deprioritizing collective experiences, we’ve relinquished the burdens of community. By framing self-isolation as a choice, the responsibility to fix it inevitably falls on the individual. We all proposed personal solutions - look up, say hi, show up - but when asked if the individual was to blame, a resounding "no” echoed across the table.

Even as we acknowledged the systemic roots of our isolation, we found ourselves grasping for personal salves to ease the discomfort now required to find community.

Identity was a constant - yet never defined - refrain in our conversation. We spoke more to its erosion than its essence.

Yet, as stories emerged, I scribbled notes, piecing together what felt like the real facts of belonging: to be known - deeply in the moments we needed it most and casually in the shared rhythm of daily life. To play - like children, without an objective but with a shared goal. To make memories - together. To remain romantic - to hold ourselves open, to turn the corner anticipating that fate might hand us beauty despite all odds. To share - our spaces, ideas, and stories. To show up - not because we communicate we will but just because we do. 

The conversation didn’t offer answers, but left me with an exhilarating rabbit hole exploring social forms of care, the privatization of community, and our psychological need for security that comes from knowing where we are.

As I write this, I’m on a plane to NYC.

I recognize the irony in scheduling spontaneity, in carving out deliberate spaces for chance encounters. But it felt like that’s what we needed last Friday, and I’m eager to hear if that resonates east of the Mississippi. If you’re curious to continue this conversation - about belonging, shared spaces, and the role of technology in it all - please join me for happy hour, Friday, January 24th at 5pm. DM for location.