Why Is Community So Hard to Find?
*No AI has been used to write this article. All words are my own.*
I’ve been silently carrying a dilemma with me for some time now.
Every now and again, I’m hit with a wave of depression that darkens my days for weeks on end. I’m prone to depressive episodes and always have been. When life hits hard, it takes me a second to recover. But of all life’s uncertainties and setbacks, there’s one thing that throws me deep into the blues more than anything else: the yearning for connection.
For a long while, I’ve been searching for community; for the warmth of being a welcome and much-loved villager in a thriving village.
The search for my people has taken me to three different cities: London, Sydney, and now Vancouver.
But in each new place, I’ve come across a familiar block: a sense of isolation.
It’s not finding people that’s been the problem — it’s getting them to commit. Friends seem to dance at my periphery, distanced by fickleness, misaligned priorities, and the occasional ghosting. In short: I’m trying to connect, but people are increasingly hard to pin down.
Why is community so hard to find?
I have my theories. But let me rewind a second and start from the beginning.
Connection matters
I’ve always loved deeply.
My first heartbreak came from friends (not lovers). I never recovered when my best friend moved away at the end of first grade. And when I lost my next best friend to the new girl at school, it hurt so bad I needed counselling. At just 10 years old, I already recognized that no loss would cut me deeper than estrangement from those I loved.
Over the years, I’ve continued to reach into the depths of others, longing for closeness and the safety of being held in return.
I’ve written about loneliness and longing before in posts such as this one. It’s no mystery at this point that a desire for connection underpins most of my motivations in life. I feel certain I’m not alone in this; relationships are a foundational part of our humanity.
But what does confound me is why true connection — friendship in particular — seems to have become such a rare phenomenon.
Nothing beats the feeling of community
There’ve been few times I’ve truly experienced the sense of community I long for:
Once was among high school friends; a tight-knit group that felt like family. We laughed, we cried; we were totally uninhibited in one another’s presence. Our friendship was wonderfully tactile in that we held hands and gave hugs that lasted minutes. We regularly said “I love you.”
Then there was the group of four I found by my fourth year at drama school. We shared a similar intimacy — all while creating great art and boosting one another to the height of our potential.
Friendship such as this is incredibly fulfilling. I wish it lasted…
It’s easy to find community when at school or university (it’s made for you). But something happens when we grow up: people’s priorities change. We turn toward the promise of career; we partner off — and before you know it, people drift away.
So here I am today: early 30s, living on yet another new continent, and still searching for the quality of friendship I had in college.
The de-prioritization of friendship
For a long time, I’ve attributed my lack of community to being in the wrong place.
“It’s hard to make friends in Sydney — people already have their friends from school.”
“Vancouverites are reserved.”
But I’m not so sure anymore that I’m in the wrong place. I’ve seen the same pattern play out too many times — both in my own life, and with others looking to deepen adult friendships:
Many people say they want community, but don’t seem to prioritize it.
There’s no shortage of ways we can meet new people — work, meet-up groups, even via apps (and I’ve tried them all) — but connecting beyond acquaintanceship can feel like digging for gold.
Some people genuinely want less intimacy than I do. Others are lucky enough to have found their people. But we have a loneliness epidemic for a reason — and when we look at our priorities, I think the reasons become clear:
Why do we readily schedule around work, but when push comes to shove, social outings are the first to go?
Why is it normal to see a partner four times a week but unusual to see a friend that often?
Why do we assume friendship should sustain itself with minimal effort? (A 2-hour coffee catch-up once a month does not community make.)
Perhaps this is the product of a Western society that has taught us to abandon the simplicity of community in favour of individualistic pursuits: personal freedom and success, autonomy, and security.
We’re taught to value romantic partnerships over friendships, and personal gain over being of service to the collective.
We work, tend to those living within the immediate confines of our household, and recover from the stress of life. And then — but only if we have the time and energy — we turn towards friends and neighbours.
Why do we expect our relationships to survive on leftover time?
I have a partner; I have work — but I want more. I miss my friends.
The cost of individualism
I’ve observed this shift towards tending to the self first. I understand why this has happened — it goes hand-in-hand with the boundary-setting and self-care practices that have become synonymous with Gen Y and Z healing generational trauma.
But when does cancelling plans for the third time in a row because we’ve had a bad day simply become being a shitty friend?
I’ve observed an almost radical acceptance of repeatedly cancelling plans because “I just can’t do people today” and leaving texts from friends unread for days on end. We make light of it.
Yes, many of us are exhausted by life’s demands and the constant bombardment of social media, news, and email notifications. But we also have a choice. And I think we’ve forgotten that all relationships require some compromise.
Everyone wants a village, but no one wants to be a villager.
In other words: We crave the benefits of a supportive community, but we resist the responsibilities, sacrifices, and minor inconveniences required to build one.
And I think it’s hurting a lot of us more than we like to admit.
Community means doing life together
When it comes to connecting — truly connecting — with those beyond my partner, it often feels to me like licking the tip of an ice cream cone: I get a taste, but I ultimately feel insanely deprived.
I want the whole ice cream: emotional intimacy; touch.
I want the kind of friendships reminiscent of the 90s, where people call rather than text, and send a card in the mail. Hell, I even welcome the horror of people unexpectedly dropping by for a cup of coffee and a chat.
Because by being so boundaried — protected by careful scheduling of catch-ups; hidden behind a phone screen — we’re missing out on the messiness that is true friendship. And I’ve come to think that community means doing life together — the good, bad, and the ugly — not just sometimes, in carefully scheduled moments.
Connection has proven time and again to be vital for wellbeing. In fact, people who feel supported by a strong sense of community are proven to live longer. I think many of us have just forgotten — or never learned — what it means to do life together.
It takes courage to connect
I’m no stranger to shying away from others. I battle with the desire to hide every day. Because as much as I crave connection, I fear it (abandonment, rejection, disappointment).
Connection is vulnerable. It takes courage to be seen, to need, and to give of ourselves. It takes a vulnerability we would rather avoid amid the busyness of the daily grind.
It’s comfortable to play the “life’s too busy” card. Because what’s the alternative? Collapsing in tears in front of our friends because we’ve had a bad day. Letting them see our messy living room. Showing up at 20%.
But maybe we need to dare be this uninhibited? To show up anyway, whether sad, scared, or anxious, knowing that community means doing life together.
I’m inclined to believe that at the end of the day, nothing matters more than our relationships. It’s our impact on one another that matters most.
A great tragedy in life is to die having never let anybody truly know us. Equally devastating is to never have fully loved those we care about most.
And so, despite the fact that I feel like I’m searching for water in a desert, I’m going to keep pursuing community. Even when I’m scared. Even when it feels like nobody wants community in return.
Because for me: it’s what matters most.
Did this piece resonate with you?
I’d love to hear your thoughts — or for you to share it with someone who might relate.
You can email me, subscribe to Moonlight Blog on Substack, or explore similar reflections to this one:
Longing, Loneliness, & the Cry to Feel Seen.