When the U.S. surgeon general declared loneliness an epidemic last year, the finding hit close to home for millions of Americans. The report described loneliness not just as an emotional ache but as a public health risk, one that increases the likelihood of heart disease, stroke, dementia and premature death. It’s a paradox of modern life: in an age of constant digital connection, people have never felt more alone.
Few understand that tension better than Jamie Tworkowski. Nearly 20 years ago, he founded To Write Love on Her Arms, a grassroots mental health organization built around one idea—that hope and community can save lives. In the years since, he’s watched loneliness evolve from a quiet undercurrent into a defining cultural condition. And lately, he’s been thinking about what it actually takes to build the kind of community that can heal it.
For Tworkowski, friendship isn’t something that happens by accident anymore. It requires intention—showing up, making plans, creating space for others.
“When we leave it to chance, we end up not getting lunch or coffee,” he says. “I can’t be responsible for anyone else’s schedule or them showing up as a good friend. I can only be responsible for my actions.”
That shift—from waiting to be invited to reaching out first—has become central to how he understands connection.
“I can choose to be open,” he says. “Sometimes my counselor will just ask, ‘Are you leaving your house enough?’ Whether that’s walking your dog or going to the café, we need to remember that other people exist.”
He’s learned that friendship is built through ordinary consistency, not grand gestures.
“When vulnerability is met with presence, attention, compassion and encouragement, I think that’s a recipe for connection,” he says. “When we choose to talk about our grief and confusion instead of pretending to have it all together, and someone meets that with empathy, that’s when we feel known.”
It’s simple but difficult advice in a culture that prizes self-sufficiency. Many adults, Tworkowski says, have forgotten how to form lasting friendships because we expect them to appear naturally, the way they did in school or youth group. But those environments provided structure—shared time, shared purpose. Without that scaffolding, connection takes work.
He suggests returning to the places and passions that already bring joy. Go for walks in a park you love. Spend time in a coffee shop that feels familiar. Join a local book club or a pickup team.
“When we do things that are true to who we are,” he says, “we put ourselves in a position to bump into people who might be like-minded.”
The point isn’t to chase friends but to live honestly enough that friendship has somewhere to find you.
Technology, of course, complicates things. Social media offers the illusion of closeness while deepening disconnection. But Tworkowski believes technology can help when used with care. Instead of waiting for invitations, he encourages people to take initiative—send a message, make a call, set up dinner.
“There are so many ways to connect, but our best head start is the people we already know,” he says.
He admits it can be uncomfortable. Reaching out means risking silence or rejection. But he’s learned not to let that stop him. If one friend can’t meet up, he moves down the list. “If the goal is connection,” he says, “I can keep seeking that out.”
During the pandemic, Tworkowski began leading small groups on Zoom—something he expected to feel awkward but didn’t. Over time, he discovered that even a virtual room could teach him something about presence. For an hour, everyone looked at each other, listened, and were reminded that they existed.
“It’s one of the only times I’m not looking at my phone or thinking about the next place I have to be,” he says. “I’m actually looking at people and listening—and also feeling seen and heard.”
Those conversations showed him that connection is less about the medium and more about the mindset. For him, technology is simply a tool that can foster relationship, as long as it isn’t the only one.
Still, he’s careful not to let screens take over. Best-case scenario, he says, we live close enough to share meals, take walks and laugh together. Technology should be a bridge, not the foundation.
After years of work that keeps him online, Tworkowski has learned the importance of balance. Too much time behind a screen leaves him restless and detached, so he intentionally gets outside—surfing, driving to the beach or walking his dog. He’s found that physical movement and shared experiences restore something that video calls can’t. Connection, he says, isn’t just emotional; it’s physical, mental and spiritual.
That holistic view also extends to where we live. Some people simply don’t have access to community because of geography or cost. Tworkowski empathizes with that reality but still challenges people to ask hard questions. What would it take to live somewhere that makes connection easier? Could moving closer to friends—or even choosing a new environment—be an act of self-care?
“Sometimes I talk to people who say, ‘I don’t have any friends where I live,’ and that’s really sad,” he says. “We’re all dealt different cards. It costs money to move. But I love to at least ask, what would it look like to live somewhere you feel good about? Somewhere you can imagine like-minded people?”
It’s an uncomfortable question in a culture where geography is often dictated by jobs, not relationships. But he believes moving toward community—literally or figuratively—is an act of faith. Prioritizing friendship may mean rearranging your life around what really matters.
For Tworkowski, that conviction goes back to where his own story began. The first version of To Write Love on Her Arms started with a small group of friends showing up for one person in crisis. Two decades later, that same principle guides how he thinks about friendship: people heal in relationship, not isolation.
“The truth is, no one can do it for us,” he says. “But when we share the real parts of ourselves and someone meets us with compassion—that’s where community begins.”
The epidemic of loneliness may be vast, but its antidote is surprisingly ordinary. It looks like a text, a phone call, a shared table. It looks like the courage to say, “I’m lonely,” and the compassion to answer, “Me too.”
We don’t have to fix each other. We just have to show up.
