Why socializing sometimes sucks
Hi! I’m Katie, and I’m a cultural and social psychologist—but you can think of me as your BFF with a PhD. I live in the desert of Texas alongside the cacti, roadrunners, and horned lizards. If you’re looking to understand your inner landscape and the whirlwind of the world around you, I hope you find something of value here. Make sure to subscribe—and you won’t miss a beat! Thank you so much for being here.
It was a blustery winter day. I walked into the tiny bookstore on the small townsquare in my rural Texas town.
I quickly spotted a flier crookedly taped to the glass display at the front of the shop.
It was an advertisement for a bookclub that was beginning the following week.
The minister of a local church in town—who was widely known for his progressive views and viral church signs—was leading the club, and the first book read was set to be Divine Dance by Richard Rohr1.
Now, I didn’t think anyone else in my small town even knew who Richard Rohr was, much less would choose him for the inaugural theology bookclub meeting.
You see—I had fallen in love with the teachings of Rohr in secret. I was going through my own personal faith deconstruction and mild existential crisis after all—and was certain everyone in my small Texas town would swiftly mark him a heretic and take him out with the trash.
Yet, here was a flier, announcing the collective reading of one of the most influential and freeing voices for me at the time.
I called the church and confirmed the meeting time with the minister. I told him I’d be there.
It’s important to note—as an extroverted introvert, I’m not one for busting into new communities, but this one felt like it just might be a serendipitous fit.
It was a typical Tuesday night when I showed up to that first bookclub meeting and my life was changed.
In the early days of our meeting, I remember sitting in a cold metal folding chair, sweating a bit.
My dual-concious brain was deep into the lively book discussion while simultaneously repeating warnings back to myself to “Tread lightly, dear.”
Fears circulated. Past rejections arose.
I worried—if I shared my innermost thoughts, would everyone kick me out, tar and feather me, while branding me the local heretic?
It took several weeks, months maybe, but I finally took the scary leap and decided to be honest about my truest thoughts surrounding life, spirituality, and my most treacherous existential qualms.
I was relieved to find—not angry scowls and unnerved indictments—but nodding heads and softly muttered “me too”s.
I had made the all-too-common mistake of judging my fellow bookclub attendees by their covers, so to speak, assuming they couldn’t possibly understand where I found myself and what I had been experiencing.
Yet, I discovered that even the women in their 60s with life histories of religious devoutness were experiencing the same existential questions.
I felt seen. I felt known. I felt like I—belonged.
Over the years, this bookclub became a lighthouse for me.
We were a quirky, eclectic bunch—no doubt—often making the bookstore owner blush with our heretical musings and “out there” thoughts.
We grew into a gathering of unlikely friends: an Episcopal reverend, an atheist, a lifetime Catholic, an agnostic, a former member of the Church of Conscious Harmony in Austin, Texas, a minister of the First Christian Church, a Church of Christ pastor’s wife, and my dear friend who interestingly attended the progressive Universalist church in town yet taught religion at the local faith-affirming private school.
The cards did not seem to be in our favor to become such a solid community given our outward identities.
Yet, we would meet each Tuesday and for an hour discuss books by the likes of Rohr, Mary Oliver, and JP Newell.
We would head over to the local pizza parlor for beers and laughs afterwards.
I often found myself climbing into bed after 10PM on many of those weeknights, belly and heart full.
This bookclub showed me in a tangible way that there is a difference between community for community’s sake and life-giving community.
I had spent years trying to fit my round peg self into the square hole of many of the communities I found myself in.
To only leave feeling less than and left out.
And, here, in an unlikely moment of serendipity (or divine intervention—call it what you want), I stumbled into the most meaningful community and some of the most meaningful friendships of my life.
We all need to feel as if we belong—truly belong2.
In many spaces of our lives, we’re promised that we belong. But, we actually don’t—not really.
Instead, our belongingness is often weaponized, rooted in whether we agree to act a certain way, think a certain thing, or sign off on a predesignated belief system.
So, we put on.
We pretend.
We trade in ourselves for the transaction of receiving acceptance.
This is why socializing sometimes sucks.
Here’s the thing—we, as humans, are neurologically wired for connection and community.
We truly need it—not just in a self-actualizing sense of first-world problems—but it’s a fundamental, biological need3.
Some researchers argue that a sense of connection and community is as important as our basic needs of food, shelter, and water.
Those with less fulfilling social connections often have poorer mental health4.
They feel less vitality in their daily lives5.
They’re more likely to report severe symptoms with a cold6.
Research has also linked loneliness to more serious health problems including heart disease7.
In fact—people who report feeling chronically lonely actually live less long lives8.
Studies have shown that loneliness can be as damaging to your physical health as smoking a pack of cigarettes per day9.
All of that to say, a lack of fulfilling social connections doesn’t just affect our mental health, but it also affects our physical well-being.
Sometimes, we feel like we’re doing all the right things to stay connected.
We show up to the dinner party.
We attend the weekly church service.
We check all the boxes we’re told to check.
But, we’re left feeling unfulfilled—or even worse than before we entered those spaces.
We’re missing the mark on connection, and sometimes we don’t even realize it.
Brené Brown describes it well.
She highlights the difference between belonging versus fitting in10.
Belonging, according to Brown, is “being somewhere you want to be, and they want you”.
On the contrary, “fitting in is being somewhere where you want to be, but they don't care one way or the other”.
She goes on to say, “belonging is being accepted for you. Fitting in is being accepted for being like everyone else. So if I get to be me, I belong. If I have to be you, I fit in.”
“If I get to be me, I belong. If I have to be you, I fit in.”—Brené Brown
The research showing us that connection matters to human well-being?
It’s talking about belonging. Not fitting in.
True community leaves us feeling connected, like we truly belong.
It feels good.
It lights us up and inspires our true identities to shine through.
It leaves us feeling supported, embraced, and held.
Superficial community—simply existing in a shared space or socializing as it were—doesn’t.
This false community—or community for community’s sake—is where weaponized belongingness abounds and the expectation to fit in thrives and festers.
It meets none of our needs. Quite the opposite.
It only snufs out our light and dims our spirit. Oftentimes leaving us feeling less connected.
I don’t know about you, but I had spent a lot of my 30s fitting in. Find out what you want. Be that girl for a month. I was an expert at that. I could change my shade as quick as a chameleon, so much so that I had forgotten who I was.
I wanted to be my old self again, but I was still trying to find it.
Here in this bookclub community, I had tasted what it felt like, not to fit in, but to truly belong.
So richly supported and fully embraced—I felt safe enough to show up fully as myself, with all the mess and the beauty.
And, it filled my cup.
My beloved bookclub has since disbanded.
The leader of our band of misfits moved across the globe.
Some began showing up less and less.
Then came 2020.
And, despite our best efforts to successfully transition to #zoomlife, the pandemic drove the last nail in the coffin.
But, I’ll forever remember those nights of watching the last full moon rise in lawn chairs and cackling in a corner booth, knowing that this slice of belonging heaven? It was rare. I was there. I’ll remember it, all too well.
The best part of that is I now know that I don’t have to settle for socializing that sucks.
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It’s a great read, BTW! Check it out by clicking here*.
For a more academic read on the need to belong, check out Baumeister and Leary’s formative article in Psychological Bulletin entitled The Need to Belong.
One renowned psychologist wrote a whole book* about it.
This journal article from 2021 is a great illustration of this phenomenon.
This article from NPR is an accessible overview of this research.
It’s true. Click here to read the academic research.
The following quote comes directly from Brown’s must-read entitled Braving the Wilderness*. I don’t say it lightly when I say “must-read”. If you’ve yet to read it, get your hands on a copy ASAP!
*This is an affiliate link.
Cover art by Alena Ganzhela used under license
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