I walk into the gym and this remix is playing. I don't know what it is, but it's giving early 2000s drama in the best way. As I scan in, I ask the girl at the desk, "Is that a Britney remix? I've never heard this one!"

She shrugs. "It's just the playlist they put on, I don't know." She doesn't even look up to catch my eye. It's not like I asked for her autograph. I was just a little curious about the damn song.

Cool cool cool.

Just like that, any possible connection between me and this stranger is dead.

Here is what I wish she had said.

Something tiny. Anything. "I think it's a remix of Toxic, right?" or even "Haha, I wonder that every time." Not because I needed a friend right there and then. Not because I wanted her phone number. Just because, why not?

We're all stuck in this loop.

Half the time we're making jokes about how we'd rather be left alone forever. The other half we're writing long essays about the loneliness epidemic.

We can't keep doing both.

We say we want connection, but we keep treating first contact like a threat instead of a chance. A moment to protect ourselves instead of a moment to open something.

So here's the rule:

Treat first contact as a chance to connect.

That's it.

You don't need to go all in. You don't have to swap numbers or trauma bond in the produce aisle. You just respond. Smile, nod, say "Right?" or "I wondered that too." Anything.

And if that feels good and natural, move it one step forward. Ask their name. Ask one tiny, real, curiosity-driven question. Extend a crumb of an invitation, for anything.

You'll be the one to decide how far it goes. You are not locked in. You are not married. You are just building a moment.

Because if we want to have a real life, with people who know us, who show up for us, who make things feel less lonely when we're old or overwhelmed or just not okay, then we have to start building that life.

Now.

And we do it one ping at a time.

So let's talk practice.

This doesn't mean you suddenly become the mayor of every room you walk into. It is not about being smooth or charming or "networking." It is about trying. Once. Just once. Per interaction.

If someone comments on your dog, respond with more than just "yeah." Say, "He's on his apology tour today," or "Want him? He's free." Something human. Something that makes them feel like they weren't just talking into the void. That is a connection. That is enough.

If you're checking out at the grocery store and the cashier's nails are cool, tell her. Then go just a little further. "Did you get them done anywhere around here?" You don't have to become her bestie. You just made a tiny pocket for something, anything. That's the point.

At the gym, in class, in line for coffee, in an elevator. There is always a moment. A ping. You just have to respond. Not because it will always go somewhere, but because it might. And even if it doesn't, you showed up fully in the world. You reminded someone else that we're all real people, if only for a second. That counts, especially these days.

It is just practice. For now, for later, for the kind of life where you don't always feel so alone. You build it one interaction at a time.

Otherwise, loneliness sneaks up on you. It starts quietly: you stop chatting with strangers, skip the little conversations, avoid small talk even when it can be about anything you like. One day you look up and realize there is no one to call. No emergency contact. No one who would notice if you went missing. You know those stories about people who die alone in their home and aren't found until the smell hits the hallway of their building and neighbors start to complain? Those stories are not just tragic; they are reminders. That kind of isolation doesn't come out of thin air. It happens slowly, to regular people who didn't realize they had to build a world around them until it was too late.

Here is the flip side: that tiny interaction could lead somewhere. You never know who you're talking to.

• That cashier with the cool nails might be the one who sends you to the best salon you’ve ever been to.

• That too chatty airplane seat neighbor might be the exact person to ask when you're hunting for a reliable handyman.

• That older woman who asked about your dog might have season tickets to musicals and an extra seat she is always trying to give away.

• That girl who looks younger than you might end up being your favorite weekly cafe hangout buddy.

None of it happens if you stay closed. None of it can.

The good stuff starts when you're open. When you let something, anything, begin.

And maybe you’re not lonely. Maybe you already have a group. You’ve got your people. That is amazing. But that doesn’t mean the work is over.

Wherever you are, at the gym, in a class, at a meetup, at your favorite coffee spot, there is almost always someone new standing just outside the circle. Not forcing anything. Just there. Maybe hoping there is space for them too.

You don’t have to adopt them. You don’t have to be best friends. You don't have to take them under your wing. But making room, being open, letting the edges of your circle stay a little soft instead of rigid and sealed shut, is how you make a difference. That is how you build a community, bit by bit.

“No new friends” is a fun little mantra, and a definite banger. But it is also a solid way to keep yourself stuck.

You never know who the next person you meet may be. You never know who clicks with your group in a way no one expected, who softens your edges, who hypes you up, who helps you grow as individuals.

We all have plenty of experience doing the other thing where we stay guarded and cooler than everyone else and do not open ourselves up for friendships. We are experts in this by now, all of us. If there were anyone to teach it to, we could all be teaching university classes on how to lose friends and alienate people. We all know how to shrink our circles so well. We all know how to say “fuck you” to curiosity. That is super cool of us all.

It has not been working.

It has not made us better, or happier, or more at ease.

So yeah. Smile. Ask the question. Follow the ping.

Like I said, treat every first contact as a chance to connect. That is the rule.

You do not have to be charming. Just respond. If it feels right, go one step further. Ask their name. Ask one real question. Offer something tiny.

Not every moment leads somewhere. But some do. And that is how it starts.

This was my third installment in my Friendship Project series, where I discuss the trials and tribulations of making new friends and keeping friends as an adult, especially one with neurodivergence/ADHD. You can go back to the others in the series by clicking the series name at the top of the page, or just stay tuned for the next part of this series. I want to make us all less lonely, once and for all. It’s about time, wouldn’t you say?

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So I started a Meetup group for neurodivergent people in the Bay Area.

Not to make friends for myself (though sure, I wouldn’t have said no). But really, I wanted to create the kind of space I wish had existed for me. A space that could’ve helped me years ago. A space that could still help someone now. A little corner of the world where you don’t have to explain why you talk the way you talk or think the way you think or need five minutes alone in the middle of a party. A place where people like us could just… exist. Together. Ideally in chairs. Possibly with snacks.

I said I’m an ADHD coach. I made it clear it wasn’t going to be group therapy. But also, it wasn’t going to be small talk about traffic and whether Mercury is in retrograde. It was going to be structured enough to feel safe, open enough to feel human. A place where people could talk about what it’s like to be wired differently: how it shapes your work, your rest, your calendar, your executive function, your total collapse into the couch at 4pm.

And people joined. A lot of people.

I posted events. One was a Zoom where I read from a book on ADHD and resilience. We paused and talked about how it hit us. It was solid. People who showed up liked it. Most of the ones who said they’d show up, didn’t.

I kept trying. More posts. More events. RSVPs slowed. Then stopped. Then I became that person posting “hey just checking in 😊” into the abyss.

So I thought maybe what they wanted was something in person.

I found a library that was semi-central. I booked a room. I planned a gentle, welcoming event. More structured than I wanted future meetups to be, just to help people not freak out. Because let’s be honest: walking into a random room of strangers to talk about your brain? Not a casual Tuesday.

I almost brought snacks. I didn’t. And I’m glad. If I’d had to carry a tray of uneaten mini muffins back to my car, I might’ve needed to be sedated.

I got there early. The librarian told me I couldn’t access the room until at least two more people showed up. I wandered around the building pretending to read posters on community composting. I updated the app. I waited.

Eventually one person showed up. She was kind. We waited together. No one else came.

At some point the librarian said we had to give up the room. I posted on the event page: hey, if you’re coming, let me know. We just need one more person.

No one replied.

We lost the room.

So we sat in a quieter part of the library and talked for a while. It was a genuinely good conversation. I thought maybe something had started.

Later that year, I messaged her to say Merry Christmas.

She never replied.

I drove home that day with tears in my eyes. Not because no one showed up. But because I tried. I created something that could’ve been good. I carved out time, energy, brainpower, hope — actual hope. I showed up early. And I got ghosted by people who were literally in a group for neurodivergent people who say they want connection.

I followed up with some of the RSVP people. Everyone had a reason. One even said she came but couldn’t find us. We were right near the entrance. She didn’t message. She just left. Like it was a spy drop gone wrong.

So I tried charging a small symbolic fee next time. Not a big deal. Just enough to make people think before clicking yes.

No one clicked anything.

I kept the group open for a bit. Then shut it down. Not because I didn’t care, but because I cared way too much. It started to feel like I was hosting a rejection simulator. Like the whole platform was a prank to see how many ways people could disappear.

And then… I started a second group.

This one was just for fun. I’ve loved Britney Spears since forever. She basically raised me. I’ve never had Britney friends. I thought maybe, finally, I could meet someone who got it. Someone who wanted to sing or scream or dance or just feel all the things at once about her.

So I made a Meetup group for Bay Area Britney fans.

Two people joined.

They were both nice. One told me she wouldn’t be able to meet up for the next few months. The other quietly vanished. I posted light ideas. Nothing intense. No pressure. Just “hey, would anyone want to maybe meet sometime soonish in the general future?”

Crickets. For months. For nearly a year. And then, finally: delete.

And listen, I know. I know people are tired and overstimulated and dealing with five group chats and twenty browser tabs and their therapist being on vacation. I know. But this wasn’t a Tinder swipe or an “interested” click on a Facebook event. This was me actually building something. With time. With thought. With care. With literal money. I was paying a monthly subscription to offer people a chance at something better.

And they didn’t take it.

Or maybe they did, in theory. But not enough to show up.

I wasn’t trying to make a new best friend. I wasn’t trying to get validation or attention. I wasn’t trying to get anything at all.

I was offering something. A real thing. A thing that could’ve helped someone. A thing that could’ve felt good for once. A thing someone probably needed and didn’t even know they needed.

But they didn’t come.

They clicked yes and disappeared. Or they said nothing. And over time, the silence started to feel like the answer.

I’m not bitter.

Actually, no — I am a little bitter.

But mostly I’m just sad that the thing I made, the thing I still believe mattered, got treated like spam. Like background noise. Like someone else’s emotional to-do list. I’m mad that I made room for something people said they wanted… and they left me standing in it alone.

I’m mad that I made space for people who said they were craving connection… and ended up sitting in it alone.

And the thing is? I know I’m not the only one. That’s what gets me. I know there are people reading this who’ve tried to start something and watched it go nowhere. Who got ghosted by a group they built. Who planned, and showed up, and stood there with hope and maybe hummus, and felt like a fool.

You’re not.

You’re just early.

This was the second post in my installment The Friendship Project. For more, please consider subscribing. It would make me feel a little less alone :)

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The pitch came to me on Instagram, and honestly? It felt like a sign. Not one of those creepy “how did they know I cried myself to sleep last night?” kind of signs, but the good kind. It was bright, hopeful, grassroots-feeling. It said there were women in the South Bay, just like me, who were done waiting. They weren’t looking for mixers or book clubs or starting from scratch. They wanted real friends. And RealRoots said they’d figured out how to make that happen.

Guaranteed.

I was all in. Because if I got the ad, I figured other people like me did too. People who lived nearby. People looking for real friendship.

RealRoots promised a guaranteed way to make friends. You’d fill out a long, thoughtful survey (40 questions!) about your personality, values, and social style. Then you’d get matched with a curated group of women in your city and meet them for a series of seven guided experiences. They’d handle everything: the reservations, the plans, the conversation prompts. The friendship part was supposed to just… happen. All you had to do was show up.

I imagined what they showed in their photos: women of all kinds, laughing together. Different races, sizes, ages… all smiling like they were in on something good. Like they found each other.

Honestly, it was the dream. You show up, and nobody's already paired off. Nobody's looking at their phone or rushing off after class. You get to sit down in a circle and say, “Hey, here’s who I am,” and people actually want to know. It's not like Pilates/dance/art/pottery, where everyone's got their own thing going on and you just sort of coexist. It felt like I was finally being invited into a space where the point was to make friends. And they were all from the South Bay? Now that was the cherry on top. No need to drive out to San Francisco. No more trying to force something with someone who lives in a different world. It just felt so possible. So doable.

I didn’t realize yet how much of that feeling came from the structure itself.

The first event I went to was kind of a trial night. They call it the “Meet & Greet”. You’d sign up, pay $20, and show up to see if the whole thing felt right. When I got there (late, traffic), the place was full. It was a bar in Downtown San Jose that had been reserved for RealRoots. A woman at the door asked for my name, checked me in, and pointed me toward my group.

It wasn't small. My “pod”, if you will, took up two tables, maybe more. There were a lot of us; way more than I expected for something that was supposed to be “curated.” The goal wasn't deep connection—just a taste. Our guide read out icebreakers and nudged us to mix around and chat with different people. Everyone knew this wasn't the final group. Most women there were just trying to decide whether to sign up for the full seven-week experience. So was I.

It went well. Everybody was friendly and kind, and it felt eclectic, like every woman there had a completely different life story to tell. I was excited about the possibilities. Everyone seemed so… well, friendly.

The next morning, we all got an automated email from RealRoots about how we can sign up for the seven-week series. We had 24 hours, so… tick-tock. The price was $250, supposedly covering all the “highly curated bonding experiences.” Turns out that “included” the $20 Meet & Greet I’d already paid for. So I essentially paid $270—to meet the same five people twice.

We had a guide (just a girl our age. She didn’t pay for it, she was getting paid. Peanuts, but getting paid) and eventually five girls, including me. With the guide, who became our friend as we went on with the series, it was the six of us.

Just like that, the group was formed. Five women, plus our guide, who started to feel like one of us.

At first, it was awkward. That kind of awkward where everyone’s talking about their struggles with making it in time and why things are hard and what’s holding them back. A lot of “I can’t” and “It’s just so hard to do”. It felt like maybe it wasn’t going to happen. Like maybe it was just gonna be another one of those things where people mean well, but nothing truly clicks.

But by the end of that first meetup, I was already thinking, wait. Maybe. Just maybe. And from then on, it kept getting better. Every week, they all showed up. That sounds small, but it wasn’t. They kept showing up. That’s what made me start trusting them.

As time went on, the friendships grew. Some, of course, more than others, but that’s just the way it goes. It felt like a real friend group, and I felt so happy, for the first time in such a long time. When I had to put my first dog down after 16 years of bliss (and anxiety, tbh; VERY anxious dog) they were there for me to process the loss. When one of us lost her job, we were there for her to process that, and to help her get back on her feet. For the first time in a long while, my thirst for friendships was finally quenched.

Then the meetings ended. And everything started falling apart.

It all ended in June, right as the summer kicked off. So at first, the silence made sense—vacations, travel, life stuff.. whatever. Everyone went away for the summer, including me. I went to Barcelona, and brought back souvenir keychains for my five new besties. I still have those. Spoiler: we’d never meet again.

Looking back, I don’t know if we were actually becoming friends or if we were just good at following instructions. Maybe it wasn’t real bonding. Maybe we were just really good at being assigned to each other. We showed up, we answered the questions, we played the games. But the moment there was no clear, pre-paid calendar invite, no plan, no guide nudging us along—it all just…stopped. I tried, more than once, to suggest anything casual. Coffee. A walk. Karaoke. Literally anything.

The excuses were flimsy. No one was too busy. They just didn’t want to hang out. That’s what stung.

Eventually, I stopped trying. And the group chat… died. Fossilized.

RealRoots said they matched us based on values, personalities, friendship styles, and goals. But from what I saw, it wasn’t thoughtful—it was convenient. They promised a science of compatibility. Instead, they plucked a handful of us from the same happy hour and crossed their fingers.

Which made me wonder: what exactly were we matched for?

I told RealRoots what happened. That our group never met again. That they weren’t looking for real connection. That it felt like we were just politely performing friendship. And once the curtain dropped, no one wanted to keep it going. Except me.

They said, “Thanks for the feedback!” and offered me a spot in the next Meet & Greet. At the exact same bar. With new people. Like the whole thing was just a game of social roulette, and I should spin the wheel again. So F it, I did. I went to the second Meet & Greet.

I don’t know if I came in more jaded than before (not unlikely) or if this second large group wasn’t as lively as the first one, but… the magic was gone. Everyone was complaining about life, I saw a lot of eye rolling, a lot of women left early (despite the thing lasting like an hour and a half), and a general lack of care from everyone. I could tell that this wasn’t going to be any better than the last one. In fact, it was probably going to make the first group I was part of look like a sitcom friend group in comparison. So I didn’t sign up for the whole series again (which, by the way, would have been the exact same thing, in the exact same places. Mind-numbing).

RealRoots consoled me by telling me that they had a new thing coming up, where we could respond to yet another ultra-long questionnaire, and months later get paired up with one person in our area who fits us like a glove. Months later, I got paired with a middle aged woman who never responded to my messages. When I asked to be repaired, they said “next time we’ll do the pairing, we’ll think about it.”

That was in January. Still waiting.

Kidding. I’m not holding my breath for this shit.

I didn’t need another survey. I needed someone to actually care if what they promised happened.

They didn’t. And honestly, most people don’t. Not really. But I still do. I still think it matters.

Making friends as an adult already feels like a test no one taught you how to study for. RealRoots made it feel like group work, where you’re the only one who cares about the grade.

There’s something particularly cruel about selling people on hope and calling it connection.

It’s one thing to feel alone.
It’s another thing to feel alone after you’ve tried.

This piece is part of The Friendship Project—my ongoing series about what it actually takes to make friends as an adult. I’ve tried everything from curated meetups to starting my own groups, and I’m documenting it all.

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If you’ve ever felt like friendship shouldn’t be this hard, or you’re just nosy like me, subscribe for more. Or drop a comment and tell me your take. I’m all ears. Unless it’s spam.

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