A growing number of companies say they can help adults make new friends. I gave one of them my full attention, seven weeks, and $250.
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.
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.
Hilarious 😆