The Answer to Student Loneliness Isn’t At the Bar—It’s In Our Kitchens
Why small, intentional gatherings can ease loneliness better than nights out in the city.
A narrative I often encounter around campus is that Columbia can be so isolating. A scrolling session on Sidechat is incomplete without coming across a post about loneliness. On Reddit, things aren’t much better: Perhaps one in ten posts on r/Columbia are about how to make friends. It’s New York, people say; I’ve never felt lonelier than in a city full of people.
As school rolls back into session, there will be many new faces on campus. You, reader, may be one of them. For those of you who enjoy exploring the city’s social scene, Columbia’s location is obviously a boon. Yet, for those (like me) who don’t, the ready availability of activities in the city can draw us away from forging connections on campus. Because our lives are constantly saturated with opportunities for diversion in the City That Never Sleeps, staying in and bonding with each other becomes less attractive.
Over the summer, while I was on campus as a Laidlaw scholar, I hosted several dinner parties with my friends. Not the fancy candles-and-table-settings kind, of course—the college-student-on-a-stipend kind, with paper plates and cheap wine uncorked with chopsticks and food served in the vessels they were cooked in. During one such party, a friend said to the group jokingly that if we were in the middle of nowhere with only ourselves to keep us company, the entire scholarship cohort would be a lot closer. It’s so hard to sit down and have a real conversation with someone when there’s always something more exciting to do.
Her words articulated something that had been in the back of my mind throughout my first year at Columbia. Now, I’ll admit that I’m something of a grandma; I prefer sleeping before midnight and waking up to the sun. I have gone out, once or twice—stayed in the heart of the city until the wee hours of the morning, getting back to John Jay at 4 a.m., chugging two waters I used an express swipe on. I haven’t exactly enjoyed it, so maybe there’s something in this going out versus staying in equation that I’m missing.
Going out—to me, at least—feels good inin the moment. I meet new people, dance a bit, and have fun. But we follow the same script without fail: “What’s your name?”, “Where are you from?”, “Which college?”, “What year are you in?”, “What’s your major?” After five or so such reintroductions, I often get tired and go outside for air. And then I either get those people’s contacts or I don’t, and regardless we almost always never speak again. The only bonds formed from the evening are with the friends I came out with in the first place: We subway home, go on a JJ’s run, and debrief on someone’s dorm floor. I rarely make meaningful connections with anyone else this way. What’s left after a night out are the remnants of a dopamine rush: sticky chocolate wrappers on the floor, a sour aftertaste from the night on my tongue, ibuprofen on the nightstand—an ultimately unfulfilling experience.
I’m not a prude. I have nothing against going out. Yet, there is a part of me that thinks this commonly-prescribed remedy to counter loneliness—“Go out! Have fun! Meet new people!”—is ineffective. Getting hit with a “wyd” text the day after isn’t exactly the peak of human socialization. Neither is saving new contacts such as “jennie maybe jenna or jeanine idk?” or “guy in wifebeater on 23rd.” Maybe I lack whimsy, but these half-baked interactions often leave me feeling lonelier than if I’d just stayed in with a warm cup of tea and a comforting movie.
This brings me back to dinner parties. Hosting many such events over the summer made me realize that, as often as I hear people say they want to be more social, they always wait for others to invite them to something. I used to be this way too—it always felt intimidating to send that first text, to reach out with that first invite. But after realizing how many other people also felt the same way, something clicked. If everyone feels that way, maybe that’s the reason I wasn’t receiving invitations to things. Not because I was inherently unlikable or uncool, but because my friends were just as shy and afraid of rejection as I was.
So I offer another potential solution to lonely Friday nights: Invite a friend to a dinner, and have them bring a friend, too. Hosting is easier than it seems. It’s not about impressing your friends with caviar bumps and Pinterest-worthy setups—a shoestring budget works just fine. It’s about being present, bringing people together, and having the wherewithal to reach out first.
It’s in these quieter environments, free from the hazy bass of frat basements and strobe lights of clubs, that real conversations happen. Sure, it may be less glamorous than a “proper” night out, but sometimes a little cozy is just what everyone needs to open up.
Ms. Chen is a sophomore at Columbia College studying linguistics, cognitive science, and East Asian languages & cultures.
 | A guest post by
|