Renouncing the Culture Industry

It’s the mantra of a generation caught in the lull between eras: “This is just the way the world is now."

The pandemic collapsed social life as we knew it—along with the social conventions that shaped it. Not just how we gathered, but how often, where, and with whom.

At first, some changes were welcome. We formed social “bubbles” and embraced depth over breadth in our relationships. The shift toward tighter-knit groups, less binge-drinking, and earlier bedtimes all aligned with a renewed cultural focus on mental health and well-being.

But now, years after those bubbles have burst, the loneliness epidemic still hangs in the air. A wave of technologies and social “fixes”—dating apps, Bumble BFF, the age-old improv class—are marketed as antidotes to our isolation. We often resort to these prescribed solutions by default and repeat that familiar phrase: “This is just the way the world is now.” But rarely do we stop to ask what it actually says about our culture today.

I tried to explain it to my mom.

On her porch table, the remote and fly swatter are strategically placed for a quick draw—to mute the commercials before they blare on, and to whack the insects drawn to the warm glow of the TV. We take our cues from the baseball announcers. She reaches for the remote between innings, and I fill the breaks with lament.

“Not just how often we socialize,” I begin, “but all of our norms for socializing have been upended.”

Between the top and bottom of the fifth, I elaborate: “No one even commits to happy hour. People bail. They flake.” She winces, confused.

By the sixth, I’m railing against the usual advice for meeting new people— get a hobby, join something, get back on the apps. “Never in my life have I felt such pressure to go to these lengths just to be with people,” I say.

Then, during a pitching change in the seventh, I lay it out:

“Today, the message is: people are more shut-in now. You’re up against the gravitational pull of screens and algorithms, which means fewer organic chances to meet new people. If you want connection— whether it’s romance, friendship, or community—you have to pursue it strategically.”

That’s the unspoken truth we’ve absorbed: socializing must be strategic.

It has to be treated like any other goal—it requires planning, intention, and follow-through. A casual approach doesn’t cut it.[1] To lure people out of the comfort of their homes, you have to appeal to shared hobbies, common interests, or causes. You, alone, are not enough. You’ll need a carrot.

My mom finally turns to me and says, “I’m sorry, honey­. This is so foreign to me. Socializing didn’t require a plan when I was your age—it just happened.”

Her generation didn’t chase “community” like a consumer product, join hobbies with ulterior motives, or go on dates with total strangers. Social connection unfolded naturally across the first, second, and third places: home, work, and public life. The unwritten rules of where and how you bonded didn’t require a marketing funnel.

This contrast between past and present reveals just how convoluted our efforts to socialize have become. The pandemic made it undeniably clear that connection is vital to our well-being. But instead of ushering in a roaring twenties revival, as some predicted, our social muscles atrophied.

And yet, while we loudly praise “community” and the importance of “being yourself”, we remain adrift when it comes to rebuilding a social life that fits our values of authentic belonging. In the absence of meaningful structures, most of what’s available feels either hollow or draining.

Countless articles have diagnosed our loneliness, and still we struggle to get off the couch and away from our screens—not because we’re lazy or addicted, but because we lack a shared ethos and reliable social standards that reflect who we’ve become.

My parents’ generation didn’t live under the terms we have today—they didn’t need to, and neither do we.

By looking back to what worked then, and anchoring it to what we value now, we can begin to restore what social life has always been about: being together.

This is the first in a five-part series exploring the folly of our present-day approaches to romance, friendship, and community—and how the past might offer simpler, more enduring ways to build a vibrant social life.

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[1]I long for the evenings when a simple “Are you out?” text could set the night in motion. Back then, we all shared a kind of social radar—we could sense when it was one of those nights people were out. Those texts sparked spontaneous turns, plans colliding, and chance encounters. They were brimming with potential.