Have you ever craved a knock on the door after a soul-crushing day? Someone standing there, unannounced, with a pint of ice cream and no expectations? Have you ever wanted someone to love you quietly – a gentle squeeze of the hand before an exam or someone who picks up after the first ring? Everyone wants a village. A community. A safe space. And yet, it seems like no one wants to be the one holding the ice cream.
Gen Z is the most digitally active – and therefore the most connected – generation in history. We drink the least, move more, track our protein, go to therapy, and set our boundaries with diligence. On paper, Gen Z should be happier, healthier, and living culturally-rich lives. However, statistically, we are the most anxious generation. The most depressed generation. The loneliest.
We are a generation fluent in boundaries. In “protecting our peace”. In “guarding our energy”. In cancelling plans without guilt and muting notifications without explanation. And to be clear, a lot of this is good – necessary, even. For the first time, young people speak openly about burnout, anxiety, and emotional labour. We are more self-aware than ever. But because of it, that self-awareness has turned into self-isolation.
Over the last few years, friendship has become optional. Community is something you consume rather than contribute to. We expect availability but offer flexibility, and we want support without obligation despite the fact that historically, a village was not convenient.
Villages meant shared responsibility. You showed up when you were tired. You helped when it was not your problem. You listened when you would rather have been alone. You carried parts of other people’s lives simply because they were yours to carry. Now, we call that “too much”. There is a quiet shift happening in how we relate to one another. Discomfort is interpreted as misalignment. Effort is interpreted as emotional strain. If something feels draining, we retreat. If a friendship requires repeated compromise, we question it. If someone needs more than we can comfortably give, we label it unhealthy.
But real friendship is often tiring. It disrupts your schedule. It demands you leave your room when you would rather stay in. It requires sitting in conversations that do not energise you. It asks for forgiveness. It asks for patience. It asks for time – the one thing we guard most aggressively.
The irony is painful: in trying to avoid emotional exhaustion, we are creating emotional isolation. In protecting our energy, we are starving ourselves of the very thing that replenishes it: belonging. A village does not exist without villagers. It does not exist without the friend who drives across town at midnight. Without the one who remembers birthdays. Without the person who initiates plans even after being left on read. Without the uncomfortable conversations. Without the inconvenience.
We talk a lot about “love languages” – physical touch, words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service – but it is deceptively easy to assume that a well-timed text or a single afternoon together is enough to sustain a relationship. Love languages are ways of expressing care. They are not substitutes for commitment. Time. Effort. Showing up when it is inconvenient. Choosing to stay when it would be easier to withdraw. That is the real language of love.
Everyone wants a village. The harder question is are you willing to be a villager?
