Eavesdrop at a Harvard Square coffee shop, and you might find yourself becoming curious. You’ll see tables dotted with books that would break a pinky toe if they fell from a high-top. Here, new ideas are taking shape in dozens of different languages. If you’ve been in this scene recently, you’ve probably seen me in a cozy nook, engrossed in conversation with someone I just met.
I talk to a new stranger every day. Over the last 500-plus days1, this endeavor has transformed my worldview. I’ve borne witness to a remarkable cross-section of humanity, forged connections I’d thought unimaginable, and learned enough fun facts to make the Jeopardy! test legitimately enticing.
Soon, I’ll reflect on the conversations themselves. This piece focuses on two questions: why did I start, and why am I still going?
The origin story
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I paused a beat. I’d come to watch a sunset, not start a conversation; I associated dreamy early winter evenings with placid solitude. A previous version of me would have acknowledged the speaker politely and moved on. But social interaction was on my mind. Gradually, I was becoming more comfortable seeking connection, second-guessing myself less in the process. Struck by her initiative, I had the impulse to turn around. The conversation unspooled easily from there; an hour later, I had a new friend.
It was a sequence emblematic of my junior year at UCLA, when I first felt the thrill of turning fleeting moments into nascent friendships, when the exuberant promises of community printed on glossy admissions brochures finally seemed earnest.
What took so long?
Growing up, I wasn’t around people much. My family was insular, our household only as big as it had to be. Friends never came over and wedding invitations were rare. Most relatives were only as tangible as their Facebook profiles. I graduated from an offbeat Montessori middle school in a class of nine. Neighbors were no help: when you live in a transient college town, your abutters are preoccupied research students who dread excitable 10-year-olds.
In public, my first instinct was to avoid causing a fuss. Eye contact unnerved me; at banquets and fairs, emcees were the scariest people in the room. Let’s just say I’m exceedingly thankful my parents weren’t stand-up comedy fans. I assumed any enthusiasm directed my way was embellished, perhaps even manipulative. Halting and restrained outside the confines of my living room, I tiptoed around strangers, delegating interactions to my mom (who, by virtue of being disarmingly chatty with the sternest authority figures, served as a frequent source of embarrassment).
Such guarded behavior belied a deep fascination with others. Initially, this manifested through geography; I ditched sandboxes and monkey bars early on to pore over African capitals on my dad’s dusty old globe. Stumbling upon an unfamiliar license plate? That was my Super Bowl. I developed the unabashedly niche fascinations of a Wikipedia denizen: hurricane seasons, music charts, Asian skyscrapers. My bookshelf, littered with unread birthday gifts about weather, baseball, and hip-hop, testifies to the chaotic sequence of rabbit holes I traveled in my tween years.
The internet satiated my restless appetite for discovery, but it skewed my ideal of human connection. Online spaces brimmed with voluble enthusiasts gabbing about things I liked — no stilted small talk needed. On the pop music forum I frequented for years, I grew accustomed to the type of effortlessly witty, self-referential banter that can only arise from a tight-knit subculture. High school lunch tables just couldn’t compete. Because I viewed conversations more as knowledge exchanges than vehicles for deepening personal relationships, I treated innocuous classroom chats about sneakers or Guardians of the Galaxy more casually. Thus, although I was pleasant and affable, my tenth-grade friendships were held back by my own apathy.
Moving 3,000 miles away for college did not, alas, zap my social inhibitions. My summertime strategy of “excitedly DM everyone in my class” garnered tepid responses, making friendship seem deceptively arduous. Many freshmen see their risk aversion plummet, but mine soared. Weekdays took on a metronomic consistency: wake up, lecture, lunch, kill time, lecture, readings, Twitter, dinner. Nights out consisted of number-one meals at Chick-fil-A and more than a few meandering strolls along Los Angeles’ desolate, highway-adjacent sidewalks.
Timid and aimless, I blended seamlessly into the background. I reassured myself this unimaginative lifestyle helped maintain businesslike focus, but in hindsight just couldn’t admit I had no social strategy. Lounge gossip and Instagram comments convinced me impenetrable cliques had already coalesced. I started recognizing people — the club swimmer with wavy blonde hair, the tall sorority girl down the hall — but I had no playbook for breaking the ice. It was a cruel paradox: as faces became familiar, connection felt increasingly elusive.
My freshman year camera roll doesn’t have a single photo of me with someone else. I went 30 weeks without learning my floormates’ names or sharing an order of late-night chicken tenders. On move-out day I looked on, stone-faced, as streams of new friends bid heartfelt goodbyes. I was desperate for a mulligan; that summer break was the first I ever wanted to end.
I want to point to a moment or person who broke my stupor, but in reality, it was an unsteady slog. Chipper and impatient, I chatted up my sophomore-year floormates within hours of making my bed. Urgency helped me give up looking for the perfect social setting; elevators, water fountains, and mailrooms were suddenly fair game for conversations. The pleasant acquaintances I made gave me a foothold amid a sea of uncertainty.
Wallowing in my clumsiness made me more decisive. I picked up a few tennis partners and found myself chit-chatting in discussion sections. Though still on the outside looking in, I was primed to initiate social interactions in a way I had never previously been. Ultimately, I was prepared enough to spend an hour bonding with my fellow sunset admirer, an experience that left me craving more when the world shut down weeks later.
Modern friendship advice is remarkably predictable. Join a trivia team! Start a book club! These admonitions have always struck me as halfhearted and shallow, but I couldn’t place why. Now I know it’s because they sidestep the elephant in the room: there’s a source of connection often left untapped, even though it undergirded many of our childhoods. It’s something distinct about how we meet people as kids: spontaneity.
Third-graders don’t schedule sleepovers two weeks in advance or game out small talk over bowls of Froot Loops. They simply exist in the same places together, and social opportunities arise organically. (For the youngest ones, “can I be your friend?” often does the trick!) At the playground complex where I played Little League, pickup basketball games and impromptu bowling nights at the alley down the road were the norm.
But many adults have internalized a different rule: no socializing without a valid reason. Trivia teams and book clubs give you permission to talk, but joining someone on a park bench is verboten. If you want social interaction, go to specific places at specific times. Even people who are open to socializing don’t advertise it. No more spontaneity!
The idea of a prerequisite for talking repelled me. Why should meeting people require learning pottery? Also, planned events tend to be cauldrons of nervous energy — you psych yourself up to go, make forced small talk, and leave a more insecure person than you came. Ultimately, I didn’t want to rely on others to orchestrate my social life, I wanted to meet people for the sake of meeting people. And the only way that would happen was if I asked for it.
Why I’m still going
It amazes me that an act as simple as talking has brought me such a wealth of opportunity and purpose. Below I’ve tried to summarize the principal benefits I’ve derived from my efforts:
Variety. As kids, we’re taught everybody is different. However, that point is usually made with immutable, surface-level characteristics like height or hair color. But I’ve been more impressed by the myriad distinct conversational styles I’ve seen — the nuances in diction, demeanor, sentence structure, and facial cues. Some people love a good tangent, while others blurt out brusque sentences, creating pockets of silence I rush to fill. I’ve encountered the seemingly emotionless and the preposterously expressive. In response, my adaptability has soared; I’m far more comfortable around people vastly different from me.
Joy. During the best conversations, my stranger forgets that we’re meeting for the first time. Their face muscles relax and their smiles grow wider. Their laughter comes easier. They’re fully present, slipping into a comfort zone reserved for familiar faces. Creating these earnest connections, anywhere from a Cape Cod artists’ market to an Alabamian bar trivia game, is exhilarating. The euphoric sensation that overcomes me immediately after I finish an interaction like that is inimitable.
Novelty. My biggest fear when I left college was monotony. I pictured setting an unchanging 8 a.m. alarm and cycling between the same three uninspiring lunch spots, confined to a drab cubicle for hours on end during the day. The project has upended that dystopic vision. Will today bring a stand-up comedian? Wetland biologist? Submarine operator? I legitimately don’t know! Immersing myself in someone’s world, probing it with a child’s wonder and delighting in its quirks, is the most profound form of novelty I’ve ever experienced.
I’ve also changed my conception of novelty. I used to think of it in terms of things: a new seafood shack, a fresh album recommendation. Now, I think of it in terms of people. That makes every trip in public so much more exciting.
Empathy. My mindset going into a conversation used to be “what do we have in common?” Now, it’s “what can I learn about you?” I made this shift because it produces more engaging responses, but it has the rewarding side effect of drawing attention away from myself and compelling me to prioritize understanding others’ perspectives.
It feels like me. I’ve always chafed at having to shape-shift to get a foothold in a social circle, to play by someone else’s rules. Even though I’m immeasurably more comfortable at bars and loud parties than I was a decade ago, I don’t feel fully myself in those settings. With this project, I’ve given myself the gift of socializing whenever I want without compromising who I am.
Self-knowledge. I rarely encounter people who are exactly like me. The upshot? I’m constantly reminded of ways I’m different from others. Being cognizant of my biases helps me process my emotions more effectively.
I’m an extrovert. As someone who eschews many social forms customarily associated with extroversion, this was long a doubtful proposition. Here’s why I’m convinced, though: when I’m gritting through a day on four hours of sleep, uncaffeinated, or just back from a ten-hour flight with a six-hour time change, or feeling shitty and insecure or bored and antsy, stranger chats still invariably bring me an adrenaline rush.
I’m not prescriptive. My conversation partners frequently offer ardent opinions on topics both lighthearted and weighty. I’ve collected plenty of unsolicited dating and work advice myself! Accordingly, I’ve learned I lack visceral feelings about how other people should be living.
I’m a rationalist. While I sympathize with people whose thinking is rooted in superstition or faith, I don’t identify with them. I require sound logic to commit to a belief, no matter how harmless.
I love deep conversations. People are often taken aback when I ask a notably penetrating question. I, on the other hand, perk up when this happens to me. I attribute this quality to my dad, who cultivated a household where no question was off limits.
I cherish openness. No matter how friendly someone is, I can’t get much out of a conversation if the other person is unwilling to speak freely about themselves. Learning I value openness over other traditionally prized traits like politeness was very clarifying.
The importance of in-person interaction. Even as someone who made formative friendships online, I find this conclusion inescapable. Interacting in person creates fuller, more unique memories, begets greater mutual trust, and is far more efficient than online socializing.
In person, the implicit questions online interactions provoke (do you have an ulterior motive?) are less perilous. Each DM carries the risk of misinterpretation, often amplified by a lack of immediate feedback. When things do go south, it’s tougher to be rude to someone’s face, so things conclude civilly rather than with the curt harshness of a block.
I’m always excited for tomorrow. There will always be more people to meet, and the rush of clicking with someone never gets old. Accordingly, I spend much less time dwelling on the past; any terribly awkward interaction will be distant history in a few weeks. I might make my next best friend today — could anything be more exciting than that?
Thanks to Eva Hill for her edits on this piece!
The last day I didn’t meet someone new was November 19, 2022.