The feeling of loneliness is not glamorous or impressive; it does not announce itself. It is mostly never around, but it chooses to keep you company in those moments in which you would much rather be alone. Loneliness, in it’s temporary and non-venomous form is not the worst of human emotions. There are many that are worse—helplessness, hopelessness, grief. And though ubiquitous, it is usually impermanent, and usually treatable.

I am speaking not of romantic loneliness or sexual frustration, but rather the vague feeling of disconnectedness from the people around you—a feature of college life that I suspect is more prevalent than most of us would like to admit. Where does it come from—I’d like to explore a few theories.

The first is easy—that you meet people through groups and organizations, or in classes, where you are constantly evaluating their utility. Even in moments of community, there is the communal understanding among students that friendships are inevitably transactional. I will befriend you so long as a certain “convenience + utility” threshold is reached.

I don’t have a problem with this so much. From some angles, all voluntary human interaction is mutually beneficial and therefore transactional. Perhaps there are some people who approach college as one big networking event but I won’t stay with them for long—I don’t think most students here are like this.

The second is more subtle, and it centers around Harvard’s value. Another undercurrent of communal knowledge is that Harvard is a place of phenomenal opportunity, and that the vast majority of fellow students are wise enough to recognize this. Therefore, most of the people around us are under obligation to capitalize upon this opportunity and maximize personal growth. On its own, this does not preclude altruistic behavior, but it does mean that we all implicitly understand that “look out for number one” is everyone's first prerogative—any caring and attention that's left over can then be distributed out.

I am constantly aware of how precious other people's time here is, and that to impinge upon that would be socially and morally unacceptable. I must therefore approach people with a specific purpose—an agenda. I know that every minute I spend with an acquaintance is being weighed against the opportunity cost of such interaction. How many words in her paper might my friend have written if they hadn't agreed to this conversation. How much progress might she have made on her problem set. My conversation had better be worth at least that much. In order to spend time with our friends we need excuses, and then clubs, organizations, and buildings.

Perhaps these truths apply to life more generally, but the pressures Harvard places on us make them uniquely apparent.

Not all relationships must be like this. When I think of familial relationships, or some friendships from high school, or long-term romantic relationships, there is a different shared narrative. That I am first committed to this friendship, and this means that no matter how badly you mess up, I will still be there—at least for a while. Instead of having to constantly prove yourself, you are free to explore your surroundings in the knowledge that there is always someone on the other end of the rope.

The final argument is about the structure of Harvard life. Since food, lodging and most basic human needs are taken care of by some celestial deity, we do not ever need to rely on our peers—at least for those fundamental needs. This is unlike some lifestyle set-ups where small groups of people live in houses together, cook for one another, commute together, and are in general responsible for one another’s survival needs. Living in reliance on other people in this way also forces you to see them in their lesser moments, and to accept them even when they are not dressed up to go out. At Harvard, where we are preened and pampered, it is possible to live completely independently from your peers, and in consequence, to disappear without a trace. If you stopped texting people to meet up for lunch, how long would it take before people noticed?

Your social life is the product of your own micromanagement—the groups you choose to join, the meetings you choose to make, the emails you choose to send—and not the social/structural conditions of Harvard life. You are responsible for your own loneliness.

College is incredible, and I have no doubt that loneliness is something that almost always increases in the months and years following graduation. But we should not forget that we are first and foremost creatures who are dependent on those around us—no matter how much college might lead us to believe the contrary.

 

Awais Hussain ’15 is a joint philosophy and physics concentrator in Eliot House.