Another kind of AI: Artificial Intimacy

Navigating the Whirlwind Path to Authentic Connection

I struggle to make authentic friendships.

You might not guess I find it tough.

You might feel the same, secretly.

Or not so secretly.

We both assume others are swamped with friends. Meanwhile, they're likely looking at us, thinking we're the social butterflies.

The truth? We're all wandering, questioning why it seems like everyone else is the life of the party.

Virtually every soul traverses the journey of life, haunted by a chorus of internal inquiries: "Why don't they find me likable?" "Do they appreciate my presence?" "What can I do to win their admiration?" "We shared a bond once; why has it faded?" 

These questions, echoing in the recesses of our minds, are not mere whispers but loud cries for understanding and acceptance, reflecting a universal quest for belonging and connection.

I’m thinking about a clever phrase I heard yesterday, coined by Esther Perel. Another kind of AI is artificial Intimacy.

As I've gotten older, I've realized the importance of aligning my friendships with my values. Without this alignment, I risk finding myself in midlife surrounded by people who don't truly see me.

And worse, they don't seem to care.

Or they’re so asleep, unaware, not awake, use whatever phrase you like, they don’t notice.

Ending a friendship, whether quietly or openly, is fraught with tension. Unlike romantic breakups, where the stakes are clear and the necessity of leaving for one's health and well-being is understood, deciding to walk away from a friendship feels more complex.

It's tough for me to leave a friendship when I want more friends. However, I've learned that having friends who get me and share my values matters more than how many friends I have. 

Sometimes, I have to say goodbye to a friend who isn't a good fit. It's hard, but it makes room for better friendships that are on equal footing. It also requires patience, which I’m not great at.

So I need to start with the art of connection and being a good friend.

During a rare moment of honesty, my friend blurted out, “Oh yeah, I didn’t want to be friends with you.” 

Naturally, I had to dig deeper, driven by a mix of curiosity and a tiny, lingering suspicion. After all, I had practically arm-wrestled her into the friendship.

“What is it about me?” I pushed, bracing for impact.

“You’re just... a lot,” she gestured wildly, mimicking a mini tornado with her hands—a whirlwind of me, I suppose.

But then, she added, “I was wrong, though. You think more deeply than your glittery exterior suggests.”

Maybe this is why I crave a writing life. To prove to the world that my outsides don’t always match my insides. 

Writing demands that I be deliberate with my thoughts, channeling them into something coherent, instead of releasing them like a burst from a nonsense syringe that no one truly understands.

When my ego is feeling particularly ravenous, I have a habit of hijacking conversations, swiftly shifting into performance mode—a habit I find as hard to suppress. (I wrote a song about it here).

This, I tell myself, is why friend-making isn't my forte. 

It's a narrative I've crafted in my head, possibly because, on the surface, I can come off like an express train—too many thoughts, too much excitement, resembling an overeager puppy who hasn't quite mastered the art of "reading the room." 

My inner game show host tends to take the spotlight, potentially leaving my audience a tad overwhelmed.

Yet, beneath this whirlwind exterior, I yearn for discipline and the art of slow, deliberate thought. I geek out overweaving my ideas with others, craving nothing more than to dive into deep, meaningful conversations.

Discovering this depth of connection feels like an uphill battle. We're swamped by an unending barrage of pings, dings, buzzes, and binges. 

It's a relentless flood of modern chatter that buries us under its weight, leaving us yearning for genuine, meaningful interaction.

I find refuge in podcasts.

They whisper intimacy into our ears, the longer, the better. Immersing ourselves in a two-hour podcast deep dive, where thoughtful voices reach out and connect directly with us, becomes a soothing balm.

For the last couple of years, I've been on a mission to sprinkle bits of genuine connection into encounters with strangers. It's more than just passing compliments like "that color suits you"—though, admittedly, I've dropped a line or two like that.

But the magic fizzles if it isn't sincere.

Pinpointing exactly what I do is tricky... Yet, I remember a meditation coach mentioning she seeks a moment of connection in every interaction. 

Yeah, what she said.

A few months back, I might not have been able to say that creating moments of connection is what I strive for in my work, be it singing at a concert, hosting my show, penning an article, or conducting a lesson.

This realization has since become a guiding light, helping me cultivate patience as I await those moments of true connection and listening with real friends.

So here I am, stumbling along this path of connection, armed with awkward compliments and a tendency to talk too much. Each misstep, each tiny victory, teaches me a bit more about the art of true friendship. It turns out, that trying to be a social butterfly with the finesse of a bulldozer in a china shop has its lessons.

I've toyed with the idea that the secret to attracting friends who truly understand me might simply be embracing my unfiltered self—overflowing with excitement and ideas.

Yet, reality seems to paint a different picture.

Like so many aspects of life, the sweet spot likely lies somewhere in the middle. It's a concoction of embracing our quirks, which we hope will endear others to us, fused with a generous dose of empathy, and topped off with a hefty serving of active listening.