I spent the last two years writing a memoir about my college years and early 20s. It’s a book about the transitional period of young adulthood, about trying to shrug off expectations about who you should be and discovering who you are. Like most coming-of-age stories, it includes some reckless behaviour and awkward moments—crushes and failed exams, clubbing and night climbing (a clandestine tradition among students at Oxford and Cambridge).
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My editor told me not to let anyone read the book before it was published, and I followed her advice. I wasn’t scared or ashamed of what I’d written, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the follow-up: my parents asking why I hadn’t told them about my mental health struggles. My friends claiming I’d misremembered a conversation. My former principal, and the editor of this magazine, reaching out to say he was glad he hadn’t known back then what his students were up to in the early hours. (Sorry, Alan.)
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On the book tour across North America and Europe, I expected people in the audience to seize on the headline-grabbing revelations, and prepared myself for questions about my love life, PTSD, the bong incident. But what happened was much more extraordinary—night after night, children, adolescents and young adults took the mic to ask the same thing: “How do I make friends?”
Their questions took me back to school, an all-girls academy in Birmingham where I sat alone at lunch, struggling to connect with the other students. My circumstances were unique: being airlifted out of my home country and into the UK, where I didn’t know anyone; undergoing months of physical therapy to learn how to walk and talk again; joining a school where most of the girls had known each other since they were six years old. The deck was stacked against me and, as crushing as it was, my unique situation meant my school-age alienation made a sort of sense.
But why, in cities across multiple countries and regions, are so many young people lonely? Experts and educators blame phones and social media, the pandemic, or the lack of opportunities for spontaneous mingling in our overscheduled, overstructured lives. Whatever the causes, I have seen the devastating results: girls and boys, aged from 12 to 20, voices trembling as they describe their isolation, their confusion about why they can’t connect with their peers.
The only advice I have to offer them is what worked for me: I went to college on a mission to make friends. I signed up for dozens of clubs and student societies, said yes to every party invitation, met up for tea with any stranger who messaged me on Facebook. At heart, I’m an introvert, preferring to let others take the lead in social situations. But I pushed through my discomfort, striking up conversations with everyone who crossed my path.
Not every encounter ended in friendship, but, before too long, I found a gang of my own. In those years, we bonded over late-night gossip sessions, bad dates and never-ending essay assignments. We shared clothes and cartons of milk. When I was suffering from intense panic attacks, it was a friend who convinced me to see a therapist.
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Last week in Paris, I took a walk and gathered up my dreams for the children and students I met on the book tour: A few years from now, I hope you’ll be catching up with a friend, talking about the first time you met. The two of you will sift through old photos and texts, reconstructing those early days. You’ll be amazed to find that this person was in your orbit weeks before you remember meeting her. Maybe you’ll squabble over your path to friendship—her maps have different landmarks from your own. She’ll remind you that you forgot her name after a two-hour conversation in the dining hall. You’ll laugh about the denim minidress she used to wear; she’ll bring up the month you spent obsessed with bubble tea. With her, you’ll feel like you belong—not just included, but loved.
