🚣‍♀️ Together: The Breath Between Us

Practicing connection in a sideways world.

I have a confession: We get our groceries delivered. As a working mom of four, two of whom have medical needs, I don’t have much margin. We started doing this during the pandemic, and honestly, we never stopped this small and helpful little luxury.

But the other day, my son—who has a chronic illness—ended up in the emergency room with influenza A. He’s doing okay now, but I had to go inside our big local grocery store to pick up his prescription. While I was there, I wandered through the maze of towering aisles, searching for some teenage boy comfort requests: Gatorade (the blue kind) and Pop-Tarts (the wildberry kind). The sheer number of choices was exhausting, but I carried on, loading my cart with cough drops, extra-strength Tylenol, and whatever other things I could find to comfort my afflicted teen.

I remembered the impending snowstorm and cut across the store to grab a gallon of milk, squeezing past an employee stocking the cheese shelves and a gruff-looking older man—someone who, if I had to guess, probably worked at the John Deere plant in town. They were chatting about the Super Bowl. Just two people sharing a small moment of connection in the dairy aisle.

At checkout, I noticed the store had installed rows and rows of self-checkout stations. But since it was just me and the retired set shopping at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, and there was no line, I opted for the lane with a real person.

The cashier—who looked to be in her 70s, with red nails and a warm presence—called me honey as she rang up my items. She admired the Valentine’s treats I picked out for my kids (“Bazooka gum! I haven’t seen this in years!”) and was curious about the boxes covered in cartoon cats and dogs (Valentine’s cards for my third grader to bring to school).

As we chatted, the man bagging my groceries—a guy in his 40s with a red beard—jumped in, saying the dog on the Valentine's box looked just like one his friend had. That led to a whole side conversation about corgies, which they both seemed pretty invested in. (I admit, so was I.)

Me at Hy-Vee, getting very invested in the breeding saga of the clerk’s friend’s dog.

I took in their easy, back-and-forth camaraderie. The cashier, a Black woman from the Baby Boomer Generation. The bag clerk, a red-bearded Gen Xer. They were coworkers, yes, but they were also friends. If I hadn’t seen them talking, I admit I might have wrongly assumed they just did their work without talking and that they lived completely different lives.

Is this a symptom of being online too much? Of assuming everyone is siloed off and isolated? Of spending so much time in my own little bubble—getting groceries delivered, crossing off tasks, never really seeing anyone?

On the way home, I texted my husband:

"It’s a pain in the butt to go grocery shopping, but it reminds us of our humanity."

The Shadow Side of Solitude

At first, solitude feels like rest. We tell ourselves we’re just too tired, too stretched, too overwhelmed to extend or accept that invitation, to simply look someone in the eye and say hello, to show up. We pull back out of sheer exhaustion.

Then, before we realize it, being alone has become a habit. We opt for ease instead of connection. We convince ourselves that we’re okay—okay eating alone, watching from a distance, avoiding eye contact at the grocery store. Okay keeping our thoughts, prayers, and very selves contained within the walls of our own homes¹.

And yet.

We have something inside us that wants to connect with others. We long to laugh until we can’t breathe, to share a simple moment with someone who looks us in the eye and asks, Have I told you about my friend’s corgie?

Have you read the news lately? We’re bombarded with messages declaring that we don’t need each other, that independence is the highest good. But Scripture tells a different story. From the very beginning, God formed us for communion—not just with God but with one another.

Even Jesus, who withdrew for solitude, always returned to people.

Maybe we need to be reminded to do the same.

We need to find our way back to each other.

The Anti-Social Century

I was listening to the Faith Adjacent podcast when co-host Jamie Golden mentioned an episode of the Plain English podcast hosted by Derek Thompson called “The Anti-Social Century: America’s Epidemic of Solitude—and How to Fix It.”

That sent me down a rabbit hole. (Better a research rabbit hole than an anxiety spiral!) First, I listened to the episode, tearing up when the agnostic host interviewed former members of churches that had closed in Baltimore. One elderly man spoke so beautifully about Jesus and community that I half-expected the host to convert on the spot. (Just listen.)

Then I read the podcast host’s article in The Atlantic, where he lays out a sobering reality:

"Americans are now spending more time alone than ever. It’s changing our personalities, our politics, and even our relationship to reality."

Woosh.

Below, paid Year of Breath subscribers will get access to the round-up of statistics that he shares that I found fascinating.

Living in a Sideways World

To be fair, solitude isn’t inherently bad. As parents, we know that it’s necessary. And as Christians, we know solitude allows us to get quiet and connect with God.

I call myself an extroverted contemplative (or is it a contemplative extrovert?), which, I realize, is a weird label to put on myself, but it is what it is. I guess it’s a quick way to describe that I like to LOL at very silly things and get away to read the Thomases. (Merton & Keating, if you were wondering.) Anyway, the point is that we live a life of—to steal a phrase from the theater²—both/and.

As the article’s author, Derek Thompson, writes:

"A quiet night alone can be a balm. But the dosage matters. A night alone away from a crying baby is one thing. A decade or more of chronic social disconnection is something else entirely. And people who spend more time alone, year after year, become meaningfully less happy."

Here’s where it really got me:

A 2020 study asked people to behave like an extrovert for one week and an introvert for another. They were told to act “assertive” and “spontaneous” one week and “quiet” and “reserved” the next.

The results? Participants reported more positive emotions at the end of the extrovert week, while after the introvert week, they reported more negative emotions.³

We feel somewhat connected, even if our connection isn’t interpersonal.

But as Thompson writes:

"In a healthy world, people who spend lots of time alone would feel that ancient biological cue: I’m alone and sad; I should make some plans. But we live in a sideways world, where easy home entertainment, oversharing online, and stunted social skills spark a strangely popular response: I’m alone, anxious, and exhausted; thank God my plans were canceled."

Sideways world. That phrase has been rattling around in my brain.

How much of our loneliness is a byproduct of the choices we’ve been conditioned to make? And if we’re lonelier than ever—if we’re more exhausted, anxious, and detached—how do we begin to turn back toward each other?

Words for Winter

Every Season Sacred is a year-long journey for the soul of a parent. Every week, you’ll find a reflection, breath prayer, Scripture reference, conversation starters to borrow, and shared short family liturgies to pray together. I’ve poured my heart into this book. I hope you grab a copy! (Thank you to all who already have and have shared with friends!)

Boatmen of Barcelona, Dionisio Baixeras y Verdaguer (Spanish, 1886)

Practicing Connection

What is one small, tangible way you can practice connection this week? Choose something simple and specific, something that can become a rhythm, a habit, a way of moving through the world with intention:

• Look up and acknowledge people. Make it a practice to say hello to the people you pass⁴—coworkers in the hallway, fellow parents at school pickup, neighbors on a walk. Connection begins with simple recognition. (Check out

  Shannan Martin
  ’s book Start With Hello.)

• Engage with those who help you. When you order coffee, check out at the grocery store, or get your oil changed, pause for a real exchange. Ask how their day is going and actually listen to the response.

• Create small rituals of connection. Ask your kids, partner, or a friend, What was something good about today? Make it a habit at the dinner table, in the car, or during bedtime routines. Presence is built in the ordinary moments. (If you need connection questions to borrow at dinner, check out Every Season Sacred.)

• Set down your phone and look around. I wrote about this in Every Season Sacred. Whether waiting in line, sitting at a stoplight, or walking down the sidewalk, notice who’s around you instead of instinctively scrolling. A moment of attention could turn into a moment of connection in unexpected ways.

• Make a call. Can’t be in person? Make a call. Say hi. Hear the voice of someone you love.

Connection—over time—forms who we are. The more we show up, the more it becomes a way of being. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll remember that we were never meant to exist in this weary world alone.