After I shared that story about feeling lonely, so many of you wrote back.

Some sent long, thoughtful notes about the ways you’re navigating disconnection and trying to build meaningful connection.

As I read through your messages, I started noticing patterns, habits that kept showing up again and again.

Here are the ones that stuck with me and how I’m trying to weave them into my life.

Maybe they’ll help you too.

1. Rituals Beat Calendars

I didn’t expect “potluck” to be the number-one thing I heard. But it was, across all ages, genders, and locations.

Ivy had my favorite version:

My strategy for keeping up with friends who all have children (like I do) is to host a monthly potluck…Whoever can make it comes…If you miss one because the kid is sick or you’re busy, there’s always next month.

What I love about Ivy’s approach is that it solves the scheduling nightmare of modern adulthood. It used to be normal to just drop by, linger, hang out. But our muscle for unstructured time has atrophied (this Ezra Klein conversation explains why).

A recurring potluck is a workaround.

You’re not scheduling people. You’re scheduling community.

For me, potlucks are stressful because I can’t cook (well).

But the point isn’t the potluck. It’s a recurring ritual people can float in and out of.

Ryan put it perfectly:

I would not be a functional person without my bluegrass community. You only get organic 1-on-1 friendship as an adult if you join something bigger than yourself. Something that persists even if 5 or 10 or 20 people can’t show up.

Back in New York City, I belonged to this nerdy little science communication universe. People who loved performing, teaching, and making wonderfully strange things together. We met constantly. Miss one show, and you’d cross paths again at the next one.

Moving to California (and then COVID) erased so much of that.

But recently, I discovered there’s a monthly Star Trek trivia night near me. Lowen (one of my oldest friends) and I try to go every month.

So far we’ve only been two out of six months, but they’ve been the highlight of my social life this year. I get to hang with my buddy, meet some new people, and talk Star Trek.

And best of all? No cooking!

The real trick is figuring out where people in your area already gather (classes, meetups, volunteering) and which of those gatherings feel like “your thing.”

2. Use Your Phone Like a Phone

Something else that surprised me was how many of you mentioned phone calls.

Not scheduled calls.

Not “we should catch up sometime” calls.

Just…calling. During the in-between moments.

Amitha does this:

I pick up the phone and call when I’m walking my dog or driving to work. If they’re free, we’ll talk. If not, they’ll call me back.

Seems like the best time to connect is the time you’d normally give away to scrolling or listening to other people’s conversations (podcasts).

This makes so much sense!

Because when I was a teenager, and through my 20s, I lived on the phone (mostly landline, later dumb phone). Two-hour calls weren’t rare. I’m pretty sure I had some five or six-hour calls with Nhu-An (then girlfriend, now wife).

We’d talk through everything. What we were watching, thinking, our worries, things we’re dreaming about.

My favorite moments were when things slowed down and you weren’t sure if the other person was still awake.

But somewhere in my 30s, that disappeared.

Texting took over. Spam calls exploded. And eventually, a ringing phone started to feel like bad news.

Phone calls have friction. But friction creates depth.

And phone calls are kind of amazing when you think about it. You don’t have to look good. You don’t have to perform. You just have to be interested in another person you already care about.

So this is something I’m trying immediately. Using liminal spaces for connection instead of consumption (yes I really wanted to work liminal into this article).

Random calls to friends when I’m between things. And voice notes to my parents...because I know they’ll love to replay them.

3. Depth Over Frequency

At this point you might feel overwhelmed, like beating loneliness means filling every gap in your day.

But you don’t need constant contact. You just need meaningful contact.

Peri wrote:

Asking deeper questions helps me feel more connected…I can feel more connected to long-distance friends I hardly ever talk to than friends who live ten minutes away if they ask the right questions.

This reminds me of the famous 36 questions to fall in love and Unlikely Collaborators’ questions to get real. There are also a ton of popular card games designed around deep questions like these:

• What does your “perfect” day look like?

• Your home catches fire, everyone is safe, but you can safely save one item. What is it?

• What do you find beautiful that most people don’t?

Maybe it’s depth of conversation.

Maybe it’s depth of time (a long walk, a long game, a long movie).

Maybe it’s depth of vulnerability, like writing a letter that feels authentic instead of polished.

That last one (letter writing) sounds like something that could fit my life right now. I can do it after my kids fall asleep and the chaos of the day is over. Maybe I can even handwrite some to take the pressure off of editing them down to “perfection”.

And here’s your little nudge for today…

Which one of these feels doable this week?

1. A small monthly social ritual you can join (or start).

2. Calling someone during in between time.

3. Going deeper than you would normally go.

Run a tiny experiment of your own.

Share a response and tell me what you’re going to do. Your answers shape how I show up for you next.

Boldly go,
Dr. Ali

I’ve been with my wife for over 25 years (we were high school sweethearts).

I live ten minutes from two of my closest friends.

I’m on a vibrant text thread with four guys who share my exact flavor of nerdy interests (sci-fi, tech, musicals).

And I’m a psychologist who helps people overcome social anxiety and live more authentically.

So why am I deeply unhappy with my social life?

Most days I’m in dad-mode. And the honest truth is while I love a lot about being a dad, I hate how little time I have left for my own friendships. It’s like all my time gets swallowed up by shuttling my kids around, making meals (and getting them to eat said meals), and making sure everyone gets to bed.

So I end up relying on social media to fill the gaps of loneliness in my day. Moments I want to feel connected, but end up feeling more like performance.

And because so much of my work involves social media, most of my accounts are public performances. What I post is real, but it’s still only a slice of me. The biggest parts (my family) stay offline to protect their privacy. They didn’t sign up for any of this (and my wife actively opts out).

I just want one place online that feels real.

So a few months ago, I had an idea: What if I created a private Instagram account, a “finsta” under a fake name, just for my closest friends? Daily moments from my whole life. A place where I could actually be myself with the people who know me best.

I made the account. Shared it over text. My friends were super supportive. Lots of ❗❗, ❤️, and 👍 tapbacks.

And for a few days, it felt great. Like 2005 Facebook!

Then, the algorithm kicked in.

My little private space was suddenly full of recommendations. Old acquaintances. Former coworkers. Even one guy who bullied me in elementary school. People I had zero intention of reconnecting with ever again (and some I was actively hiding from).

And I started wondering: Is my super-secret finsta being recommended to people I don’t even like?

Then came the influencers. The news posts. The reels that are actually promotions for OnlyFans. All things I never asked for.

All I wanted was to connect deeply with the people I love. And Instagram kept pushing me toward people I didn’t care about.

Then a friend texted:

“Hey, why’d you stop posting on your finsta?”

But I hadn’t stopped. I was posting every day.

It turns out that because I had a tiny follower count, almost no likes, and no shares, the algorithm decided my updates weren’t “worth” delivering to the people who wanted to follow me. In other words, my posts weren’t “engaging” enough, so Instagram buried them.

That was the moment I realized Instagram no longer cares about who you love. It cares how long you scroll.

This is what Cory Doctorow calls enshittification: when a product stops serving you and starts squeezing every dollar out of you.

Earlier this year, Mark Zuckerberg admitted in court what we’ve all been feeling:

“The friend part has gone down quite a bit…”

And Meta’s numbers back it up. Only 7% of Instagram time is spent seeing friends, down from 11% two years ago.

Meaning 93% of your “social” experience is now content, ads, and strangers.

A platform that once promised closeness has become a buffet of strangers and noise.

My finsta didn’t fail. The system failed me.

So I ended the experiment frustrated and honestly a little sad.

Because honestly? I have no idea where you’re supposed to go for real connection anymore.

All the other social media platforms work the same way.

IRL hangs sound great, but as Derek Thompson writes, “this is the anti-social century” and we’ve quietly designed hanging out out of everyday life.

So most of my “connection” happens on my phone.

My screen time says I spend 9 hours a week texting. Nine hours. A full workday. And somehow it still feels like I’m barely in conversation with anyone.

Julie Beck wrote about this in The Atlantic, and it hit a little too close to home:

• “People think of their friends as audiences when posting.”

• “Private messaging [has started] to look more like social media.”

• “Group chats may make responding seem even less mandatory, because of the diffused responsibility of having several people in the conversation.”

Texting has become the new broadcast channel. High volume, low intimacy, zero accountability.

Tapbacks are the new engagement metrics. Your messages get filed somewhere between a news alert, financial scams, and an ad for jeans.

And I know I’m not the only one feeling this shift.

I asked you about this in a recent survey. Out of about 200 responses, 54% of you said you feel socially disconnected often or almost always.

And when I asked what was missing from your social life, a key pattern emerged:

• “True connection, showing up authentically and not feeling like I have to perform or say something funny.”

• “I wish I could talk to people about things like the news, politics, and mental health. It’s always on my mind but I just dance around it on texts.”

• “I just want to exist together.”

We want to be ourselves, but the internet demands a performance.

We want depth with the people we love, but tech pushes us toward strangers we’ll never meet.

So I’ll end with the questions I’m obsessed with now:

How do you stay in touch with the people you care about?

I genuinely want to know.

Someone asked me yesterday: "How was your weekend?"

My mind went completely blank.

Not because nothing happened. But because everything felt like a blur.

Scrolling. Ordering food with a tap. Binge-watching something I can't even remember.

The kind of weekend that technically contained 48 hours but somehow felt like it lasted 20 minutes.

I’m not alone in this strange emptiness.

I hear it online and in person.

"Everything feels fast, shallow, pointless."

"Things are moving, but nothing matters."

You're not broken. You're not addicted to your phone.

You're experiencing what I call the Midas Comfort Curse.

Everything we touch turns to "easy mode" and paradoxically, nothing feels real anymore.

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The Golden Touch That Starved a King

Remember King Midas? Mythical Greek guy loved wealth, wine, and fun. Got one wish from the gods and asked for everything he touched to turn to gold.

At first? Magic. Instant wealth everywhere.

Then dinnertime arrived.

His wine turned to gold. His food became metal. When his daughter ran to hug him, she became a lifeless golden statue.

His desire for abundance made everything empty.

We got the same wish.

Food delivery, entertainment, shopping, dating, and now with the help of AI thinking. Everything at the tap of a button.

All this convenience came at a devastating psychological cost.

What the Curse Is Doing to Your Brain

Dopamine Death

We think dopamine is like confetti, firing when we get what we want. But it's actually a starter pistol, firing before we reach our goal to motivate us toward it.

The more uncertain the outcome, the louder the bang. The more dopamine.

If your goal is guaranteed? No dopamine needed. The thrill fades.

Fifteen years ago, I waited days for Netflix DVDs to arrive in the mail. Anticipation. Excitement. Counting down. Even crappy movies felt good to receive.

Now thousands of options sit at my fingertips, but I never get that pleasurable hit I used to get from my mail-order DVD.

No gap between want and get = no reward sensation.

Choice Overwhelm

Having a massive marketplace at your fingertips destroys your willpower through decision fatigue.

Your brain treats every choice like a small workout. By noon, you're mentally exhausted.

Think about your great-grandparents. Maybe three career choices in their town. You? Unlimited possibilities, total paralysis.

More choice was supposed to make us happier. Instead, it made us exhausted. And the more exhausted you are, the worse decisions you make.

The Death of Making

The IKEA effect occurs when people value things more when they build them. Even wobbly, objectively worse bookshelves feel more meaningful when you assemble them yourself.

Your brain is wired to find meaning through struggle, friction, the satisfaction of creating something with your hands.

But now? Everything arrives pre-built, pre-thought, pre-done.

Food comes pre-made. Entertainment is pre-selected by algorithms. Photos are pre-filtered. Text messages are pre-suggested by AI.

We've outsourced creation itself.

When everything is instant, nothing feels real. When everything is effortless, nothing feels worth it.

You're not lazy. You're experiencing the psychological cost of convenience abundance.

Breaking the Curse: The 4-Box Solution

People like Jonathan Haidt say "ban the phones." That doesn't work. Can't undo Pandora's box.

Others suggest monk mode, deleting apps, turning screens monochrome. Fine, but not enough.

Rule #1 of behavior therapy: Don't just tell people what NOT to do. Give them something TO do.

We need something that resets dopamine, narrows daily choices, and takes meaningful time.

There's a word for this: hobby.

But not just any hobby. Not side-hustles. Not content creation. Something you're doing purely for yourself.

The most effective hobbies check four boxes:

1. Absorbs Your Mind

Your experience meets the challenge of the task. You think without overthinking. Something that starts easy but can scale up in difficulty (maybe for your whole life).

2. Moves Your Body

Dopamine loves movement. Doesn't have to be exercise. Can be simple as moving your hands while creating.

3. Phone-Proof by Design

Flour-covered hands can't swipe. Clay-stained fingers can't scroll. Choose activities that physically block digital distraction.

4. Comes With a Tribe

The best hobbies have communities. Reddit forums, local groups, real humans making real connections.

Pure Play, Zero Productivity Theater

I researched what Gen Z is actually doing for hobbies. The most interesting ones have zero optimization pressure:

• Bug collecting

• Growing carnivorous plants

• Vintage vinyl hunting

Pure play. Zero productivity theater. No side-hustle energy.

This creates a dopamine reset. Once momentum builds, you'll crave hobby time instead of TikTok.

I thought writing fiction would be my hobby. But over the past few months, it triggered too much optimization pressure (probably because I write stuff like this).

I picked up gourmet popcorn-making instead. My family devours it, I forget my phone exists.

But I can’t do that every day. So I'm expanding to cooking. It absorbs my mind (I don’t want to burn down the house), moves my body (grocery store, kitchen), can't scroll while doing it (again, don’t burn the house), and has amazing communities (especially South Asian cooking, which I want to explore).

Your Move

Pick ONE hands-busy hobby:

Self-expression: Drawing, photography, music, stop-motion videos

Collecting: Vinyl, cassettes, vintage tech

Activities:Gym, birdwatching, model railroads

Crafts: Woodworking, embroidery, bonsai, sourdough

Role-playing: D&D, tabletop games, paintball

Random skills:Lock-picking, magic tricks, ham radio, new languages

Notice something? None are monetized. No audiences to build. Just you, your mindbody, and something worth pursuing.

The challenge: 30 minutes a night, 7 nights straight. Do it badly. See what it's like. Let curiosity guide you.

This isn't utopian Star Trek "better yourself" advice. It's hardcore dopamine rehabilitation.

Your brain isn't broken. It's longing for a slower world. The best engineering minds, guided by the worst business incentives, are working to harvest your attention.

We have to relearn how to put our attention where it really matters.

Not on Amazon Prime or the AI slop Netflix pumps out or the junk Instagram shoves in your face.

Let's break this curse today.

One small action.

One small reset.

What hobby calls to your curiosity? What would you try if no one was watching?

Boldly go,

Dr. Ali

P.S. I promise to cheer you on and share how my cooking journey unfolds. The dopamine reset is real and it starts tonight.

Dear Curious Human,

AI can write an essay in a heartbeat.

But it can't tell you about my completely misaligned knuckle.

When I was 17 and on the wrestling team, my finger got completely dislocated. Hanging off sideways in a way that still makes me wince.

Some random first aid person popped it back into place on the side of the mat. It hurt like hell, and I knew things weren't set properly.

But I didn't say anything. My parents still to this day don’t know this happened. Shame kept me quiet.

Now, decades later, every time my hand aches, I'm reminded of that lesson: don't hide your pain. Get the help you need from people who can actually help you.

AI doesn't know this story (until it mines this webpage).

And that gap, our lived, messy, storyworthy moments, might be the one thing super-intelligence will always need from us.

The Hidden Hunger

I was talking to an AI scientist friend yesterday (yes, that's a total Silicon Valley flex, but bear with me). He said something that made everything click:

"The one thing AI is always going to need is new information. We're racing toward a future where AI will have consumed every piece of human knowledge that exists. What's left after that is unique human experiences."

At first, this felt dystopian. Like The Matrix, but with machines harvesting our stories instead of our energy.

But then I realized this isn't scary. This is our advantage.

The scientific breakthroughs will come from AI. The engineering achievements will come from AI. But the one frontier that remains uniquely ours? The evolving human story. Your daily experiences. My daily experiences. The small moments that shape how we see ourselves and each other.

That's what's going to help these models become more emotionally intelligent. And more importantly, that's what we'll always need from each other.

What Makes Us Irreplaceable

Here's the thing that separates humans from every other species on Earth: we're story generators.

Not tool makers! Plenty of animals use tools…

We're the species that developed common beliefs and mythologies through storytelling. We taught each other through stories. We scaled cooperation beyond our bloodlines through shared narratives.

Stories are how we became us.

And this is exactly what AI can't replicate. When I look at AI-generated content, whether it's images, poetry, or entire articles, it all feels like crappy Netflix movies. Polished. Predictable. Boring.

Not surprising. Not emotional. Not personally relevant.

AI flattens the humanity out of everything it creates.

The Memory Code (S·E·R)

Our brains lock onto 3 things that make experiences stick:

Surprise: Like finding out Darth Vader is Luke's father.
Emotion: Like the sick feeling when my finger was dangling wrong.
Relevance: Like why that MIT brain study stuck with me when I see AI news everywhere

Meanwhile, AI processes billions of averaged data points, looking for patterns across massive datasets. It generates what it thinks should come next based on statistical probability.

We are the pattern breakers. We supply the spikes. The outliers.

Be Storyworthy

Master storyteller Matthew Dicks cracked the code on this. Every day, small moments happen that are pure gold. We just need to wake up to them.

Stop looking for the big, start noticing the small.
The extraordinary moments aren't relatable. The small, surprising shifts in ordinary days? That's where the magic lives.

Collide with the world.
Get out there. Do stuff. Create opportunities for unexpected moments to find you.

Notice the 5-second moments.
Something always happens each day. The trick is paying attention to that small moment that stuck with you.

Combine external and internal.
The best stories connect what's happening outside (my finger got dislocated) with what's happening inside (shame, fear of judgment).

Find the choice.
Every good story has a decision point. What did you choose to do or what did you choose not to do (keep my injury a secret)?

The One-Minute Habit

Here's what this looks like in practice. Each night, jot down one line about your most storyworthy moment. Not the biggest event, but the instant that surprised, moved you, or just stuck with you.

My notes from this week:

Sunday: Went to a kids birthday party. Social anxiety almost talked me out of it. But I met a cool dad and had fun.

Monday: Daughter asked what it would be like if I was her sidekick. Told her after she was born, I stopped being the main character and became the Bandana Waddle Dee to her Kirby.

Tuesday: Trying to use the bathroom. Both kids came in and basically had a playdate while I was doing my business. No privacy whatsoever.

Wednesday: Met a billionaire today. Felt both completely underdressed and overdressed at the same time.

Thursday: Son angry we don't have his Spidey toy for daycare. Realized after drop-off it was in the front seat the whole time. Whoops.

30 nights = 30 stories no algorithm can invent.

The Future Belongs to the Storyworthy

I know this might sound like I'm saying we'll all become campfire storytellers in some post-AI artist utopia.

That's not what I’m getting at.

What I mean is this: in a world where AI handles the predictable, the unpredictable becomes priceless.

The sought-after jobs ahead will belong to people who can see where we are, understand what we're feeling, and communicate it to the others:

• Community organizers bringing people together around shared experiences.

• Leaders who tap into our collective stories to guide us forward.

• AI coordinators who understand human needs well enough to direct the machines.

• Artists turning internal experiences into external work that moves us beyond the slop.

All of these roles require the same core skill: being storyworthy.

Your Turn

What's the surprising, emotional, relatable moment you went through today?

Not the biggest thing. Not the most Instagram-worthy thing. The small moment that shifted something inside you, even slightly.

Drop a one-sentence version in the comments.

The future isn't inevitable. It's a choice we make, one story at a time.

With you (with my funky knuckle),
Dr. Ali

P.S. If you want to dive deeper into this, check out Storyworthy by Matthew Dicks, Futureproof by Kevin Roose, and this excellent piece on "The Future of Work" from Working Theories.

Dear Curious Human,

Saturday afternoon, my seven-year-old and her best friend burst into my office, crowns crooked, eyes sparkling.

"Daddy, we need a name for our kingdom!"

Two options flickered:

1. Plop onto the floor with them, toss words around, feel the imagination flow.

2. Open ChatGPT, type fantasy kingdom names for seven-year-olds, hand them the list, dive back into email.

Exhausted, I chose Door #2. They picked "Lunaria," blessed me with a wand, and scampered away.

And I felt...icky. I'd just outsourced the very muscle I most want my kids to grow: creative play.

That uneasy pit now has data. A brand-new MIT study (not yet peer-reviewed) just confirmed what I suspected: we're training our brains to go dormant.

Researchers wired 54 college students to EEG headsets and had them write SAT-style essays under three conditions:

1. Brain-only

2. Brain + Google

3. Brain + ChatGPT.

Then they measured neural activity, memory retention, and essay quality.

On every metric (engagement, linguistic variety, recall) the ChatGPT group flat-lined.

When conditions flipped, former AI users still showed sluggish brain activity, as if their mental engines never fully restarted.

Most shocking: 83% of AI users couldn't recall a single sentence they'd just "written." The information bypassed their minds entirely, like forwarding an article you never actually read, just because the headline sounded smart.

Cognitive Debt Is Real (and Collecting Interest)

We've been here before, but never this fast:

• Printing press → over centuries we stopped memorizing books

• Google → over decades, we stopped learning facts we can look up

• ChatGPT → over months, we’re outsourcing our thinking

When a LLM model can spit out a passable essay in 0.7 seconds, copy and pasting it feels like the natural thing to do. And every time we lean on it, the bill compounds. Skills atrophy, just like unused muscles.

The CRAFT Playbook

I'm not ditching my AI co-pilot, but I refuse to let it fly solo.

Here's my five-point safety check: CRAFT.

C – Connect human to human

The practice: Write your own emails, texts, birthday notes, especially the ones that need to evoke emotion.

The payoff: Humans crave imperfection. Your typos and awkward phrasing signal "real person here" something AI polish can't fake (yet).

R – Reflect first, prompt second

The practice: Scribble your messy first thoughts before opening the chat box.

The payoff: You stay the author of your ideas instead of becoming an overseer of the machine’s thoughts.

A – Automate the mindless & the impossible

The practice: Let AI handle data crunching, transcription, and busywork you'd never learn from anyway.

The payoff: Save your cognitive calories for work that actually builds your skills and nourishes your soul.

F – Find friction on purpose

The practice: Choose challenges that force slow thinking. Cook without recipes, write longhand, navigate without GPS.

The payoff: Like lifting weights, struggle makes you stronger.

T – Transparency before dependence

The practice: Before trusting AI output, ask: "How does it know this? What might it be missing? Is it just telling me what I want to hear?"

The payoff: Critical thinking is your last line of defense against confident-sounding slop (and there's a lot of it out there).

The Fork in the Timeline

From here, I see three futures:

Dystopia: Thinking-as-a-Subscription
A handful of mega-models sell tiered cognition. The wealthy get premium reasoning. Everyone else gets cognitive scraps.

Utopia: Star Trek Vibes
AI handles drudgery while humans upskill in empathy, meaning-making, and wonder. We become more human, not less.

The Middle Path
We redesign schools, workplaces, and Saturday afternoons so humans draft, AI coaches, and both improve together.

The middle path only opens if we act now. In our classrooms, our offices, our weekends with kids. Next time you reach for the AI shortcut, pause and ask:

Is this the muscle I want to keep strong?

The future isn't inevitable. It's a choice we make, one thought at a time.

With you (brain mostly on),
Dr. Ali

Update: I’ve had a few readers flag real flaws in that MIT paper. This Conversation piece does a great job outlining them.

Top three criticisms of this study:

1. Practice effect, not “brain rot.”
   The AI group wrote only 1 essay without ChatGPT. The brain-only group got 3 opportunities. Less brain only practice → lower brain only performance.

2. Efficiency can look like laziness.
   Lower EEG activity may just mean automation. Think calculators, not disengagement.

3. Tiny crossover sample.
   Only 18 participants completed the role-swap session, far too small for sweeping claims.

I agree with all that (and, yes, my headline was click-bait). Still, the study matters for one reason: it mirrors what teachers tell me they see right now (i.e. external validity).

Some students do use AI as a coach to improve their work. That’s my goal. But most turn in pure AI slop.

What scares me isn’t the brain activity. It’s the 83 % memory gap. AI users who couldn’t quote a single sentence they’d “written.” That’s a learning blackout.

The culprit isn’t “lazy kids.” It’s stale assignments. If the work feels pointless and can be autopiloted, students will autopilot.

The five-paragraph essay isn’t the gold standard anymore. Long division isn’t modern math. Traditional essays won’t measure modern critical thinking anymore.

AI is advancing at warp speed while our curriculum is stuck in the mud. We need to raise the bar and ask: What uniquely human skills do we want students to learn in an AI world?

Until we answer that, the gap between our tech and our teaching will only grow.

Dear Curious Human,

We’re entering a future where real human connection is becoming a luxury.

Think about it.

This past week, I spent nearly 7 hours a day on my phone. Some of that was texting real friends and doing actual work.

But a lot of it? Just…consuming. Scrolling. “Engaging with content.”

I even caught myself checking my YouTube analytics while my wife was telling me about a tough day at work. Yikes…

We’re starting to outsource our thoughts to ChatGPT, our art to Midjourney, and soon, our voices to AI agents. And in the process, we’re forgetting something essential:

Connection isn’t clicking. It’s presence.

Being there. Fully. With another person. Giving them your whole attention. And that kind of presence is disappearing.

That’s a problem.

Because 100 years of research tells us the same thing: the best thing you can do for your mental and physical health is connect with another human being.

It doesn’t have to be deep. Even a 60-second chat with your barista can shift your mood.

Psychologist Sonja Lyubomirsky puts it like this:

“If someone were to ask me what’s the one thing you could do tomorrow to be happier, that’s my answer: have a conversation with someone, or a deeper one than you usually do.”

In a world that’s automated, optimized, and impersonal, presence isn’t just a soft skill.

It’s resistance.

To a system designed to corrupt our focus. Monetize our attention. Keep us reachable but never present.

And most of us (me included) are caught in it.

We chase relevance with strangers while tuning out the people in front of us. We scroll past the very moments our minds crave. We’re so focused on saying the perfect thing, we forget to say anything real.

Presence Is the Defining Skill of the Future

In the AI era, the people who thrive won’t be the ones generating the most content or mastering the latest tech.

They’ll be the ones who make others feel seen.

Presence is what cuts through digital noise. What separates you from the generic. What makes you unforgettable. Because anyone can generate AI slop.

Very few can create a moment that lingers.

We’ve been taught that making an impact means being impressive. But usually, it just means being interested.

Curiosity brings us back to the present. It lets us drop the performance and tune into the moment.

Curiosity invites connection. And connection changes everything.

Ask yourself this:

“What if the most radical thing I could do…was to be the best part of someone else’s day?”

Not by fixing anything. Not by having the right words. But by showing up. Fully.

That kind of presence is rare. Which makes it powerful.

The people who know how to do this (who can drop in, tune in, and stay) aren’t just great friends. They’re the ones others want to build with. Work with. Stay close to.

It’s not your resume. Or your follower count.

It’s whether someone feels safe, seen, and supported in your presence.

That’s the real currency of this next era.

3 Human Skills AI Can’t Touch

1. Focused Attention

What it is: Undivided awareness.

How to practice it:

• Put your phone away.

• Make eye contact.

• Let silence breathe. Really take in what they’ve shared.

2. Emotional Honesty

What it is: Being real about what you feel.

How to practice it:

• Replace “I’m fine” with something true.

• Share one real moment from your day.

• If someone moves you, say so. (Psychologists call this “radical genuineness.”)

3. Unexpected Human Moments

What it is: Interactions machines can’t replicate.

How to practice it:

• Laugh together. Walk together. Eat together.

• Send a voice note, FaceTime, or show up IRL.

• Linger longer than you planned. Be spontaneous together.

The future doesn’t belong to the most optimized. It belongs to the most human.

So…what would it look like to give someone the kind of attention they didn’t even know they were starving for?

Your move:

Choose one person today. And when you’re with them, remind yourself:

“For the next few minutes, nothing exists but this.”

What shifts? What opens? What becomes possible?

I’d love to hear what you discover.

Boldly go,

Dr. Ali

P.S. Social anxiety can make this kind of connection feel scary. I get it. That’s why I put together a short 3-part series to help you ease in.