I’ve always understood myself as an introvert, not in the “I hate people” sense at all, but in the introspective and observant way. I like connection. I appreciate warmth. I just don’t always want to be the one to initiate it. Before the pandemic, that balance felt natural.
There was an unspoken social rhythm: small smiles exchanged in passing, a polite “hello” to a neighbor, someone holding the door without hesitation. These weren’t grand gestures, but they created a baseline of ease. As an introvert, I could move through the world comfortably knowing that even if I stayed quiet, kindness was ambient. It was built into the environment.
If I had the energy, I would engage. If I didn’t, someone else often would. And that small moment, a stranger’s friendliness, an unexpected bit of warmth, could shift my entire day. It made me more open, more willing to connect in return. Now, something feels off.
Since the pandemic dissolved and life resumed its pace, I’ve noticed a subtle but persistent shift. It’s not just in my city, it seems broader, almost cultural. There’s a rise in what I can only describe as antisocial behavior. Not necessarily dramatic or aggressive, but in forms of disconnection and inconsideration: people avoiding eye contact, ignoring basic greetings, moving through shared spaces as if others don’t exist. In my own apartment, people step into the elevator and immediately turn to their phones, not acknowledging anyone already inside, or letting the door close quickly behind them without checking if someone is a few steps away.
It’s not just strangers, either. Even acquaintances, even people who once would have engaged casually, seem more closed off. Interactions feel transactional at best, absent at worst. And what unsettles me most is this: it no longer feels like extroverted people are filling that social gap. A neighbor in the past would have introduced themselves and wished you a pleasant day in the hallway. Instead, they walk past you in silence now, no nod, no recognition, just a shared space that feels oddly empty.
There was a time when being introverted didn’t mean social deprivation. It meant participating differently. Extroverts often carried the energy of interaction, they initiated, they bridged gaps, they set the tone. That dynamic created a kind of social ecosystem where everyone could coexist comfortably. Now, that ecosystem feels disrupted. They were the ones who would casually say “good morning” in the lobby or make a light comment while waiting for the elevator, setting an easy tone for everyone else.
The absence of those small, initiating gestures has created a strange pressure. It feels like if kindness is going to happen, I have to be the one to start it. If there’s going to be a moment of human warmth, I have to manufacture it. And that’s where the imbalance sets in. Because for me, initiating isn’t effortless. It takes intention, energy, and sometimes a bit of internal negotiation. When that effort becomes the default rather than the exception, it stops feeling like connection and starts feeling like obligation.
There’s also a dissonance in acting out of character repeatedly. I find myself forcing smiles, overcompensating with politeness, trying to inject lightness into spaces that feel resistant to it. Offering a “hey, how’s it going,” and getting little to no response can feel depressing and draining now. And while I still believe in those efforts, while I still want to contribute something positive, it’s tiring in a way that didn’t used to be.
It used to feel like kindness was shared labor. Now it feels individualized, optional, even avoidable. And when something that once felt natural starts to feel like work, it shifts how you relate to it entirely. Something as basic as saying hi to a cashier or saying “excuse me” on the street now feels like more of an assault on to them.
I don’t think this shift is coming from a single place. Some of it feels like a lingering aftereffect of isolation. Some of it may be cultural drift, especially in parts of North America where individualism is already strong. Some of it might be digital spillover, where online detachment reshapes how we behave offline. But whatever the cause, the result is the same: a shrinkage of everyday social warmth. And for introverts, that depletion matters more than it might seem. Because we often rely on those small, external sparks to draw us out, not constantly, not forcefully, but gently. Without them, it becomes easier to stay withdrawn, not out of preference but out of adaptation.
I don’t think the solution is to force myself into becoming something I’m not. Constantly overriding my nature isn’t sustainable, and it risks turning something meaningful into something mechanical. But I also don’t want to give up on the idea that small kindnesses matter. Maybe it means lowering the expectation that others will meet me halfway, without fully closing myself off. But maybe it also means resisting that shift, in small ways. Saying “hello” and learning to live with it not being returned, for now, while trusting that my small action might inspire them to do the same. Choosing, deliberately, not to disappear into the same indifference. Because those small gestures are how a shared environment starts to feel human again.
Because why are we here if not for each other?