“I do not have any friends in school. Nobody likes me,” says the five-year-old boy with a matter-of-fact shrug of his shoulders. He continues making his “wildlife sanctuary” with all the animal models in my room. The only hint of pain I see is in the way his eyes dart at me and then back at his animals. I want to give him a hug, but I have learned that witnessing pain with my presence is more important than any quick fixes. I observe that all the animals are in pairs or in little groups. I wonder aloud, “Kabir, what are you making?” He says, “I am designing a place where everybody has a friend. Nobody feels ‘nobody likes me.’” As I watch him place each animal with care, I sigh and wonder at the painful drama of unbelonging and exclusion.
In our organisation, we work with children and young people up to the age of 25. A recurring theme is “loneliness,” “not belonging,” “feeling left out,” “isolation,” or “feeling invisible” across the ages. A young man in high school confides, “I feel like a ghost in my school. Everyone looks through me.” A young woman from a small town, who started college in a big city, admits, “There are days I go without speaking to anyone. As if I do not exist.” Behind these words, I hear the echo of little Kabir, “Nobody likes me.”
Sahej, a high schooler, talked about a school presentation where a speaker warned the students about how a “global loneliness epidemic could kill us, as it is equivalent to smoking 15 cigarettes and can cause cardiovascular diseases, dementia and stroke.” Then he laughed hollowly and added, “He told us how we should all have friends. As if we do not know that.” What made it even worse was that after the talk, many of his classmates started ribbing him, “Dude, you are going to die an early death.” A presentation intended to raise awareness had simply found another way to shame those already feeling excluded. The cultural discourse around the “loneliness epidemic” is becoming about “Why can’t you just go out and make some friends?” We are looking for an individualistic remedy to a cultural problem. The person is not the problem, the problem is the problem, and the problem is largely social. So the solution has to be social too.*
But even loneliness isn’t distributed evenly. It impacts young people with varying degrees of ferocity depending on where they are placed in the status hierarchy. Their class, caste, religion, gender, looks, sexuality and grades become their social currency. It becomes even more complex when the child has a visible or invisible disability. This is amplified to another level when social media demands performativity, where likeability is policed, ranked and judged.
Nysa, from middle school, made an interesting observation: “When you were in school, if you had a fight with a friend, chances are that you would have sorted it out by lunch break the next day.” She pointed out how much the “social drama” has changed drastically. If there is a fight now, most of which happens on WhatsApp or Instagram, within an hour, the screenshots have been posted as stories and “battle lines are drawn.” What might have started as a seemingly innocuous squabble can get the person (whoever inhabits the “lower rung” on the status ladder) banished and cast out as a social reject. Ouch! The irony of our times is that despite being the most connected, we are so disconnected. Digital platforms have compressed the time between conflict and banishment. What once took days now unfolds in minutes, with spectators, screenshots and algorithms amplifying humiliation and outrage.
Loneliness is a shapeshifter and can show up across the ages in various guises like anxiety, depression, addiction and so on. Kabir’s parents were at wit’s end to see their child look so burdened and miserable. Sahej had started wondering if anyone would even miss him if he died. Nysa had taken to cutting herself to numb the pain of social exile.
The cost of loneliness for our children is obvious. We have to be curious about what the architecture of belonging looks like. Every time a child tells me that they like their school, I am curious to know why. They tell me various versions of the same answer: “Because I get to meet my friends,” or “The teachers are kind.” They might then tell me about “also” the subjects they like, or sports they play, or the art class that is fun. It makes sense, right? Learning is inevitable when a child feels safe, seen and secure. Before children become curious, confident or creative learners, they need a place where they feel welcome. Schools are spaces where our sense of who we are, what we value and our identity start to take shape. After all, as Desmond Tutu reminded us, “People are people through other people.”
Schools can be hubs of social change. But they cannot carry the responsibility of belonging alone. A young woman introduced me to the idea of third space as “a social space which is beyond home, school, college or work.” I immediately fell in love with the idea as it reminded me of my childhood when, after school, my friends and I would gather on a neighbourhood hill every day. We would climb trees, tumble down, sing, dance and invent new games every day. What delights me is how young people are finding innovative ways to come together through music, arts, acting, sports, knitting, crocheting, book clubs, dance groups, protests, and so much more. It takes a child to raise the village.
Imagine if schools, colleges, museums, bookshops, galleries, parks, animal shelters and libraries could host evening or weekend third spaces where children of all ages could gather to co-create inclusive spaces. The ethics of the third spaces are about creating inclusivity, acceptance and belonging. I would go even one step further and suggest that the future of mental health is not in the clinics but in the architecture of these third spaces.
When adults speak about loneliness, we often like to blare out alarming statistics, diagnoses and clinical interventions. Kabir reached for a handful of toy animals. Without knowing the language of public health, he understood something profound — belonging is not a given. Communities of care and concern are something we have to build intentionally. We can all be architects of “designing a place where everybody has a friend.” Where no child has to come to the conclusion, “Nobody likes me.”
Synonyms and composite stories have been used to maintain confidentiality.
*Acknowledgement to my friend and fellow narrative practitioner, David Denborough.
In this column, Shelja Sen curates the knowhow of the children and youth she has the honour of working with. Email her at shelja.sen@childrenfirstindia.com
The cost of loneliness for our children is obvious. 
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