Isolation. What a concept. Whenever I think about it, two forms come to mind: isolating a specific move in climbing and isolating oneself socially. At first glance, they seem like entirely different ideas, but it’s worth exploring how they relate.

In climbing, focusing on one particular move can be incredibly helpful. You gain more energy for that move alone, which leaves room for small errors and allows you to learn the subtle nuances of the movement. However, a climb is more than any single move: previous moves inevitably affect future ones. Eventually, you need to link each isolated movement back to the whole sequence in order to grasp the bigger picture of the climb.

Social isolation, on the other hand, involves withdrawing—either physically, by staying away from others, or virtually, by remaining online instead of engaging in person. For someone who struggles with anxiety, fewer real-world social interactions can feel like a relief. Yet ironically, the only way to truly manage that anxiety is to practice talking to people—even when it feels awkward. It’s like trying a new climbing move for the first time: you might want to isolate it to lessen the discomfort, but if you never connect that move to the rest of the sequence, you won’t reach the top.

This is where the analogy starts to shift. In climbing, it’s obvious: if you don’t do every move, you simply can’t get to the top. In life, it used to be just as obvious that isolation could hinder your growth, because boredom would eventually push you to seek real human connection… most of the time. But as technology became more advanced and more accessible, it became easier to stay entertained—and feel connected—while remaining physically alone. Social media, video games, endless streaming services, and vast virtual communities make it possible to be “alone” without ever feeling bored.

I experienced this shift when I was about 15. In 2010, my family got high-speed internet, an online gaming platform, and I got my first iPod Touch. From that point on, everything changed. I spent endless hours gaming and chatting online, all from the comfort of my room. I hardly went out at all until I got my driver’s license.

Before 2010, I had no choice but to go out more often. Both my parents worked, and my younger brother, who had his own challenges, needed a lot of attention. Because of that, I spent much of my free time outside, often alone. My neighborhood didn’t have other kids nearby, so if I wanted to see friends, my parents had to drive me. They couldn’t always make it happen, and when they said no, I would be stuck at home, but at least I felt close to nature and grounded. I would go and see my grandparents a lot because they lived close by and they were the only friends I could walk to see.

Once I discovered gaming, YouTube, and other online content, the urge to go out gradually disappeared—I was alone yet constantly entertained, and my social skills took a dive. I could barely talk to girls, and I ended up with only two friends. We smoked a lot of weed together and played a lot of video games. Even when I got my first car and we could hang out in person, I still felt a pull toward isolation.

Eventually, my friends and I got tired of doing the same old routine. We’d meet up, get bored, then go our separate ways. I slipped back into old habits, finding excuses to stay in. When I moved away for university, alone, I felt an overwhelming dread. I was always homesick and anxious, and all I wanted was to retreat to my apartment. In Japan, they call this hikikomori—pulling inward. That’s exactly how it felt: a constant tug toward isolation. I became more anxious around people, convinced I was letting everyone down. I felt unreliable and unable to change.

My twenties were shaped by that anxiety and isolation. Of course, there were bright spots—like escaping on climbing trips with friends—but as soon as I came home, the same habits returned, and the shame followed.

I’m not entirely sure what changed or when, but I finally realized I was the only one who could make a change. I read a line in a book that said, “When you change, the people around you change, too.” It hit me hard because I’d been asking questions like, “Why is this so difficult? What will people think? When will this end?” I felt out of control. But I saw that I’d basically stopped trying to be human—I was a hermit in disguise.

Now, at least, I recognize when I’m isolating myself. It’s still a challenge. I live with my dad, and we hardly have deep conversations. We’re both alone under the same roof. In a couple of weeks, I’m moving out with my girlfriend to be closer to work, and I’m hoping that distance will give me the perspective I need to reconnect with my dad. I only realized how bad things were getting when I caught myself feeling annoyed if he happened to be home when I returned—because then I couldn’t fully isolate myself and had to interact with him. Bad, I know.

I’m learning to treat every moment as an opportunity, rather than trying to force every moment to meet my perceived needs—needs that aren’t even real. Deep down, I know I love connecting with people and being part of a community, but the habit of staying in has carved deep grooves into my brain. Unlearning this takes time.

I do feel myself changing, albeit slowly. I’m hopeful that moving will steer me further in the right direction. Which direction is that? I’m not entirely sure. But I do know that trying to control everything doesn’t work. Life goes on, so I might as well jump in and start living it. Anyone who wants to jump in with me is more than welcome. Let’s see where we end up—together.