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Making New Friends As An Adult Feels Like Dating

Photographed by Ramona Jingru Wang
A few years ago, after consuming too many drinks at a craft beer festival, I found myself complaining about adult friendships with someone in our group. Why is making new friends so awkward? Why is it so difficult? Why do we always hang out as a group and never one-on-one? We should hang out more! Just us! Neither of us had grown up here. I’d moved to Sydney at 21 for a job and only knew two people at the time (who both left not long after I arrived). I was living with strangers I found on the internet, I was borderline broke and sleeping on a $100 mattress I’d found at an online discount store, and I had no friends. On Sundays, I’d catch the train down to Cronulla and read on the beach, alone, for most of the day. 
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Soon after, I took someone’s advice and started saying yes to every social invitation I received. From colleagues, from housemates, from neighbours, even people I met in passing at parties. I joined group sports, trivia nights, work drinks, colour runs, and even found myself at an NRL game for a team I didn’t support (I can’t recall which one it was, but I remember being ill-equipped for Sydney’s winter and shivering my way through the second half). I was motivated to meet new people — to fill my time. And slowly, over the years, I did just that. But then, somehow, my twenties passed. COVID-19 hit, we retreated into our homes, and I forgot what it meant to form new friendships and meet new people. Forgot what it meant to work in an office, to make connections with colleagues, to play a group sport. I’d grown so accustomed to solitude and my own independence that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d reached out to someone and asked if they wanted to grab a coffee. I couldn’t remember the last time I took the initiative to make new friends
So, when we emerged after lockdown, and the world settled into a new form of normal, I suddenly understood why over 33% of people found that COVID-19 had affected their friendships. This statistic was according to a global Friendship study commissioned by Snapchat, which showed that the pandemic had negatively impacted relationships with friends and led to loneliness for many. Another study conducted by Bumble For Friends illustrated that 35% of people felt less socially connected since the pandemic, driving our desire to reconnect with others. After lockdowns ended and social distancing became a thing of the past, I vowed to make more of an effort. To maintain friendships, to meet new people, and to find like-minded women. I joined a book club, I started running (alone, first, and then with others), I reconnected with former colleagues for monthly dinners, I joined an online course with fifteen people who lived all over the world, I attended events solo, I downloaded Bumble For Friends, and I signed up for a writers’ group after stumbling upon an Instagram post. 
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I also made a conscious effort to maintain communication with others – to initiate conversation, to invite them to lunch, to message them a meme, to suggest a book they might like. And, in the process, I came to the realisation that adult friendship seems difficult because it feels like dating. Chasing compatibility, being vulnerable, sharing interests, asking someone ‘so how’s work?’ and remembering to respond to their text messages. Studies have shown that 84% of people believe platonic relationships to be just as important – or more important – than romantic ones, so it feels natural that we compare the experience to dating. 

I came to the realisation that adult friendship seems difficult because it feels like dating. Chasing compatability, being vulnerable, sharing interests, asking someone 'so how's work?', and remembering to respond to their text messages.

One Sunday this year, I met up with a woman I’d been speaking to on Bumble For Friends and felt an unexpected surge of nerves – as if it were a first date, and I was worried she wouldn’t like me. That we wouldn’t have anything to discuss, we’d find that we have nothing in common, and the lunch would consist of endless awkward silences. But it felt so normal and easy that when I was on the train home, I felt empowered and thought, "I wish I’d done this sooner." Friendship takes time, and effort, but it also takes intentionality. Like someone saying, "I think I’m ready to start dating again", you have to want to meet new people. And it can be awkward. And time-consuming. And uncomfortable. But it can also be incredibly rewarding.
In a city as transient as Sydney, I’ve realised just how isolated others might feel. How few of my friends grew up here, or have family here. How comforting it is, for all of us, to meet up for a run, some breakfast, and then drink coffee together and remember that it’s not embarrassing to make the first move. That once you push past that initial hesitation – the nervousness reminiscent of going on a date – you realise that other people might just be waiting for someone else to go first.
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Friendship takes time, and effort, but it also takes intentionality. You have to want to meet new people. And it can be awkward. And time-consuming. And uncomfortable. But it can also be incredibly rewarding.

Research shows that 48% of us are making an intentional choice to reach out to friends that we haven’t spoken to in a while. And, in doing so, I’ve realised that inviting someone to an event, to a bar, to the cinemas, or into your book club, might be exactly what you both need. That, like dating, it can feel quite powerful when you put yourself out there. Perhaps it’s bravery, perhaps it’s growth. Perhaps it’s just being human. Or maybe, at its core, trying to make new friends means choosing connection over comfort. And that is why it feels difficult. 
Jessica Seaborn’s new novel, Isn’t it Nice We Both Hate the Same Things (Penguin Books), is out now.
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