Disconnected Adults

What exactly is healthy attunement? I hear that word a lot in trauma trainings—”attunement,” and how many people with anxiety or attachment wounds can trace their struggles back to a lack of it from their parents. But what about now? Are we attuned to a one-year-old on an iPad during dinner? Are younger generations any better off? Since I brought up screen time, I’ve noticed more adults in therapy feeling like they’re competing with screens for connection—even with their elderly parents. Watching a grandmother show her grandkids a funny movie on her phone isn’t the scene most people imagine when they picture grandparenthood. We can’t dodge screens, and maybe, just maybe, we’ve always been disconnected; the screen is simply our newest coping skill.

Sometimes, what looks like excessive technology use is really a story about someone’s unmet need to feel connected. So what’s the solution? I’m genuinely asking. Some of my clients have found icebreaker cards or get-to-know-you games helpful. I tried this years ago with my own family; it worked for a while, then fizzled. One holiday, I found myself laughing out loud—probably looking a bit off—because a family-themed Christmas movie was playing while everyone on the couch was on their phone. In the movie, they complained about kids on screens. If I’d pointed this out to my family, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything. Are they bad? No. They’re no different from most people today.

Screens, alcohol, weed—these are all legal (depending on the state) ways to disconnect while still being physically present. Most children of boomers I see in sessions complain about emotionally unavailable parents. If you look at the history—the trauma that shaped generations, from the Great Depression to wars—it makes sense that adults needed to numb themselves a bit. But what’s been happening all along is an inability to sit with discomfort. That’s what this all comes down to: learning that we will be okay in the discomfort.

Before the screen, we were forced to figure out small talk and pleasantries. The polite society I have ranted against in past blogs, actually had something going for it, though. At least they taught you how to try to connect, even if you feel empty answering a polite “How are you?” with “Fine, Gloria, and how’s your Sunday?”

I think we are dealing more and more with the overwhelming feeling that comes over people’s bodies when others try to connect. I think screens started chipping away at our attunement, and COVID times dug the grave for connection. I am not willing to lie in the grave, though! I want to fight so bad. I want to get back to when my kids would do improv nights with me. Now they are stuck on screens because that is where their homework lives, and so does YouTube, and so do so many apps that tempt them as they read and turn in assignments, all on a screen.

When I finally get a rare night out with my partner, all I see are people on their phones at dinner. Should we ban screens like we did cigarettes? Are there studies yet on how much harm screens do to our physical health? I feel it’s got something to do with the increase in people describing extreme loneliness in therapy spaces.

What’s missing is the willingness to sit with discomfort. When someone hurts your feelings, it’s hard to address the pain. Sitting in the “accused” chair, reminding yourself that defensiveness creates distance, and really hearing them out because you care is challenging—but necessary. These lessons get lost when we’re glued to TikTok, listening to wellness-culture advice telling us to just “let them.” Sometimes, sure, you can’t win someone over, and it’s healthy to let go. But if we “let them” everywhere in our lives, we never face discomfort. Growth isn’t always painful, but it is often uncomfortable.

I’m personally challenging myself to text less and call more—to model for the people who love me how I prefer to communicate, with a little more connection. I might lose momentum with certain relationships, and that’s sad, but I’m sure I’ll eventually return to texting or sharing funny Instagram stories. This isn’t forever; it’s just an experiment to make sure I haven’t forgotten how to truly connect with loved ones who live far away.

Here’s my question for you: When was the last time you sat and just talked—no phone, no screen? Maybe some music, but no digital distractions. Sometimes I ask myself the same thing, and I’m sad to realize it’s been a while. Before screens, other things pulled us away. I believe we’ve needed to work on attunement for a long time, and no generation has quite mastered it. It’s time we sat with discomfort, made eye contact, and truly smiled at one another—to connect, and be okay with not running to a screen the second we feel uneasy.

So, what is attunement? Some define it as a deep relational connection—a feeling in your body of being truly seen and understood —something that rarely happens through a screen. Attunement is the pain you see in a loved one’s face when they really listen to you describe a terrible day. It’s being seen, validated, and held.

The first time attunement really struck me was in trauma training as a new therapist. I remembered the first time I truly felt empathy. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it was after a series of very hard years, and I was telling a friend about the worst thing that had ever happened to me: the death of my best friend, Allison. He remembered me mentioning her a few times when we’d tried to reconnect over the phone while I lived in New Orleans. There I was, in his kitchen in Andersonville (a cool area in Chicago), matter-of-factly describing my greatest loss. I hadn’t felt anyone’s empathy about her death yet. Grief is strange, and so is the way people handle young people dying. There’s often anger and blame. Allison died in a car accident—tragically, that happens every day—but because she was young and we’d partied together, well-meaning loved ones asked, “Was she drinking?” I wanted to scream, “Why does that matter? She’s gone!” But I just shut down and avoided it.

I didn’t have a screen to hide behind back then, but I had alcohol. (You’ll have to read my memoir someday for that part!) I was sitting on the floor, playing with the string on my shirt, when I noticed the silence. My friend came closer. I looked up and saw the pain in his face. Tears were forming. He asked if I needed a hug. I shrugged. We hugged, and he sobbed into me. I asked why he was crying, and he said, “Jen, it’s just so sad.” That’s when I finally let it all out. I’ll never forget that moment. It was a turning point in my healing. That’s attunement. It overwhelmed me, took over my body and soul, and it was uncomfortable—but it was also the medicine I needed most. From then on, I got better. I worked hard to climb out of my drinking. My C-PTSD and self-loathing became admiration for my own strength. All because of an attuned look from a friend who truly saw me. I still wonder if he knows how much that moment saved me.

That’s a big example, but imagine if we had more of that sprinkled throughout our lives—moments when others truly feel with us through a hard day, helping us feel held and less alone. So, if your friend texts, “I had a shit day,” consider making time to meet face-to-face before sending a funny cat video. Let’s stay committed to healing generational trauma and the very real reasons we’ve stepped away from attunement. With everything going on in the world, let’s fight back by truly being there for one another. Our bodies—and our hearts—are craving it.