Lately, when pulled outside by the summer sun, I’ve been noticing Gen Z-ers connecting in creative ways around the city. Along with my fellow commuters, I’m forced to pause as hundreds of young people cross the street, demonstrating the sheer magnitude of run clubs. Beach volleyball teams startle me with their shouts as they rotate between sweating in the sand and enjoying a beer on the sidelines. And a pop-up vintage market seems to draw my generation in like flies to honey, as we cast aside other group plans in favour of embarking on the thrill of the hunt together.
Gen Z has been called many things: chronically online, anxious, diverse, pragmatic, woke and now, the “loneliest generation.” But as a 22-year-old who has moved to a new city twice in the past year, I’ve found that our loneliness can actually be a powerful tool, forcing us out from behind our screens to reinvent offline socialization. While not a concept unique to our generation, it can sometimes feel new to us.
For those of us between 12 and 27 years old, our formative years have been characterized by a global pandemic, the rising tide of social media, climate anxiety and virtual work. According to a survey done by Statistics Canada in 2021, people aged 15 to 24 reported the highest percentage of loneliness felt among any age group.
Roberta Katz, a senior research scholar at Stanford University and co-author of Gen Z, Explained, said the young people she spoke with during her research told her they felt oversaturated by social media and yearned for deeper, in-person interactions. Katz surveyed 2,000 people between 18 and 25 years old from the U.K. and U.S. and conducted interviews with 120 Gen Z-ers on college campuses in the two countries. Of those interviewed, all but one said their favourite form of communication was in-person. Perhaps spurred by all this, Gen Z-ers are seeking out IRL experiences this summer for every budget.
Some people can afford to easily go into a restaurant or a bar and make that their third space, versus for other people, it’s more like a park picnic hang that doesn’t involve any costs.
— Veronika Korchagina
These kinds of gatherings largely rely on so-called third spaces. The term, coined by an American sociologist in the 1980s, refers to meeting places separate from work and home, which are considered critical for building relationships and a sense of belonging. However, in recent years these informal social spaces have come under threat from the rising cost of real estate and living, and the migration of people out of city centres. Third spaces, while used by everyone, are uniquely important to members of Gen Z, who are often forced (by the aforementioned financial stresses) to live in their parents’ homes for longer than generations before them.
From $200 to $20, there are places to go to escape a parent’s basem*nt, a studio apartment or a gaming roommate, and to help us feel connected again. The Globe followed three Toronto-based twentysomethings as they ventured out to find their community.
Veronika Korchagina, 25
After navigating high school as an introvert, Veronika Korchagina made a concerted effort to break out of her shell during university. She was looking forward to graduating in 2020 when the pandemic brought her plans to a screeching halt, and the loneliness hit hard.
“We lost out on our early 20s and the earlier Gen Z lost out on their high-school years. I definitely feel like we didn’t have as many opportunities to meet people in our life through parties or casual encounters.”
Korchagina said Gen Z seems divided because the niche online communities they curate don’t always translate into successful face-to-face friendships.
“The multiplicity is beautiful, but it can also be isolating.”
Currently training to be a psychotherapist, Korchagina is an art historian and has been working in Toronto’s arts and culture scene since she was 18. To make ends meet, she also recently started a full-time job at an insurance company.
Through Toronto’s arts community, she has been trying to recoup the social life she once dreamt of, via activities such as film screenings and dancing. Sometimes this also includes life-drawing socials, held by Korchagina’s peers. The events, organized by New Yorker cartoonist Tristan Crocker, who’s based in Toronto, are held once every couple of months at restaurants or bars around the city. Tickets are usually around $20.
The events are surprisingly interpersonal and encourage her to mingle through different activities, Korchagina said, including one where everyone draws a body part and then passes their paper on to the next person to draw a new body part.
While Korchagina often brings a friend with her to Crocker’s events, she said it can be tricky to gather a larger group because of differing budgets and work schedules.
“Some people can afford to easily go into a restaurant or a bar and make that their third space, versus for other people, it’s more like a park picnic hang that doesn’t involve any costs.”
Sean Burke, 27
After moving to Toronto during the COVID-19 pandemic, Sean Burke had to work hard to defy the circ*mstances his generation had been dealt during some of their most formative years.
“If you’re not constantly pushing yourself to go out and make those connections, it doesn’t come as naturally as it once did when things were all in-person.”
One of the first places Burke turned in his search for community was a beach volleyball court in Toronto’s downtown core. The venue hosts a league run by JAM Sports. Over the past year, nearly 50,000 people have registered for beach volleyball in the 25 cities where JAM operates and most new players are in their mid-20s.
Depending on the size of the team, registration can cost between $100 to $200 a player for a season that lasts about six weeks.
Burke said he ventured there to find other young professionals who wanted to build relationships outside of work. Alongside a couple of colleagues, he built a team that plays once a week and extends beyond their office to include multiple friends-of-friends.
“Something I’ve really enjoyed is being able to actually go a little bit deeper with my co-workers and get to meet the people that they grew up with.”
Run clubs were another means he found to meet peers. Beyond the registration fees, he said he likes choosing sports as his social activity because it’s up to him how much he spends on accessory costs such as postgame drinks or barbecues.
Grenville Almeida, 23
Grenville Almeida said the “loneliest generation” label his age group has received rings true.
The Humber College student came to Canada from India last year to study sports business management. He said it was scary trying to make friends in a new city because he wasn’t sure who to trust and worried he wouldn’t share the same interests or beliefs with others his age.
Nearly a year later, Almeida has four close friends who he met at a supper club called Palate Project that, in true Gen Z fashion, he found out about through Instagram. Palate Project was officially launched in January by three friends, Cheryl’n Almeida (Grenville’s cousin), Arun Raghunathan and Shefali Chavan, who wanted to bring people together through their passion for food and cooking. Cheryl’n said when they launched the supper club, they didn’t tell anyone close to them because they wanted to have people find it organically, just like Grenville did.
Grenville has since learned each of his friends had a different reason for attending the meal they met at.
“One of them just came to Palate Project because she was bored and didn’t have anything to do and didn’t want to go to a restaurant. I wanted to go to actually meet new people and another one of my friends, he didn’t even want to sign up. His girlfriend signed him up. She was like, ‘You’re a loner. Just go meet new people.’”
The gathering cost $95 and hit the spot for Almeida, who prefers small, intimate hangouts to larger crowds at places such as bars or clubs. His other hangouts include a recreational softball league.
When he gets beers with his friends on the weekend now, he said they plot hosting their own supper club and reflect on the unique circ*mstances under which their lives became intertwined.
“We always talk about how insane it is to randomly sit here eating and drinking and understanding we became friends because of a random dinner.”
Who is the happiest person you know?
Some people seem to approach life with a contagious measure of cheerfulness. They respond to adversity with resilience. And they appear to consistently experience joy in small, but important ways.
As part of a year-long investigation of happiness, The Globe and Mail's Erin Anderssen is embarking on a project to interview the "happiest people in Canada," nominated by the people who know them, through work, friendship and family.
To add a name to this list, please send a short paragraph about them and why you consider them the happiest person you know in the box below, or email it to eanderssen@globeandmail.com.
