We Built Cities for Cars and Algorithms — It's Time to Build Them for People Again

Somewhere along the way, we got really good at building things that connect us to information and really bad at building things that connect us to each other.

We have the fastest internet in human history and the highest rates of reported loneliness ever recorded. We have more ways to communicate than any generation before us, and yet the U.S. Surgeon General declared loneliness a public health epidemic in 2023 — a designation that puts social isolation in the same conversation as obesity, opioids, and smoking.

That should stop us cold. And it should make us ask a harder question: what did we stop building?

The Numbers Behind the Quiet Crisis

The data on American loneliness is, frankly, staggering. A 2023 report from the American Psychiatric Association found that 30% of American adults report feeling lonely at least once a week. Among adults under 35, that number climbs to nearly half. And this isn't just emotional discomfort — research published in the journal Perspectives on Psychological Science found that social isolation carries a mortality risk comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day.

The economic costs are just as sobering. A Harvard Business Review analysis estimated that loneliness costs U.S. employers over $154 billion annually in stress-related absenteeism alone. When you factor in healthcare utilization, reduced civic participation, and the downstream effects on communities — lower voter turnout, higher crime rates, reduced economic activity — the bill gets much, much larger.

And yet, when most cities and towns draw up their infrastructure budgets, they're thinking about roads, sewers, and broadband. Rarely do they ask: where will people gather?

What We Lost When We Stopped Building Third Places

Urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg coined the term "third places" back in the 1980s to describe the informal gathering spots — the coffee shop, the barbershop, the public park, the community center — that exist outside of home (the first place) and work (the second place). Third places, Oldenburg argued, are where civic life actually happens. They're where neighbors become friends, where ideas cross-pollinate, where communities develop shared identity.

For decades, American urban planning systematically dismantled them. Zoning laws separated residential areas from commercial ones, making walkable neighborhoods nearly impossible to build. Big-box retail wiped out the local shops where people lingered. Social media promised to replace the town square and delivered, instead, a dopamine slot machine.

The result is a built environment that is, in a very literal sense, hostile to human connection. Cul-de-sacs with no sidewalks. Strip malls with no benches. Suburbs where the only reason to leave your car is to enter a building.

This isn't a coincidence. It's the outcome of decades of choices — and choices can be reversed.

Communities That Are Getting It Right

Across the country, there are towns and neighborhoods that are actively rebuilding the social infrastructure their residents need. Their approaches vary, but the underlying logic is the same: give people a reason — and a space — to show up.

In Kalamazoo, Michigan, a neighborhood association converted a vacant lot into a free community garden with a covered gathering space. Within a year, neighbors who had lived on the same block for a decade were meeting for the first time. The garden now hosts weekly potlucks, seed swaps, and an informal homework help hour for kids. The city, recognizing what had happened, began replicating the model in other neighborhoods.

In Richmond, Virginia, a coalition of local churches, businesses, and civic organizations launched a "Front Porch Initiative" — a simple campaign encouraging residents to spend time on their front porches and wave, talk, and interact with neighbors. Absurdly low-tech. Surprisingly effective. Surveys conducted a year later showed measurable increases in residents' sense of belonging and trust in their neighbors.

In rural South Dakota, a small town built a community hub — a converted grain elevator — that serves as a co-working space, event venue, and informal gathering spot. Remote workers who had moved to the area for affordable housing found themselves with a reason to leave their home offices. Local business owners found new customers. Older residents found younger neighbors willing to learn their stories.

None of these interventions were expensive. All of them were intentional.

The Argument We Need to Make

Here's the hard truth: community infrastructure doesn't build itself, and it doesn't maintain itself. It requires investment — of money, yes, but also of attention, advocacy, and political will.

When a city council debates whether to fund a community center or repave a highway, the highway usually wins because its ROI is measurable in traffic counts and commute times. The community center's return — in reduced healthcare costs, increased civic engagement, stronger local economy, lower rates of depression and substance abuse — is real but harder to put on a spreadsheet.

That needs to change. And it starts with communities demanding that their leaders treat social connection as infrastructure — not as a nice-to-have, but as a load-bearing wall in the structure of a healthy society.

It also starts with us, individually. The research on loneliness consistently shows that the antidote isn't grand gestures — it's small, repeated, face-to-face interactions. The neighbor you wave to every morning. The local coffee shop where they know your order. The community event you almost skipped but attended anyway.

Connection Is a Choice We Make Together

At Folkert Community Hub, this is something we think about constantly. Building connection isn't passive. It doesn't happen because we all live in the same zip code. It happens because people — residents, business owners, civic leaders, neighbors — make active choices to show up for each other.

The communities that are healthiest aren't the ones with the most amenities or the highest incomes. They're the ones where people feel genuinely known. Where showing up matters. Where belonging isn't a marketing slogan but a daily lived experience.

We built a world optimized for efficiency and convenience. It's time to build one optimized for something harder to measure and infinitely more valuable: each other.

The infrastructure for that world starts with a conversation, a gathering space, and the simple, radical act of showing up.