I was a remote worker before it was really a thing.

When I first began working from home, I often found myself explaining that being home didn’t mean being available. I wasn’t skipping work to shop or run errands, I was working. Remote work at the time was still deeply relational. I traveled, met clients, gave presentations, and spent a lot of time face-to-face. Some of my closest friendships came from those years.

Then COVID happened.

Everything went fully remote. Fully virtual. Fully… quiet.

At first, it felt like freedom. No commute. No small talk. No real pants required. I settled comfortably into my own little world — what I lovingly refer to as my “apartment pants” era (bonus points if you’re a Friends fan and get the reference). But somewhere along the way, comfort turned into isolation. I started turning down invitations. Not because I didn’t like people — but because the effort of getting “real-world ready” felt oddly exhausting.

Maybe you know the feeling.

When my husband and I moved to a more remote area, the loneliness became harder to ignore. I realized I wasn’t just missing people — I was missing connection. Not only to friends, but to the place I lived. To community. To a sense of belonging that doesn’t happen through a screen.

So I decided to stop waiting for connection to magically appear.

Instead, I treated friendship like a project.

That might sound strange, but hear me out. When I left relationships to chance while working remotely, it became incredibly easy to postpone them. I’ll reach out next week. I’ll go next month. I’ll say yes when life slows down. Comfort always won.

That’s when Digital Nomads entered my life. Committing to one simple thing — showing up once a month to meet people who “got” the remote work lifestyle — changed everything. It wasn’t overwhelming. It wasn’t forced. And it reminded me that connection is a muscle: the more you use it, the stronger it gets.

I slowly made another commitment — to socialize outside my comfort zone at least twice a month. To be the one who sends the invite. Plans the lunch. Hosts the meetup. Not because it’s always easy — but because it matters.

Life still gets heavy. This past year, I lost my dad, and suddenly “making friends” felt trivial compared to grief. But I kept my commitment. And honestly? It became a lifeline. There were nights I didn’t want to go, but I was always glad I did.

My mental health is better. My career has expanded. I feel connected to my community again.

As we step into a new year filled with resolutions and fresh starts, I hope you’ll consider something a little different: treat connection with the same intention you give your work. Don’t wait. Don’t overthink it. Start small. Show up.

Your future self — the one who feels grounded, supported, and a little less alone — will thank you.