Why do we value the opinions of complete strangers instead of turning to those closest to us? Photo: Skynesher.
Last week, I came across a post from a woman asking complete strangers whether she should leave her husband.
Within minutes, hundreds of people had replied. Some told her to leave. Some urged her to stay and seek counselling. Others shared stories of marriages they had fought for, or walked away from.
Nobody knew who she was. Nobody knew her husband. Nobody knew whether they were hearing the whole story. Yet hundreds of strangers were willing to stop what they were doing to ‘help’ someone they would probably never meet.
A few days later, another anonymous message appeared. This time it was someone describing years of family violence. Then a professional came to discuss a work problem.
As a journalist, I spend a lot of time scrolling through community groups looking for story ideas. Most days it’s the usual neighbourhood conversations – lost cats, road closures, school recommendations or where to find the best coffee.
But conversations about such personal issues in your lives leave me with questions: Why would you discuss them with strangers? When did strangers become safer than the people who already know us?
Why can’t you instead go to the friend who has known you for years or the cousin you grew up with? The aunt who held you as a child or the sibling who can tell from your voice that something isn’t right?
Where are those people? Of course, I know the answer isn’t simple.
For many, anonymous community groups are a lifeline. Some are escaping abusive relationships. Some don’t have safe families. Some have spent years being silenced. Some simply need a place where they can ask difficult questions without fear of being judged.
And one of the most beautiful things about these groups is the kindness they attract. Strangers give up their time to comfort another human being they will probably never meet.
That kindness matters. But I don’t think Facebook is the story. I think Facebook has exposed one. Perhaps people aren’t turning to strangers because strangers know them better, but perhaps because they don’t.
A stranger judges only the story in front of them. Not 20 years of history or your old mistakes.
With strangers, there is no baggage, no reputation to protect. No fear that next Christmas lunch will be awkward because you admitted your marriage wasn’t perfect.
For one anonymous post, you are free to be imperfect. And I wonder if that’s what we’ve really lost. The confidence to let the people closest to us see that we are struggling.
Reading those posts has made me think a lot about the conversations that have quietly shaped my own life. Some of my happiest memories aren’t of family get-togethers or festivals.
They’re conversations over cups of tea. This one is particularly special.
Back in India, for years one of my neighbours and I would knock on each other’s doors after work, around sunset. We’d sit outside with tea that inevitably went cold because we talked for too long.
About work. About our children. About marriages. About ageing parents. About dreams that hadn’t worked out. About fears we hadn’t admitted to anyone else.
The streetlights would come on. Children would be called home for dinner. The tea would lose its warmth. But we would still be talking.
Nothing about those evenings felt extraordinary, but they were therapeutic. Neither of us had answers. Neither of us was trying to fix the other. We simply listened.
When I first moved to Australia, I assumed loneliness was simply part of being a migrant. For the first few years, my husband was still overseas, and it was just my two young children and me trying to navigate a country that felt completely unfamiliar.
Then, about a month after we arrived, the grandmother of one of my daughter’s classmates started knocking on my door every few days.
She wasn’t bringing advice. She wasn’t trying to solve my problems. She simply wanted to know if I was okay.
Ten minutes after the school run. That’s all. Those 10 minutes meant more to me than she will ever know.
They brought a strange comfort and a sense of reassurance – there is someone in this new world who checks on me. There is someone who cares to stop and see if I am fine.
Two years later, I’ve found a few more people who remind me that we’re not machines ticking off responsibilities – we’re human beings searching for warmth, belonging and someone who will simply listen.
There is a neighbour, probably my mother’s age, a retired diplomat who invites two other neighbours and me over for drinks occasionally.
The meeting doesn’t wait for an occasion. They are not meant for networking. It is not a lavish, planned dinner. Sometimes someone brings snacks. Sometimes nobody does.
We sit. We laugh. We complain about the weather. Talk about politics. Nothing remarkable happens. And yet I always walk home feeling lighter.
It has taken me a while to realise why. The conversation itself is the point. Perhaps we’ve become so busy building successful lives that we’ve forgotten to build witnesses to those lives.
People who know what an ordinary Tuesday looks like. People who notice when you don’t open the curtains. People who can hear “I’m fine” and know it isn’t true. The people who can finish our sentences because they’ve watched us become who we are.
We have built incredible networks. Facebook groups. WhatsApp chats. LinkedIn connections. Thousands of digital relationships.
Over the last two years, I’ve also realised loneliness isn’t just a migrant experience. I’ve interviewed retirees whose children live interstate. Young professionals who know hundreds of colleagues but nobody they’d call during a crisis. Parents raising children without grandparents nearby.
Students. Widows. Almost everyone wants more connection. Almost everyone says they should catch up with people more often.
But somehow we don’t. Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped building villages. The handful of people who know our stories without needing the explanation.
Perhaps that’s why so many anonymous posts resonate. They’re not simply cries for help.
They’re evidence of something we’ve quietly stopped practising: vulnerability.
Somewhere along the way, being seen became more frightening than being lonely.
We curate our lives so carefully that even the people we love begin to believe we’re always coping.
We post the holidays. The birthdays. The promotions. The smiling family photos.
We become experts at looking okay. Until one day we’re not. And somehow it feels easier to tell 50,000 strangers than the one person sitting across the dinner table.
We often talk about Australia’s mental health crisis. We absolutely should. Professional support saves lives. But I wonder whether we’ve overlooked something much older than psychology.
The healing power of being known. Not admired. Not followed.
Just known. Known well enough that someone notices your silence. Known well enough that you can fall apart without worrying whether you’ll be judged for it.
Tomorrow, someone else will probably post anonymously in a community group. Hundreds of strangers will respond with extraordinary kindness. I hope they do.
But I also hope that one day fewer people will need to ask strangers in the first place. I hope more of us have someone we can call before we reach for the keyboard.
Someone who already knows the backstory. Someone who already knows our flaws. Someone who has seen us at our best and our worst and decided to stay anyway.
Because when life truly falls apart, what stays with you isn’t how many people commented on your post or clicked the heart button. It’s who knocked on your door. Who made you a cup of tea. Who sat beside you when you couldn’t find the words. Who quietly helped you believe that tomorrow would be a little easier than today.
So let me leave you with one question. If tonight was one of the hardest nights of your life, who would you call? If the answer doesn’t come to you immediately, perhaps it’s time to invest a little more in people than in platforms.
Build friendships before you need them. Knock on the neighbour’s door. Ring the friend you’ve been meaning to catch up with. And let people see the imperfect version of you. Be kind enough to accept the imperfect version of them.
Because in the end, that’s all any of us really are. Perfectly imperfect humans, trying to find warmth in one another.
Original Article published by Naziya Alvi Rahman on Region Canberra.
