Feeling sad? Don’t be! Feeling lonely? Have a robot!
I’m convinced (or I want to be) that, despite all the horrors happening in the world (no need to list the latest ones, or this post would go on forever), we are now a more sensitive society when it comes to other people’s psychological distress. At the very least, we are aware that such distress exists and that it must be addressed. We’re also beginning to realize—albeit clumsily (forgive the contrast)—that the intervention of new technologies in our lives is not always harmless. Sometimes it barges in like a bull in a china shop: it disrupts our attention, reshapes our routines, alters our sense of free time, and even, sometimes, what is important and what seems to stop being so. But we also resist, so I want to believe that all is not lost. One small but powerful example of collective resistance has emerged recently: we’ve finally admitted that we don’t like receiving work emails over the weekend (much less phone calls). And we’ve even enshrined something as basic as this into law: your boss shouldn’t text your personal phone during your leisure time to share their latest bright idea (which might even be interesting but can wait until Monday).
Back to the first point: we are more aware—or I want to believe we are, again—that there are forms of suffering that leave no physical marks but hurt just as much, if not more. Emotional pain, emptiness, anxiety, anguish: words that are now heard with less shame and more empathy than just a few years ago. A more sensitive society, yes. Or at least a more attentive one. Though not always correct in its approaches and solutions.
A good example of this is the way we talk about—and try to address—loneliness (that which we sometimes call “unwanted” and which is currently under review). Academia and some public policies have made significant efforts to better understand it. We’ve learned, for instance, that living alone is not the same as feeling lonely. Eating alone, going to the movies alone, is not negative nor does it imply loneliness in a negative sense. That loneliness is much more complex. That it doesn’t only affect older adults, although it becomes more visible at that stage of life. And that, above all, it is not a phenomenon that can be solved with a palliative or technological approach. Or… have we not learned that yet?
Because sometimes, when you least expect it, the magical answer arrives: “Feeling lonely? Here’s a robot! Talk to Siri or this robotic seal and everything will get better!” And you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
We are a society that has developed enormous sensitivity to certain injustices but also frequently falls into the trap of “happy ideas.” Like those harebrained schemes—if I may use the phrase—that attempt to solve complex problems with seemingly simple, flashy, technological solutions that are profoundly disconnected from human reality. As if being human, living, and coexisting were simple. The idea of giving a robot to “keep company” to someone who feels lonely is exactly that: a simplistic response to a complex issue. It’s like telling someone going through grief or depression a cheerful and enthusiastic “Don’t be sad!” It’s missing the point. It’s being—however unintentionally—a little cruel, dismissing the emotions of the person in front of you.
As a sociologist, I always emphasize an idea I try to pass on to my students: human beings are social creatures. We need each other from the moment we are born until the very last day of our lives. Even when we can’t stand one another, even when we flee crowds, even when we idealize the hermit lifestyle. Which, by the way, is one of the biggest modern myths: even Heidi’s grandfather came down to the village to trade cheese for other goods. Total isolation is not possible. Even the grumpy guy in your neighborhood needs other human beings (as grumpy or less grumpy than him) to survive physically and psychologically.
Loneliness has little to do with simply not having people around. It has more to do with not feeling part of something, with having no one to share the everyday with, with lacking bonds that recognize you, support you, and return your gaze. And that doesn’t get fixed with circuits, sensors, or algorithms. It doesn’t matter how hard a robot tries to seem friendly: if there’s no one on the other side truly listening, there is no connection. There must be a response, not in the format of “Instagram psychology,” but something as human as possible. Even (and here’s the contradiction) if it’s wrong.
When we propose a robot as a solution to loneliness, we’re also saying something very serious without realizing it: we are admitting that we no longer know how—or no longer want—to organize ourselves in a way that allows us to be present for one another. That we can’t—or it’s not worth it—to rebuild communities, foster neighborly relationships, maintain public services that care and accompany. Not all discomfort can be solved with individual solutions (and that’s the core problem with the “robot” idea). Not everything can be solved with gadgets or well-intentioned advice wrapped in self-help packaging. No, unwanted loneliness isn’t fixed by a robot asking if you want to play tic-tac-toe or telling you that you look handsome today. Because unwanted loneliness isn’t a technical failure—it’s a social symptom. Instead of asking uncomfortable questions about how we got here, we stick on a shiny, programmable patch connected to the grid. With colorful LEDs.
I’m not trying to demonize technology or deny the help it can provide. It can be a valuable ally if well-guided. It can facilitate connections, support tasks, complement caregiving. But there’s a big difference between helping and replacing. The former adds value; the latter replaces what is essential. Social life is not something you can outsource. It can’t be subcontracted (there’s a lot to say about that). It cannot be simulated.
That’s why, when I hear people talking about robots to combat loneliness, I can’t help but feel we’re getting everything backwards. What we need is not a machine that pretends to be there, but a society that truly is. One that doesn’t delegate connection, that doesn’t turn affection into a service, that doesn’t solve abandonment with entertainment. Maybe, simply, someone—flesh and blood—with whom to share the silence, and who somehow says, “I’m here.” Even if they don’t quite know what to say next.
