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For The Atlantic’s December cover story, “How the Ivy League Broke America,” contributing writer David Brooks argues that America’s meritocratic system is not working, and that we need something new. The current meritocratic order began in the 1930s, when Harvard and other Ivy League schools moved away from a student body composed of WASP elites and toward one of cognitive elites: “When universities like Harvard shifted their definition of ability, large segments of society adjusted to meet that definition. The effect was transformative, as though someone had turned on a powerful magnet and filaments across wide swaths of the culture suddenly snapped to attention in the same direction.”As well intentioned as this was, Brooks argues, the new meritocratic system has produced neither better elites nor better societal results. We’ve reached a point at which a majority of Americans believe that our country is in decline, that the “political and economic elite don’t care about hard-working people,” that experts don’t understand their lives, and that America “needs a strong leader to take the country back from the rich and powerful.” In short, Brooks writes, “under the leadership of our current meritocratic class, trust in institutions has plummeted to the point where, three times since 2016, a large mass of voters has shoved a big middle finger in the elites’ faces by voting for Donald Trump.” Furthermore, the system is so deeply firmly established that it will be hard to dislodge. “Parents can’t unilaterally disarm, lest their children get surpassed by the children of the tiger mom down the street,” Brooks writes. “Teachers can’t teach what they love, because the system is built around teaching to standardized tests. Students can’t focus on the academic subjects they’re passionate about, because the gods of the grade point average demand that they get straight A’s … All of this militates against a childhood full of curiosity and exploration.”Brooks goes on to describe the six sins of meritocracy, concluding that “many people who have lost the meritocratic race have developed contempt for the entire system, and for the people it elevates. This has reshaped national politics. Today, the most significant political divide is along educational lines: Less educated people vote Republican, and more educated people vote Democratic … Wherever the Information Age economy showers money and power onto educated urban elites, populist leaders have arisen to rally the less educated: not just Donald Trump in America but Marine Le Pen in France, Viktor Orbán in Hungary, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan in Turkey, Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela. These leaders understand that working-class people resent the know-it-all professional class, with their fancy degrees, more than they do billionaire real-estate magnates or rich entrepreneurs.” Brooks continues: “When income level is the most important division in a society, politics is a struggle over how to redistribute money. When a society is more divided by education, politics becomes a war over values and culture.”Brooks argues that the challenge is not to end meritocracy, but to humanize and improve it, with the first crucial step being how we define merit. In reconceiving the meritocracy, we need to take more account of noncognitive traits. Brooks writes: “If we sort people only by superior intelligence, we’re sorting people by a quality few possess; we’re inevitably creating a stratified, elitist society. We want a society run by people who are smart, yes, but who are also wise, perceptive, curious, caring, resilient, and committed to the common good. If we can figure out how to select for people’s motivation to grow and learn across their whole lifespan, then we are sorting people by a quality that is more democratically distributed, a quality that people can control and develop, and we will end up with a fairer and more mobile society.”“We should want to create a meritocracy that selects for energy and initiative as much as for brainpower,” Brooks concludes. “After all, what’s really at the core of a person? Is your IQ the most important thing about you? No. I would submit that it’s your desires—what you are interested in, what you love. We want a meritocracy that will help each person identify, nurture, and pursue the ruling passion of their soul.”David Brooks’s “How the Ivy League Broke America” was published today at TheAtlantic.com. Please reach out with any questions or requests to interview Brooks on his reporting.Press Contacts:Anna Bross and Paul Jackson | The Atlanticpress@theatlantic.com

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On a Wednesday morning in September, I was partaking in a sacred tradition known to millennials everywhere: trying to write the perfect Bumble bio. Something that said “spontaneous, but likes to be in bed by 11” or “loves to hang out on weeknights, but I’m not desperate.” Something that downplayed my earnestness, but didn’t paint me as a “cool girl.” I finally settled on “Journalist and triathlete based in Brewerytown. Obsessed with karaoke, terrible jokes, and gossip. Always down for a cocktail, a show or spontaneous wandering. I promise I’m more fun than this bio!!” My meticulous wordsmithing wasn’t an attempt to attract the perfect partner. No, it was to find, possibly, the perfect friend. At 32, I find myself in the oh-so-common intersection of “wants to make new friends” and “wow this is hard.” I’m fortunate to have deep, long-term friendships dating back to high school, as well as tremendously fulfilling relationships I forged in early adulthood. But my late 20s were spent in a pandemic-induced social limbo that lasted long enough for me to realize I hadn’t really made any new connections in nearly half a decade. For the last few years, I’ve worked hard to maintain my existing friendships, while also pushing myself to expand my social circle. But there was a final frontier I hadn’t broached yet, a form of connection that promises a best friend is just a swipe away: the apps.  At 32, I find myself in the oh-so-common intersection of “wants to make new friends” and “wow this is hard.” Given that online dating has been a cultural mainstay for at least a decade, a pivot toward apps geared entirely toward platonic relationships isn’t entirely surprising. Dating apps skyrocketed in popularity during the pandemic, effectively topping the list of places to find love. In the years following, apps for platonic relationships entered the fray: Bumble unveiled its friend-finding service as a standalone app in 2023 and Timeleft, another app to meet friends, hosted its first dinner among strangers that same year.  These apps arguably help fulfill a dire need for connection. Emerging from the pandemic, nearly half of Americans were not satisfied with the number of friends they had, according to a 2021 survey. Just this year, an American Psychiatric Association poll found 30 percent of adults said they felt lonely at least once a week. But there do seem to be a few bright spots in this landscape: A 2023 survey commissioned by Bumble found that two-thirds of Gen Z respondents said they met a friend online. And findings in 2024 showed that more Americans were now satisfied with the number of friends they had — 75 percent. More digital tools than ever before have come to market to address the ongoing loneliness epidemic. But I wanted to see for myself: Are they effective at fostering a friendship you want to work for? Do they connect you to those worth spending time with outside of a chatbox? Or are they plagued by all the same problems of online dating — flighty matches, algorithms designed to keep you on the apps, and a lot of heartache and dissatisfaction?  So for one month, I threw myself into courting new friends through the apps: swiping through profiles, coordinating hangouts, and hoping to form real friendships with people I might not have met otherwise. I used three apps — Bumble for Friends, Timeleft, and Hey! Vina — all designed for platonic connection, and sought out people with whom I had shared interests, but who had qualities that were unique compared to my current pals.  What I learned is that despite app users’ good intentions, a desire to make friends and actually putting in the work to do it are not one and the same. In fact, to consider someone a close friend, you’ll need to spend 200 hours together, research shows. Matching on an app and exchanging small talk indefinitely won’t push you across that threshold. Despite my frustrations, I, ironically, was guilty of the pitfalls of failing to keep the conversation going or initiating follow-up plans. The thing is, making even one genuine friend is hard and involves a kind of indescribable alchemy, whether you meet at a book club or through a screen. Here’s what transpired during my experiment with internet friend dating. The apps Bumble for Friends: Initially launched in 2016 as a feature on Bumble known as BFF, the typical user is a young woman who has just graduated from high school or college or moved to a new city, a Bumble spokesperson told me. Nearly identical to the dating app version, users upload photos, write a bio, and answer prompts, such as “The three things that make a friendship great are…”  Hey Vina!: Similar to the user interface on Bumble for Friends and founded the same year, you set up a profile and swipe. Billed as the “Tinder for female friends,” the app is open exclusively to women, and allows users to add specific tags to their profiles about their interests, like “women who code,” “jetsetters,” and “fashionistas.” (Hey Vina! did not respond to a request for comment.) Timeleft: Timeleft, founded in 2020, connects you with strangers for Wednesday night dinners at a restaurant in 275 participating cities. Upon signing up, users answer questions about their interests and personality, such as “How often do you feel lonely?” and “How important is humor to you?” The app then connects you to others with similar traits, about whom you know nothing until you meet in person. A majority of Timeleft users are in their 30s and early 40s, according to a Timeleft spokesperson. More than half of Timeleft users are women (60 percent).  Looking for my perfect match  If the worst part of online dating is swiping, consider the act doubly terrible when it comes to making friends. Sifting through dozens of profiles was a massive time-suck, but a necessary evil. I clicked on every profile, scrolled past the photos, and made a digital beeline to their bios. Red flags: any mention of brunch and/or bedrotting, “looking for my partner in crime,” people that were extremely into camping. Otherwise, I tried to be open-minded. Very quickly, I began amassing matches on Bumble for Friends. Still, I initiated most conversations; if I didn’t make the first move, the chat stayed dormant. On Hey Vina!, it took two days to get my first match and within two weeks, I’d swiped through all available profiles. Timeleft was looking all the more appealing: Within 10 minutes of signing up and answering the personality questions, I was booked for a dinner party the following Wednesday. I wouldn’t know where it was or who the other dinner party guests would be until the day of. Was I being catfished? Alas, I’ll never know because she never replied again.  For apps whose express purpose is to help people find friends, my matches seemed overwhelmingly uninterested in chatting, let alone meeting up. After some getting-to-know-you chat with one woman on Hey Vina!, I suggested hanging out. We made tentative plans. When I attempted to solidify the details, I struggled to find our chat history since her photo had changed to a virtually unrecognizable person. Was I being catfished? Alas, I’ll never know because she never replied again.  Another woman on the same app bailed a few days before our hangout because of work and personal stress. I felt for her — you can’t expect to connect with someone when you aren’t feeling your best — but was surprised she’d opened up to a virtual stranger about her struggles. “LMK if you ever wanna grab happy hour to blow off some steam lolol,” I told her. I didn’t hear from her again. My friend-finding mission was hardly a bust, though: The apps ended up introducing me to a range of people, from a scientist to a young mom. Everyone I hung out with agreed to appear in this story and I’ve changed their names to protect their privacy. The hangouts Friend date No. 1 The only thing I had in common with Janine — the first person to reach out on Bumble for Friends — was the neighborhood where we live. Still, she invited me to a house party she was throwing that weekend. After those plans fell through, she suggested meeting at a bar nearby with a small group. When I arrived, my two best friends in tow, a solo Janine appeared frazzled and outnumbered. Sensing her low-grade panic, my friends moved a few seats down at the bar, leaving me and Janine to get into it. Janine has the kind of face where I swore I’ve met her before, an openness and familiarity that makes for easy chit-chat. Like virtually all of the people I connected with, she was a recent transplant and initially used Bumble for Friends to find a roommate. Out of her three other friend dates, she told me she’d probably hang out with only one again. “I want to find someone in my area who has my values and likes the things I like to do,” she told me. High on her list of priorities were getting married and starting a family, salsa dancing, and her faith. I couldn’t relate. Red flags: any mention of brunch and/or bedrotting, “looking for my partner in crime,” people that were extremely into camping. Despite our differences, Janine was easy to talk to, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d skipped the serendipitous run-ins and jumped right to the meat of a friendship. We lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same coffee shop — wouldn’t our paths have crossed at some point? Couldn’t we decide after a few weeks of small talk that we wanted to hang out? I felt like I knew too much, too soon. After about two hours, we settled up and parted ways. A few weeks later, she invited me and another Bumble for Friends match to a local salsa meetup that none of us ended up attending anyway. I haven’t seen or heard from her since. Friend date No. 2 In the back of an Uber during rush hour, I panicked: Of course I was running late to my Timeleft dinner. By the time I arrived, a group of about 10 people had gathered outside, staring at their phones. The restaurant designated as our meeting spot had permanently closed a few days prior. Two women who had clearly done this before steered us to a packed Mexican restaurant that squished us into two separate tables in a corner.  Cici, one of the Women in Charge, told me this was her 13th Timeleft dinner. She even started a WhatsApp group where over 50 Timeleft-ers could coordinate plans off the app. Across from Cici was Angela, another Timeleft vet (this was her seventh meal); the two met at dinner a few weeks prior and hung out independently. Neither of them knew they’d be paired up again for tonight’s feast. Over giant margaritas, they told me they like the predictability of Timeleft — dinners are every Wednesday. Angela told me that a girl’s gotta eat anyway, so why not make some friends in the process? Angela has lived in the city for a few years, but Cici and David, our other tablemate, had recently moved and were using the app to meet new people. In the weeks following our dinner, I noticed David was especially active on the WhatsApp group, frequently initiating and accepting plans with complete strangers.  Angela told me that a girl’s gotta eat anyway, so why not make some friends in the process? Everyone at the table, myself included, was in a comparable stage of life: early 30s, established careers — in law, academia, and business consulting — similar political views, slightly nerdy, an interest in House and Suits and Les Miserables. They were enthusiastic and inquisitive, inspiring me to respond in kind.  The group dynamic eliminated the pressure to be always on, to perform, to pepper unsuspecting subjects with questions as I’m wont to do. Just a few days after drinks with Janine, I was starting to think a multi-person hangout was how I preferred to meet people. After all, I do love an audience. I could also save my energy for moments when I felt it worthwhile to add to the conversation. Energized from our dinner, I joined the WhatsApp group and promised Cici, David, and Angela I’d definitely register for another Timeleft dinner. (I haven’t.) Currently, I have 100 unread messages in the thread. Every Wednesday, I tell myself I’ll sign up for another Timeleft dinner. Maybe I will. Friend date No. 3 The moment I read Ariana’s Bumble for Friends bio, rife with colorful language like “soft-bodied mammal” and “WFH hell,” I knew we were afflicted by the same internet brain rot (complimentary). The conversation flowed unlike others I’d had on the apps, and I had butterflies in my stomach as I frequently checked my phone to see if she’d written back. Ariana told me she signed up for Bumble for Friends after her sister told her of a friend’s success on the app. She’d been on two coffee dates, making our hangout her third, and sought out potential friends based on unique profiles and shared interests, like knitting with one match and writing with me. (Ariana went to grad school for poetry, which means she’s both cooler and smarter than me.) Her second friend date was fine, she said, but the woman was “younger — and feels younger,” she told me, “we’re not at the same place in life.”  Ariana was close with her sister and cousins but because she works from home, days will go by with her having only interacted with her partner. Ariana was endearing and quick-witted and I got the sense she was interested in getting to know me beyond the perfunctory small talk. The moment I read Ariana’s Bumble for Friends bio, I knew we were afflicted by the same internet brain rot (complimentary). When I finally looked at my phone during our first hangout, I realized we’d been at the bar for four hours. Not wanting to further monopolize her night, I quickly closed out. I told her how much fun I had and immediately worried if I was coming on too strong. Despite my reservations about another one-on-one hang after declaring group hangs my thing post-Timeleft, spending time with Ariana was effortless and renewed my hope for the apps. I could keep swiping if everyone was a bit more like her. Over the ensuing days, we exchanged texts about Caroline Calloway and the hurricane, about how deranged you’d have to be to make friends at a writing workshop. We’ve gotten together three additional times, my first repeat hang from the apps. Friend date No. 4 Early in my time with Tricia, she asked me if she could send a quick text. Her husband wanted to know that I wasn’t a total freak — or worse, trying to kill her. We were at the bar in a fancy hotel restaurant, a location that definitely felt more like a date-date than any of my prior meetups. Tricia had just moved to the area from Florida and didn’t have any suggestions as to where to go. She lived out of state, about 45 minutes away, and wasn’t comfortable driving on highways, so I offered to meet closer to where she was. But I was nearly as unfamiliar with her neighborhood as she was. The first, and only, place that came to mind was this hotel restaurant.  Still, a salad and one negroni later, my energy stores had run out. Tricia hadn’t heard about Hey Vina!, where we first connected, until she Googled “apps for friends.” We had come to similar conclusions about the app: People weren’t super active there — she’d also swiped through everyone — and they didn’t seem willing to take the chat offline.  Once her nervousness subsided, Tricia opened up about her 5-year-old son and 13-year-old stepson, the fun fact that she and one of her brothers share a birthday, and some juicy gossip about one of her friends’ dating lives. I giggled every time she exclaimed “Giiiiiiirl!” Tricia is so sweet I can hardly imagine anyone saying a bad word about her. Still, a salad and one negroni later, my energy stores had run out. The looming drive home took the wind out of my sails. Tricia showed me a few TikToks parodying how people flag down waiters for the check before I finally walked to the end of the bar to grab the bill.  As with most of my friend dates, I left feeling grateful that literally anyone was willing to spend time with me, but unsure if we’d ever see each other again. The line between “pleasant encounter” and “life-affirming experience” was beginning to crystalize. Perhaps due to the difficulty I had making friends as a kid, I’d cling onto any relationship even if it was just barely functional. This experience provided some much-needed clarity. I don’t need to spend countless hours with someone just because they’re nice enough. My experience on friend apps was similar to that of dating apps in a way: It’s easy for one or both people to let things fizzle if the sparks aren’t flying immediately. But friendships bloom during the in-between moments. After enough time together, you realize it just happened — one day you’re friends, and that’s that. It’s hard to replicate that slow burn when two people who might’ve never crossed paths are forcing themselves into each other’s lives. How much did I want to force it? Tricia texted me the next day saying she started listening to the podcast I’d recommended. If nothing else, we at least had that.

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