I'm standing in line at Lighthouse Coffee on a Sunday morning, watching an older gentleman who looks about my age - which is 72 - order his usual. Something about him seems familiar, not because I know him, but because he carries that quiet Sunday energy that comes with being a regular somewhere.

"Hey," I say, stepping closer. "Do you have any grandkids?"

He looks at me with that split-second calculation we all make when a stranger speaks to us. Then his face softens. "No, my daughter's 35 and doesn't have kids yet."

Within minutes, we're deep into a conversation about being grandparents, about National Grandparents Day (which happens to be today), about how Rory's Ice Cream is giving away free scoops to grandparents. A completely random encounter that leaves both of us smiling.

This interaction happened because about a year ago, I heard Scott Galloway mention a rule he has in his house with his two teenage sons. They're not allowed to come home after their day - school, play, whatever - unless they've talked to at least one person they didn't know and had a short conversation.

That rule stopped me cold. Not because it was revolutionary, but because I realized I'd been doing exactly that my whole life. The difference was, after hearing Scott articulate it, I started doing it intentionally.

The Accidental Discovery

I've always been the person who talks to the stranger in line, who comments on someone's interesting tattoo, who asks visiting tourists if they're enjoying Santa Barbara. For years, I thought this was just my personality - the extroverted guy who can't help but engage.

But something deeper was happening that I didn't fully understand until people started coming back.

A few years ago, a woman stopped me in the grocery store. She was practically glowing as she told me how thrilled she was that I'd been in her son's life. Her son, she said, had gone on to become a visual effects supervisor working in motion pictures, and she credited those early days when he worked with us at Wavefront - specifically how I paid attention to and celebrated his work.

I barely remembered the kid.

Another time, someone commented on a piece I'd written about our after-school program for at-risk high school students. "You probably don't remember me," he wrote, "but I was one of the kids. I now own my own business with people working for me, and I credit you for giving me the confidence to do that."

Again, I had no specific memory of him.

These moments shook something loose for me. I realized I'd been having impact I never knew about, in conversations I barely remembered, with people whose names I'd forgotten. Those 90-second interactions weren't throwaway moments - they were echoing across decades.

That's when I understood what was really happening. In a workshop about 15 years ago, during some deep introspection, I'd settled on a personal philosophy: make every moment matter. But I didn't fully grasp what that meant until people started showing me the ripple effects.

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The Art of Actually Seeing People

Here's what I've learned about the difference between looking at people and actually seeing them: it shows up in the smallest gestures.

When I compliment a family's "parade" of three kids, I'm not talking to the children - I'm acknowledging the parents who are probably feeling slightly overwhelmed by their beautiful chaos. When I tell a dad his dog is gorgeous, I'm recognizing the pride he takes in caring for something he loves.

The magic happens in what comes back. A subtle head nod from the dad. A smile from the mom. That tiny moment of connection that says, "Okay, you see us as humans, not problems."

I've noticed this especially when I'm walking down the street. A simple nod - not a full conversation, just that brief "I see you" acknowledgment - almost always gets returned. It's like we're all walking around starved for the most basic recognition that we exist.

The exception, I've learned, is New York City. I've been chided there for being myself, for giving people that little nod. "You just don't do that," New Yorkers tell me. And I understand why - the sheer volume of people makes it impossible. But what does that mean for a city of eight million people who have collectively agreed to pretend each other don't exist?

The Introvert Excuse

This brings me to something I think we've gotten wrong about human connection. In my experience, we've started using introversion as a blanket excuse for avoiding any genuine interaction.

Susan Cain's TED Talk about introversion was revolutionary - she showed us that introverts aren't broken extroverts, they're just wired differently. She talked about being a lawyer who had to perform in front of people despite being profoundly introverted. That was brave and important.

But I think we've taken that insight too far. We've created a culture where people can hide behind "I'm an introvert" to avoid the discomfort of connecting with strangers, even when the real issue might be fear or social conditioning rather than neurological wiring.

Here's the thing about me: I'm actually an ambivert. When I leave the house, I become extroverted - not to a fault, but genuinely engaged with the world around me. At home, I'm completely introverted. I love being alone, working on projects, reading, thinking. My wife is downstairs in her studio, I'm upstairs in mine, and we're both perfectly content in our separate creative spaces.

The difference is choice. I choose to connect when I'm out in the world because I've learned something most people miss: those brief interactions aren't optional extras in a life well-lived. They're essential nutrients for the human soul.

What Everyone Gets Wrong About Stranger Danger

I understand I'm speaking from a particular vantage point - as an older man in Santa Barbara who generally feels safe engaging with strangers. I recognize this isn't everyone's reality. For women, people of color, or those in environments where stranger interaction carries real risks, the calculation is different.

But I think we've overcorrected. We've made avoiding human acknowledgment the default setting, even in situations where brief, respectful interaction would be perfectly safe and potentially meaningful.

I'm particularly careful around families with young children because I'm aware of how a comment from an older man might be misinterpreted. But here's what I've discovered: when I make eye contact with the parents first, when I direct my comment to them ("Wow, you've got your own parade here with these three!"), they almost always light up. Parents are proud of their kids. They want someone to notice how amazing their children are.

The same thing happens with dog owners. I'll see someone with a beautiful dog and say, "That's a gorgeous dog." Watch what happens - they puff up with pride. They had nothing to do with how the dog looks, but they take care of that animal, they love it, and they appreciate being recognized for it.

This isn't rocket science. People want to be seen. They want their efforts acknowledged. They want to matter, even in small ways.

The 90-Second Revolution

What if I told you that the solution to loneliness, isolation, and disconnection was hiding in plain sight? What if the answer wasn't therapy, or apps, or community programs, but simply giving ourselves permission to acknowledge the humans around us?

Those conversations I had with the coffee shop regular, with parents in grocery stores, with teenagers in our after-school program - none of them took more than a few minutes. Most lasted 90 seconds or less. But they created ripples that lasted decades.

The visual effects supervisor. The business owner who credits our interaction with giving him confidence. These weren't life-changing conversations at the time. They were just moments when someone paid attention, when someone saw potential, when someone chose connection over invisibility.

I learned this approach partly through improv training, where we're taught to notice everything about our scene partner - how they walk, hold their hands, carry their shoulders. Everything is an observation worth making, a potential connection point. But you don't need improv training to notice that someone has an interesting tattoo, or looks like they're visiting from out of town, or seems proud of their child's Superman cape.

You just need to pay attention instead of rushing through life on autopilot.

The Permission Project

Here's what I'm proposing: What if we gave ourselves permission to be ambiverts? To choose connection over invisibility?

What if we stopped hiding behind "I'm an introvert" and admitted the truth - that we're just scared someone might think we're weird?

What if we challenged the New York rule that says ignoring eight million people is normal and healthy?

What if we recognized that those 90-second interactions aren't interruptions to our important lives - they ARE our important lives?

I'm not suggesting you become the person who talks everyone's ear off or makes inappropriate comments to strangers. I'm talking about genuine noticing. Real appreciation. Authentic acknowledgment that the people around you exist and matter.

Start small, and start where you feel safe. Make eye contact. Give that little nod when you're walking down the street. Notice something genuinely interesting about someone and mention it. Check in with parents to make sure your interaction with their kids is welcome. Be aware of context, cultural norms, and your own safety considerations.

The goal isn't to become fearless - it's to become thoughtfully brave. To recognize the difference between reasonable caution and unnecessary isolation.

But most importantly, pay attention. Because in a world where everyone is rushing through life, staring at screens, avoiding eye contact, the simple act of seeing someone - really seeing them - has become revolutionary.

The Ripple Effect You'll Never Know About

Here's the uncomfortable truth: You'll probably never know which of these brief interactions matters. The coffee shop conversation that makes someone's day. The compliment about someone's dog that comes exactly when they needed to hear something positive. The acknowledgment of someone's child that reminds them why they love being a parent.

Most of your 90-second connections will fade from memory. But some of them - the ones you'll never know about - will echo for years. Someone will remember the stranger who took time to notice them, who made them feel seen, who reminded them that random kindness still exists in the world.

Twenty years from now, you might get stopped in a grocery store by someone who says, "You probably don't remember me, but..." And you won't. But they will. And that brief moment of connection you barely remember will have been one of the threads that helped weave their life together.

Looking Through Another Lens

We've built a culture that treats human acknowledgment as optional, even risky. We've convinced ourselves that safety lies in isolation, that protection comes from pretending we don't see each other.

But what if we've got it backward? What if we've confused reasonable caution with total avoidance?

What if the loneliness epidemic isn't because we lack deep relationships, but because we've forgotten how to have respectful, brief ones? What if the answer to disconnection isn't just finding our tribe, but remembering how to briefly connect with anyone - when it's safe and appropriate to do so?

What if those 90-second interactions with strangers are exactly the medicine our isolated, screen-obsessed, bubble-wrapped society needs?

The visual effects supervisor didn't need a mentor. He needed someone to notice his work. The business owner didn't need a life coach. He needed someone to see his potential. The coffee shop regular didn't need a new best friend. He just needed someone to acknowledge that he existed on a Sunday morning.

How would the world change if more people gave themselves permission to see and be seen?

Picture a world where we stopped treating every stranger as a potential threat and started recognizing them as a potential moment of connection.

Imagine what would shift if we admitted that the person walking toward us on the sidewalk, standing behind us in line, or sitting alone at the next table is just another human being who wants to matter, even briefly.

I'm curious what we'd discover - that the antidote to loneliness has been walking past us all along, and we just forgot we had the right to say hello.

The question isn't whether you're an introvert or an extrovert. The question is whether you're willing to thoughtfully engage with the humans around you, within your comfort and safety zone, and let them see you back.

Start tomorrow, when and where it feels right. Notice someone. Acknowledge them. Give them that 90-second gift of being seen.

You might just change a life. You'll definitely change yours.

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