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Throughout history, governments have scratched their heads about birthrates. From enforcing “bachelor taxes” on unmarried men to tongue-in-cheek ad campaigns encouraging procreation, the issue has been tackled through rather bizarre means. To adapt to declining birthrates amid an increasingly digital landscape, some nations have gone a bit tech-savvy.
Last week, Singapore launched a dating app in response to its own plunging rates, which slid from an average of 0.97 to 0.87 children per woman in just a year. The app, FirstDate, is currently limited to civil servants aged 21 to 35 before being rolled out to a wider audience. In April, Kochi, a district in southwestern Japan, began offering singles aged 20 to 39 up to $125 to cover approved dating app costs.
Though the United States has yet to dip its toes into the realm of state-run or incentivized dating apps, the prospective baby bust certainly hasn’t gone unmentioned by officials. And whether it’s the government or just your grandma, it seems like everybody’s marveling at Generation Z’s social skills, or lack thereof. You’ve doubtlessly seen it — the dreaded thinkpiece that demands to know why we’ve fallen out of love with falling in love. And I suppose to some extent this is true.
According to a 2026 report that surveyed American young adults, only about 30% reported actively dating, though around 51% expressed interest in pursuing a relationship. Of those surveyed, only one in three men and one in five women felt confident that they could approach a romantic interest.
But where governments and some grannies seem to fail is tackling the root causes of why we’re struggling to connect, such as dwindling spaces to gather and a lack of accessible public transport to get there. Instead, mobile applications have turned into both a universal scapegoat and solvent — a solvent that, looking at the psychology, is much less than ideal.
The loudest critique of mainstream, profit-driven dating apps is the paradox created by making matches and simultaneously losing customers. This is what non-commercial apps like Singapore’s seek to curb, and it isn’t untrue. In a column last year, The Atlantic’s Faith Hill dared to imagine the concept of a nonprofit dating app, undefiled by doomscrolling and data brokerage. However, these are still app-based solutions that don’t account for psychological factors inherent to computerized communication.
When we cast aside the commercial aspect of dating apps, we’re still left with a platform that our brains can’t quite take seriously. If you’ve ever questioned your hesitant gait toward a date you so eagerly agreed to over text, the online disinhibition effect might be a good pointer. With online disinhibition, we experience a psychological detachment from our online behaviors. In doing so, we disregard potential offline consequences.
Under this idea, users are more confident in their digital interactions than in real life. Because their actions feel inconsequential, they might more readily disclose deeper emotions and personal details, or take romantic risks, like asking for a date. That scenario would qualify as benign, or positive disinhibition, which is noted to promote prosocial behavior. But that mental removal from the interaction is what prevents authentic connection — that guy in your inbox may as well be a video game character.
As we grow accustomed to this form of communication, our ability to socialize face-to-face is hindered over time, and we begin to use instant messaging as a crutch. The elders have declared as much. So why do apps continue being pushed on us? It might have something to do with business profits — not solely of mobile apps, but in-person endeavors.
Now, Gen Z, the “digital natives” we are, have little elsewhere to go but our phones.
I don’t think it’s coincidental that as third spaces started dying off, social media platforms began to rise. Places that allow people to spend minimally while staying there longer — like coffee shops and public parks — aren’t the most profitable. In an attempt to keep customers coming and going as much as possible, many major businesses have declared “lingering” and “loitering” synonymous.
Take the typical midwestern town, for example. Among your greatest assets is the local Walmart, or if you’re lucky, it’s a Target. They’re not the most inviting, as the fluorescent lights beg you to buy your bounty and leave. It makes money, but it doesn’t do much beyond that. And you’ll need a car to get there, as you would with almost any social outlet in town, too. So, after a quick run for a carton of eggs, you find yourself at home, scouring TikTok for some clip you can relate to, just to temporarily address that social void left unfulfilled by the nearest Dollar General.
It’s certainly a dreary picture — one that many young people today face.
So much of our physical world has been outsourced to the digital one. Social media gives us the illusion of connection. By “satisfying” that need digitally, we now have extra space for businesses that quickly usher us in and out. In the process, we aren’t really gaining meaningful connection, which leads to depleting social skills over time — to which we are usually recommended just one more app to continue the vicious cycle.
We might be tempted to smirk when Meemaw goes on tangents about ye olde roller rink. But maybe she’s onto something. After all, you likely wouldn’t be here to read this column without her social success. Our generation needs affordable spaces to hone our social skills, too, as well as the means to get there. If it is so essential that Gen Z does not miss out on our “rites of passage,” something needs to change about the physical world we’re living in, not the digital one.
Emma Howard (she/her) is a junior studying journalism. She would like to thank her own grandma for inspiring this column.
