There's a thing about Dutch homes that doesn't take [music] too long for one to notice. The no curtain phenomenon. You walk through different [music] neighborhoods at night, floor-to-ceiling windows open to the street.
The light inside is warm. The whole life is visible. The bookshelves, [music] the dinner table, even sometimes the family around it.
And you are outside, [music] and you can see everything. When I first [music] noticed this, I read it as openness, as an invitation of some kind. And it made [music] me curious, because the Dutch are also known widely by anyone who has ever tried as one of the most difficult social cultures in the world to actually enter.
[music] A window that is always open, but a door [music] that takes years to unlock. What kind of culture builds both of those things into the same house? That question [music] is what I'm trying to find answers to.
Let me give you the setup. I am a freelancer. I work alone most of the time, and I moved to the Netherlands without a company behind me, without a team, without an office where friendships form through proximity and shared complaint.
In most countries, the workplace is the social scaffolding of sorts, where most adults or which most adults use to build their world. And they don't fully realize it until it's gone. You sit next to someone long enough, you find out that they're human.
Something real develops, and I arrived here without any of that. There's no network, there's no social history, there's no reputation that preceded me. And what I found interesting, what I became genuinely fascinated by, is that even the people who did have all that, those expats with offices, with the teams, with built-in daily proximity to Dutch colleagues, they were describing the same experience.
That is a kind of social distance that persisted despite proximity. A warmth that was genuine, but somehow stayed at arms length. So, I started asking questions.
Not because I was frustrated, though there were moments, but because the pattern was too consistent to ignore. Something structural was happening here, and I wanted to understand what it was. >> In the [music] 2026 World Happiness Report, the Netherlands ranked number seven in the world.
Top 10 for [music] over a decade. At the same time, 11% of Dutch residents over 15 report feeling very lonely. >> [music] >> Nearly 20% of people born outside the Netherlands report feeling very lonely.
More than double the rate [music] for native Dutch citizens. Across Europe, 57% of [music] young people aged 18 to 35 are moderately or severely lonely. More than half.
>> So, >> [music] >> here is the paradox that started this whole investigation. One of the world's happiest countries one of its most reported loneliness rates among new covers. Both true at the same time.
>> [music] >> And the first thing I want to say is those two facts are not contradictions. They are clues. They are pointing at something about how happiness gets built in this particular culture.
And what that architecture looks like from the outside. So, that is a threat [music] that I want to pull. But before I get into the history and the science, I want to describe the texture of this thing accurately.
Because the popular description of it doesn't quite capture what it actually is. It's very easy to lean into the cold and unfriendly trope. The Dutch [snorts] people I have encountered have been perfectly decent.
Often genuinely warm in conversation, helpful, they are honest. The phenomenon is more subtle than that. It's more like you notice that the warmth exists in a very specific contained radius.
And outside that radius, there's a kind of social self-sufficiency that has no for you to step into. People already have their lives, they have their circles, and those circles were built years, sometimes decades before you arrived. And those circles are full.
Not hostile, just full. And what I kept wondering was where does that come from? Is it a personality trait?
Is it a cultural choice? Or it's something older? Because when you look at it not as a personal rejection, but as a phenomenon, it turns out that there's a very deep, very specific, very fascinating answer for it.
>> [music] >> Historically, the Netherlands has received waves and wave after new migrants coming in. And they each tell different story. We've seen the Huguenots come in and they were refugees, [music] religious refugees from their own country, from France, fleeing to a country that was also Protestant.
[music] So, the reception was easy. Also, because the Dutch people at the time thought the Huguenots had something to offer. Their [music] wealth, their trade network, etc.
So, their reception has been assessed by historians [music] as a smooth one. Looking at another wave, I think the prime example is the reception of Turkish and Moroccan guest workers. The word speaks for itself.
Those groups were seen as guests who in the end would have had to pick up their bags and go home. >> [music] >> In the end, this didn't happen, Um um but it was uh a reception based on economic need, but a temporary one. >> [music] >> Maybe one other example.
Of course, the Dutch has had many colonial enterprises, [music] and after the decolonization of Indonesia, uh a lot of people um migrants came over. And this was like a historic depth [music] that we had to pay. So, these people were also received >> [music] >> and in different contexts.
Moluccans, for example, they uh were promised >> [music] >> the Dutch support to create their own nation-state back in Indonesia. Um this never crystallized, this never [music] happened, but their status was also seen as always temporary. But in the end, their story continued to be in the Netherlands a little longer, too.
>> The thing that surprised me most when I started researching this is how far back the explanation goes. Most conversations about social culture stops at the behavior, the tight friendship circles, the long timelines, the diary culture, the sense that you can live next to someone for 2 years and still not quite know them. But the behavior is downstream of something, something that was built deliberately and structurally over generations.
And once you see it, that behavior it stops looking like a character flaw. It starts looking like an inheritance of sorts. >> From approximately 1917 to 1967, [music] Dutch society formally organized itself into four separate pillars: Catholic, >> [music] >> Protestant, Socialist, and Liberal.
Each pillar had its own schools, hospitals, [music] universities, newspapers, radio stations, sports clubs, shops, and political parties. And this is generally one of the most fascinating social experiments in modern European history. [music] For roughly 50 years, that is two full generations, >> [music] >> Dutch society ran on parallel tracks.
A Catholic child in the Netherlands in 1940 went to a Catholic school, [music] their family read a Catholic newspaper, they played in the Catholic sports club, and when they fell sick, they went to a Catholic hospital. [music] And their Protestant neighbor, who probably lived two streets over, perfectly civil, no animosity, lived [music] an entirely parallel life. Same city, completely separate worlds.
The formal goal of this system was to allow different religious and ideological groups to coexist peacefully, to give each community full [music] expression without forcing them to compete. And it largely worked. The Netherlands avoided the kind of religious and political violence that tore other European nations apart.
[music] But here's what I find about it from a social psychology standpoint. When you design a society that way, where trust, resources, and community all flow within your own pillar, what you're doing over 50 years is training people that belonging lives inside the circle, not outside it. And you're training two full generations before the system even ends.
The pillars came down, but the social blueprints they wrote stayed. And what is remarkable to me from, well, a purely observational standpoint, is how durable cultural software actually is. Official policy changes, laws change, the formal structures disappear, but the assumptions that got baked into the daily life, the unspoken rules about where trust belongs and how long you need to know someone before they are really in, those don't expire with policy.
They get passed down, and this is by no means conscious or intentional, just through the texture of how parents live, how friendships are modeled, what a full life looks like. So, when a Dutch person has a friendship group that has been together since secondary school, and they're not really looking for any new members, they're not making a choice to exclude you. They are just operating on a social architecture that has been written before they were born.
That realization for me changed the whole frame. >> The formal structures of pillarization [music] for sure are gone. I'd say so, but it could be that we still have a tendency to create friendships along lines of organizations.
So, even though [music] my family doesn't go to the Catholic butcher anymore, I still make my friendship within organizations like my primary school or my high [music] school or the study I chose. So, maybe because of decades [music] and generations of pillarization, parents might still [music] let their children know that friendships are built in the organizations that you're in. So, in small social circles.
>> It doesn't just happen in Dutch culture, right? It usually happens almost everywhere where [music] a group of people have known each other for so long. It can be quite difficult for them to enroll new people who also come with different [music] sets of um um temperaments and all that, especially when they are used to what uh how they are in in in a way.
And [music] And that's what I got especially with my Dutch friends. Friends, but not their friends in [music] a way. Yeah.
>> Now, here's a detail that I keep coming back to because it captures the whole paradox in a single image. The open windows, no curtains, life on full display, everything visible from [music] the street. When I started looking into the history of this, why this tradition exists, it turns out it traces back to Calvinism.
[music] That is a Protestant theology that shaped the northern Netherlands profoundly. The idea was rooted in moral transparency. [music] If you have nothing to hide, you hide nothing.
The community can see you live, and by extension, [music] so can God. It was not about warmth, it was about accountability. [music] And what I find so interesting about that origin is what it reveals about the social contract underneath.
>> [music] >> The open window says, "We will not hide from you. " It does not say, "Come in. " And those two are entirely different offers.
Transparency and intimacy are not the same thing. The Dutch built a culture that is extraordinarily transparent and [music] extraordinarily selective about intimacy. And somehow, in the same building, in the same wall of glass, both of those things are perfectly true at once.
That tension [music] is a thing I kept finding myself standing in. Not frustrated by it, just genuinely curious about it. >> [music] >> I think when a migrant looks at [music] the way Dutch friendships are being built, it might feel like very laborsome and inaccessible.
And I guess that is a valid valid view. Um [snorts] but it also comes with a context. I think if you focus too much on accessibility and quick friendships, then you overlook the fact that what signifies a Dutch friendship might be one that um >> [music] >> is one where a lot of trust comes along and offers long-term mutual support.
Feels like one that is predictable, maybe more so than an intense friendship. And with predictable I mean that you can count on one another. If a friendship is built over decade, it also means that that friend has been around for ages.
So, this means that I call upon my friends for [music] support. Uh [snorts] also very practical support. Maybe to give me an honest opinion or to help me move.
>> [music] >> Uh this is something a lot of Dutch people ask their friends for. So, I guess over years you [music] prove a certain sense of loyalty. And >> [music] >> yeah, maybe from an outsider perspective you might miss some uh emotional intensity, but I think uh the reliability is what stands [music] out for a Dutch person.
>> Now, I want to spend a moment in the science of this because when you are living inside this experience, this slow, quiet, socially insulated kind of isolation, it's easy to treat it as a mood problem, an adjustment phase, something you should be able to think your way out of, but >> [music] >> what the research shows is that something more structural is happening, and I find this research clarifying. So, the body and the brain are not passive observers of this experience. They are responding to it, adapting to it.
And here's what I find most interesting about the neuroscience because it explains something that I'd noticed in myself without having a name for it. When the brain registers social isolation, it activates the same threat detection system as physical danger. The same neural [music] response.
And the question is, what does a person in threat detection mode look like >> [music] >> at a social gathering? guarded, slightly over alert, harder to read, harder to approach, which makes genuine connection less likely, which extends the isolation, which keeps the threat system running. The thing about that loop from a purely system perspective is that it's entirely logical.
Every step follows the last. The environment produces [music] a response. The response produces a behavior.
The behavior reinforces the environment. And it runs quietly underground without you noticing what is really happening, which is probably why so many people in this situation feel stuck without quite being able to explain why. Now, here's where my specific situation as a layer worth examining because in 2024, a UK research organization called Leapers published a study specifically on mental health and social experience in freelancing.
Think about what that variable introduces into this particular environment. In most social settings, even the Dutch ones, even with the close circles and the long friendship timelines, there's a mechanism at work that most people don't notice. The workplace.
Not as a place where you go to be productive, as a place where belonging forms accidentally through proximity, through repetition, through the small shared moments that accumulate over months until one day you realize that you actually know someone. [music] So, when I meet with people, we all come together with the same objective, you know, working on the same project. And we build an intense bond for that specific project.
And usually when that ends, even though I would feel fulfilled that >> [music] >> I I have really connected with these people on a very different level, immediately that contract ends and your paycheck or your [music] invoice is paid, that connection servers in a way until you meet again for the next project. So, yeah, I think you kind of really feel a bit of that difference as you say, the scaffolding of working in in an office job and being a freelancer. It's quite different in a sense as I laid out.
The office space gives already a community [music] and the freelancer work is more you have to actively build on it post being on set or working together. Yeah. >> Organizational psychologists call this the mere exposure effect.
The simple act of being around people repeatedly without any particular goal creates familiarity. Familiarity creates comfort. Comfort creates trust.
That mechanism is for most employed people the engine behind their entire social world. As a freelancer, you don't have that engine. Every connection is intentional, deliberate, and built from scratch, which in most cities is manageable because the city itself provides enough ambient social infrastructure that some of it finds you.
But, what happens when you remove the accidental social scaffolding of the office and operate inside a culture where even the people with that scaffolding describe finding genuine connection as a slow, patient, years-long undertaking. You get a very interesting research question, which is, as it turns out, also [music] just my life. >> So, when I first arrived, I have to say that I wasn't new to Dutch culture.
I grew up around Dutch people. And so, the framework wasn't that different for me because I grew up with them. I understood a bit of how Dutch culture and Dutch culture norms worked or operated.
But, I think there's a a huge difference between uh what you uh encounter with Dutch people and how that social uh fabric actually really works. Yes, connection was difficult, but at the same time it wasn't difficult in the sense that because I already knew Dutch people, uh my best friend was Dutch, uh I already had Dutch friends, so I already had a bit of a road map uh into Dutch culture, but that didn't mean that uh because I was at the door that I was going to be let in, right? Because [music] um most of the friends that I had, they also grew up with other Dutch people, Dutch friends, and they had formed bonds that lasted [music] decades before I was here.
And so, not necessarily that I was the outsider, but >> [music] >> though they are warm and [clears throat] they are uh open to interact with you and all that, I I felt a bit of the gap between, >> [music] >> you know, the experiences that you had with them and when you were away, that there wasn't a connection in a way that you are allowed into their friendship group, in a sense. >> Now, here's where I want to land. Not with a verdict on Dutch culture, but with this thing that this investigation keeps pointing me toward.
Move somewhere new, especially somewhere with a social culture as defined and self-contained as this one. Arrive carrying an identity that was built for a different environment. You are someone's oldest friend, someone's reliable colleague, someone who walked into a room and was already known, already placed.
Not because you were exceptional, but because proximity and time did that work for you over the years without you ever noticing that it was happening. And you got on a plane and all of that, the social proof, the reputation, the accumulated history of being known, it didn't travel with you. You arrived here carrying the same feeling of being a person with all that, but none of the contexts that made it so is legible to anyone here.
What the Dutch social environment does in its very particular way, with its long timelines and its close circles, and its insistence that trust is earned slowly, is removing that shortcut. [music] Back home, it was possible to feel the absence of deep connection with a warmth of surface connection, with the noise, with a comfortable and ambient belonging that comes from just being around people that recognize you. Here, that option is largely unavailable.
>> Coming from Ghana, which has a a much uh um thicker social fabric, your identity is quite I don't know if you say ambient in a way um or vibrant. Uh I don't know which word would fit it uh better, [music] because you are carried by society in a way. Um it's easy to connect with people.
Um I I didn't have to really answer the question of who I was, because that answer was, you know, reflected back to me by the people that were around me, whether it was family, the community at large, or even people that I I met along the road. And it didn't have to be long um interactions, you know. It was that vibrant in in the connection that you had.
And then here, um it's a bit of a flip of the coin in the sense that >> [music] >> uh yes, I tried to uh interact, to build those connections. And because I don't get that reciprocated to me, [music] it it forces or it forced me to really uh dwell on uh uh yeah, exploring who then I was without all of that kind of cues. >> [music] >> Um because I wasn't in a society where um I was going to get that reflection of of belonging in in a way.
>> So you sit with an absence instead. And I think, and this is what I keep coming back to at the end of all the research, all the history, all the neuroscience, I think the absence is asking a question. Not a cruel one, but very precise.
[music] Who are you when nobody here knows your name yet? So the Dutch living glass houses, wide open to be observed, carefully selective about who enters. And I wonder sometimes if the lesson embedded in that, the thing that this culture is modeling, whether it intends to or not, >> [music] >> is that the two things are not in conflict.
That you can be fully visible, fully yourself, fully present, and still be thoughtful about who you let all the way in. Maybe the question isn't how to get through the wall faster. Maybe the question is what you build in the meantime, and what you discover [music] about yourself in the building.
