“This is how you hug,” my mother-in-law said to my teenage son. She wrapped her arms around him firmly, holding him tight and lingering just long enough to make her point. My son froze, his shoulders stiff and uncertain, his face fixed in an awkward smile. Gradually, his expression softened as he hugged her back—whether it was a reluctant acknowledgment that Grandma might be right or simply a concession so that he could get back to playing Fortnite.
Later, I thought about how rare hugs like that have become: unhurried, intentional, and entirely present. These days, hugs often feel like something else entirely: a quick pat on the back, an arm slung awkwardly over a shoulder, or, worse, a half-hearted squeeze as one hand clutches a phone. What’s missing is the sense of being there, both physically and emotionally. In their rushed, fragmented nature, these gestures remind me of the way we interact with so much of life now—not fully, but partially. Continuous partial hugging, if you will.
The term continuous partial attention comes to mind here. Coined by Linda Stone, it describes the way we divide our focus across multiple things, staying alert but never fully engaged. It’s about constantly looking for the next thing and never committing to the thing we’re doing right now. It’s the reason we scroll while half-listening or glance at our phones mid-conversation. And, I think, it’s also why our hugs—and our connections—feel thinner than they once did.
Of course, it’s not just distraction that’s thinned out this simple act. COVID-19, and the social distancing it demanded, introduced what Dr. Caroline Fife has aptly called The Hug Deficit. Practically overnight, physical touch became a risk. Hugs—once instinctive—were replaced by distance, and the need for them didn’t go away. Instead, it accumulated, like a debt waiting to be paid. Even now, with the world reopened, something hesitates. We approach hugs with questions: Is this appropriate? Is this safe? Will this feel normal—or just awkward?
At the same time, cultural shifts toward individuality have reinforced the distance. A friend of mine, who teaches at a university, recently admitted he’s stopped hugging people altogether. “I don’t want to risk it,” he said, half-joking but also not. He wasn’t just talking about germs. He meant the invisible lines we worry about crossing—the fear that even a well-meaning hug might be misread. His hesitation feels like a reflection of our broader priorities: autonomy over connection, personal space over shared moments.
And yet, as Dr. Fife points out, the hug deficit isn’t just about the absence of physical touch—it’s about the distance we’ve grown accustomed to. Yes, physical distance, but also emotional distance. Hugs are more than gestures; they carry something deeper: trust, vulnerability, and the willingness to be fully present. Without them, we lose a kind of connection that can’t be replicated by words or virtual interactions, no matter how thoughtful or well-timed.
I was reminded of this at my 25th reunion, where I experienced the exact opposite of the continuous partial hug. Someone I hadn’t seen in 25 years spotted me, came straight up, and wrapped me in an enormous, all-encompassing hug—the kind of hug that makes you feel like the most important person in the room. For a moment, I genuinely thought I might be her favorite person in the world. But then, a few minutes later, I watched her sprint across the room toward someone else. She didn’t just hug them—she literally jumped onto them. It was a full-body, gravity-defying embrace. That’s when I realized: she’s not just a good hugger—she’s a great hugger. It wasn’t about me specifically; it was about her gift for making people feel connected, like they mattered. Hugging, for her, wasn’t just a gesture—it was pure, unfiltered joy in action.
Perhaps the solution isn’t necessarily about hugging more but about hugging with intention. A true hug is a moment of pause—a quiet declaration that you’re here, with someone, for as long as it takes. It’s not just a physical act; it’s an antidote to everything in our lives that feels rushed, fragmented, or incomplete. A hug done well is a statement: I see you, and I’m staying right here. And that feels like something worth holding onto.
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