Cross-Posted from LinkedIn
In March 2020, the world shut down, and our ability to form friendships seemed to vanish overnight. Before COVID, most people didn’t give social connection much thought. It was just there, an effortless part of daily life. I watched patients with anxiety disorders spiral as lockdowns took hold. Some who had been managing well enough before withdrew completely, as if the world had finally validated their worst fears. One told me, “This is what I always feared,” their voice a mix of resignation and grim satisfaction, a self-fulfilling prophecy come to life.
It wasn’t just people with preexisting anxiety who struggled. Trust in others eroded across the board, but nowhere was this more apparent than in the veteran community. Studies estimate loneliness has risen by thirteen percent since the pandemic (CDC, 2023), but for veterans, it’s not just about missing old friends. Many say forming new bonds feels impossible. As a clinical psychologist with over a decade in outpatient and forensic settings, I’ve seen firsthand how COVID didn’t just isolate people. It broke something fundamental in the way we connect. Dopamine, the neurotransmitter that makes social interactions rewarding, flatlined in quarantine. My research on Ketamine-Assisted Psychotherapy for Infusions (KAP-I) suggests why. Prolonged isolation mimics a dissociative state, leaving people stuck, craving connection yet paralyzed to seek it. Veterans, already wired for hypervigilance, are caught in a cruel paradox. Friendship isn’t just on pause for them. It’s something they’ve unlearned.
Lockdowns didn’t just keep people apart. They scrambled the very brain circuits that make friendship possible. Dopamine, the chemical rush we get from a good conversation or shared laughter, depends on consistent social engagement. Without coffee runs, casual chats, or unplanned encounters, that reward system collapsed. Research published in Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews (2021) describes social isolation as a starvation diet for dopamine. After months of deprivation, the brain stopped responding to connection the way it once did. Then there’s oxytocin, the so-called trust hormone. Before COVID, a handshake or hug signaled, “this person is safe.” Virtual interactions failed to trigger the same neurochemical response. According to studies from the American Psychological Association (2022), prolonged reliance on digital communication significantly reduces oxytocin levels, leaving people more suspicious and withdrawn. Strangers, once potential friends, now register as possible threats.
In my forensic work, I assess mistrust in high-stakes legal settings, and something striking became clear. COVID-era hostility mirrors the patterns I see in individuals with chronic trauma. A hostile attribution bias has taken hold, making people more likely to perceive others as dangerous, deceptive, or untrustworthy. The pandemic trained us to scan masked faces for signs of threat, reinforcing a hyper-awareness that has lingered long after restrictions lifted. Two years of “six feet apart” left deep psychological grooves, reinforcing wariness that now feels instinctive. Social skills atrophied. Without daily practice in reading expressions, making small talk, and interpreting group dynamics, many now struggle with what once came naturally. Veterans, already conditioned to assess threats in every environment, have been hit especially hard.
I know what it’s like to rely on friendship as a lifeline. As a Navy veteran, I shared close quarters with shipmates who would have taken a bullet for me. When I left the service in 1998, some of those friendships faded into silence. COVID reopened that wound. In my Austin practice, I work with veterans trained under STRONG STAR, a Department of Defense-backed initiative to reduce combat-related PTSD. Their stories echo what I hear from first responders—firefighters, paramedics, police—who describe feeling emotionally walled off, burnt out, and disconnected from those they once relied on. The lockdowns didn’t just pause these relationships. They severed bonds that were already frayed by trauma. The American Legion reports that veteran loneliness has doubled since 2019. I see that statistic come to life in my sessions every day.
Earlier this year, I consulted with a Texas State Representative about expanding access to ketamine therapy for veterans and first responders. These men and women need more than empty rhetoric about resilience. They need effective interventions. My forensic assessments reveal a growing social mistrust. Elevated paranoia, increased suspicion, a reluctance to engage. But I also know there’s a way forward. My research on KAP-I suggests that ketamine’s dissociative “jolt” has the potential to reset these trauma-driven patterns. Studies show ketamine can reduce suicidality by 63%. In therapy, I use it to help veterans take small, concrete steps toward rebuilding connection. The treatment isn’t magic, but it works because it leverages the brain’s neuroplasticity, creating opportunities to break free from the isolation loops reinforced by both trauma and COVID.
Even I, a clinical psychologist, wasn’t immune to the post-lockdown social chill. In 2018, when I ran for Texas House, I shook hands and worked a room without thinking twice. Now, I notice my own hesitation. I recognize the same recalibration in myself that I see in my patients. That’s why I believe in KAP-I. Not just as theory, but as a tool that works in real-world settings. I guide patients to take gradual social steps, whether it’s heading to a dive bar, steadying their nerves with box breathing before walking in, or simply ordering a beer. Small efforts with structured reinforcement can retrain the brain. I teach patients how to recognize trust cues, reminding them that a stranger’s grin isn’t necessarily a threat. The Journal of Clinical Psychology reports that structured socializing—through veteran-centered meetup groups, volunteering, or simply reconnecting with old friends—can reduce loneliness by 20%. But trust is trickier. COVID turned us into selective social creatures, comfortable only with the familiar, hesitant to engage beyond our inner circle. It’s as if we developed an acceptable threshold for closeness, where only those within it felt safe while everyone else remained at arm’s length. KAP-I helps rewire those instincts, giving patients a framework for overcoming social paralysis.
This isn’t just theory. I’ve seen it work in my practice. Online therapy during the pandemic highlighted how difficult real connection is to replicate through a screen. High-acuity cases became harder to manage. The disconnection went on for so long that it started to feel normal. Some of us are still struggling with that shift, watching return-to-office movements unfold while wondering why we don’t feel the same urge to reconnect as we once did. But that instinct isn’t lost. It can be rebuilt.
COVID fractured our ability to connect, but that fracture doesn’t have to be permanent. The challenge now is to push through the lingering hesitation, to lean back into social engagement even when it feels unnatural. In an increasingly digital world, stepping away from screens and reclaiming real-life interaction is more important than ever. Start small. A nod, a handshake, a beer. I’ve watched this slow return play out in Austin’s dive bars, where connections that seemed dormant are sparking back to life.
Texas has 1.6 million veterans, and seventeen die by suicide every day (VA, 2023). My Capitol plea through House Bill 720 is simple. Expand ketamine access, not as a trend, but as a critical intervention for a population that needs it. The veterans I work with rebuilt nations. Now, we need to help them rebuild their connections, one conversation at a time.
Dr. Zackery A. Tedder is a clinical psychology post-doctoral resident, Navy veteran, and forensic expert specializing in trauma, social connection, and Ketamine-Assisted Psychotherapy (KAP-I). His work blends neuroscience, real-world clinical insight, and policy advocacy to help veterans, first responders, and everyday people rebuild what COVID fractured.
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