Off Campus, Summer House, and the Desire for Connection

I've spent the last few weeks splitting my TV time between what feels like two extremes: the Summer House three-part reunion and Off Campus. One is a reality show about a group in their 30s and 40s still sharing a Hamptons summer house and partying on weekends, while the other a college hockey romance book adaption. Despite their differences, both have had a chokehold on my television and social media feeds.

And so I started wondering why.

Sure, part of it is obvious. Off Campus has an attractive cast, an incredible soundtrack, and some truly impressive fan edits online. And the fallout surrounding West/Ciara/Amanda/Kyle relationship on Summer House has certainly fueled conversation. But for me, the appeal goes deeper than entertainment.

Both shows tap into something many of us miss: community.

Whether it's the college bubble portrayed in Off Campus or the shared summer house in Summer House, both depict a version of life where connection feels easy, constant, and assumed. They remind us of a time when our friends were built into our daily lives—when community wasn't something we had to intentionally schedule, maintain, or fight to preserve.

When Summer House first premiered ten years ago, many viewers were in a similar stage of life as the cast. We were out of college, not yet fully settled down, and trying to balance careers while maintaining the friendships and community that had come so naturally in earlier years. The show's premise was aspirational: recreating the closeness of college life every weekend with a group of people you genuinely wanted to spend time with.

Most of us didn't have the resources to make that lifestyle a reality, but we could watch it unfold every week.

Off Campus scratches a similar itch. It reminds us what it felt like to live in close proximity to the people we cared about. Your best friend was right there helping you choose an outfit. Forget texting before coming over, you could just walk into a house without knocking. The people you loved were woven into the fabric of your everyday life. Community wasn't something you worked to create—it simply existed.

Both shows also portray something many of us are craving: authentic relationships. In both shows, you see open discussion around difficult and uncomfortable emotions, conflict being addressed directly (and sometimes dramatically), and relationships experiencing rupture and repair. We see that rather than vulnerability pushing people away, it actually has the power to deepen connection. We see people being honest about what they feel and need, and we see relationships become stronger because of it.

When community and connection are embedded in the fabric of your daily life, vulnerability and openness feel more accessible and normal. 

That's what these shows remind me of. They remind me of a time when I felt deeply connected to the people around me, when connection was innate, when vulnerability was natural, and when being present with one another felt effortless.

At least for me, that's why Off Campus had such a pull in contrast to the grief and shock of the West and Amanda storyline.

Summer House provided a reminder of my own grief over the loss of the effortless community that existed earlier in life, and Off Campus allowed me to revisit what it was I was mourning.

The Betrayal

When the news about West and Amanda's relationship broke, I was no longer an avid Summer House viewer. I had watched previous seasons, but my Bravo consumption had largely been reduced to Instagram Reels and occasional updates on storylines.

This pulled me right back in.

It didn't feel like entertainment. It felt like betrayal.  It felt personal.

I'd like to say that feeling of betrayal came entirely from watching someone as likable and genuine as Ciara get hurt, but that wasn't what struck me most. What felt like the real betrayal was the impact on the community itself and what that community represented for me and other viewers.

Over the years, we had watched this group build something that many adults struggle to maintain: a lasting community. They had survived the transitions that often pull people apart—the end of college, changing careers, marriage, children, and moving into different stages of life. Summer after summer, they kept coming back together.

For many viewers, that community became part of the appeal of the show. It wasn't just about the parties or the drama. It was proof that the kind of close-knit friendships many of us miss could still exist in adulthood.

That's why the fallout felt so significant.

We were grieving.

The issue wasn't simply that someone made a mistake or hurt another person. The issue was that the trust holding the community together had been damaged. Once that happened, it became clear that the group could never return to exactly what it had been before.

The reunion episodes left me in disbelief and frustrated.  Not about the conflict itself, but about the lack of desire to make meaningful repairs in the community.

I needed Off Campus as my palate cleanser.  A reminder of how things could be.

Yes, there are misunderstandings. People avoid difficult conversations. Feelings get hurt. But those moments rarely remain unresolved for long. Characters eventually acknowledge what happened, take responsibility, and move toward repair.

Off Campus was satisfying because it showed that healthy relationships aren't relationships without problems. Healthy relationships are relationships where people are willing to address the problems and repair them together.  The Summer House reunions, by contrast, showed the frustration of people remain unwilling to acknowledge ruptures and move toward repair.

West and Amanda became the representation of overvaluing self-interest and personal desires.  They represented people willing to burn down a community others believed they shared without appearing to experience any grief over its loss.

As much as we want and need community, communities remain fragile. They require trust, accountability, and a willingness to consider how our actions affect the people around us. When those things break down, the ripple effects extend far beyond the individuals directly involved.

The Desire

For me, both shows ultimately point to the same thing: our desire for connection and community.

While plenty of us were swooning over the hockey players, workout montages, and romantic storylines in Off Campus, I think there was something deeper happening as well. People weren't just responding to the relationships; they were responding to the way those relationships functioned.

The friendships felt close. The conversations felt honest. The characters spent time together in ways that have become increasingly rare in adulthood. They showed up for each other, addressed conflict, and remained invested in one another's lives.

It reminded us of what we used to have.

Part of what has always made Summer House compelling is the cast's willingness to be vulnerable. Over the years, viewers have watched them discuss relationships, insecurities, family struggles, career challenges, and personal growth. That vulnerability created a sense of authenticity. It made the audience feel connected to them.

When people appear disconnected from their own emotions or unwilling to engage honestly with the impact of their actions, it can feel jarring. As viewers, we want to sit with everyone's feelings, but ended up watching the people at the center of the conflict seemingly avoid theirs. The result isn't just frustration—it's disconnection.

I think that's because most of us are craving something deeper than entertainment.

We're craving examples of genuine connection.

We're looking for reminders that close friendships can survive adulthood. That difficult conversations don't have to end relationships. That vulnerability can bring people closer instead of pushing them apart. That communities can withstand conflict when people are willing to engage honestly and work toward repair.

The Summer House reunion episodes were a display of people choosing not to repair disconnection; we watched as they lost their community.   

It was a reminder of our own loss of community.

The Set Up

Despite living in a world where we're constantly connected through technology, many people feel profoundly disconnected from one another. We know more about each other's lives than ever before, yet many of us feel less seen and known for who we really are.

In some ways, social media has created the illusion of community while making it easier to avoid the vulnerability that real community requires. We can stay informed about people's lives without ever reaching out to them. We can share the highlights of our lives without ever allowing the more vulnerable part of ourselves to be known.

Information is not the same thing as connection.

Additionally, our culture increasingly prioritizes individual achievement over creating supportive community. We celebrate productivity, independence, and personal success, but not the effort to maintain relationships and build community.

We're encouraged to optimize ourselves, build side hustles, maximize our time, and pursue personal goals. Yet few people are praised for investing that same energy into maintaining friendships, supporting neighbors, or creating community.

Perhaps that's why these stories resonate so strongly. Beneath the romance, the drama, and the entertainment, they remind us of something we already know but often forget:

We are built for connection.

We want people who know us. We want places where we belong. We want communities that can hold both joy and conflict, both vulnerability and repair.

And when we see glimpses of that on screen, we don't just enjoy it.

We miss it.

The Connection

As I've gotten older, community has become something that requires far more intentionality than it did in my early twenties.

Part of that is practical. Many of us no longer live within walking distance of our closest friends. We move to the suburbs, buy homes, change jobs, get married, have children, and take on responsibilities that make spontaneous connection more difficult. Coordinating schedules can feel like a full-time job in itself.

But I don't think logistics are the entire story.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped treating connection as a need and started treating it as a want.  Something we have to earn.

We tell ourselves we'll deserve to call a friend once things slow down. We'll get together with friends after the next project is finished, the next promotion is earned, or the next season of life settles down.  But we’ll need a reason to have earned it.

The problem is that there is always something else we could do to earn it.

We often hold the false belief that connection will always be there, even if we aren’t actively investing in it.  Connection doesn’t just happen, though.  It takes vulnerability.  It takes authentically being ourselves, letting ourselves be seen, and genuinely seeing others.  It takes work.

We also don’t always want to feel the grief that would come by acknowledging how hard it can feel to maintain relationships and community later in life.

We're grieving the ease of connection, the spontaneity, and the certainty that our people would be there. I don't think we often recognize these changes as grief. We expect to miss people when they move away or when a season of life ends, but we rarely acknowledge that we're grieving an entire way of living. Perhaps part of what makes these shows so compelling is that they allow us to revisit something we didn't realize we were mourning.

Maybe that's why I found myself so captivated by Off Campus and so invested in the Summer House reunion. Beneath the entertainment, both served as reminders of something I already knew: community matters.

Not just romantic relationships. Not just family relationships.

Community.

The people we text random thoughts to throughout the day. The friends who know our history. The people who show up when life gets hard and celebrate when life goes well. The people who make us feel less alone.

While we may never recreate the built-in community of college dorms, shared houses, or our early twenties, we can still create meaningful connection in the lives we have now.

We can send the text.

We can make the phone call.

We can invite someone to grab coffee even when we're worried they might be busy.

We can be honest about how we're doing instead of defaulting to "fine."

We can ask for help.

We can offer help.

We can choose vulnerability over convenience and connection over isolation.

We can swing by after work.

For me, it’s sending the picture of my absolutely disastrous attempt at “crimping” my hair, because these are the people I want to see me, and know me, failed hairstyles and all.

None of those things recreate the communities we once had.

But they help us build the communities we need now.

Perhaps that's what these emotional reactions to shows like Off Campus and Summer House are really telling us. They aren't just reflections of good storytelling, attractive casts, or compelling drama.

They're reminders.

Reminders of what it feels like to belong.

Reminders of what we miss.

And reminders that, even as adults, our need for connection never actually goes away.

The challenge isn't figuring out whether community matters.

The challenge is deciding to build it.