We often think of ourselves as isolated individuals, but sociology and science suggest we are more like neurons in a vast network. Even a minor interaction, or a brief exchange with a passerby, can potentially contribute to the functioning and health of the entire organism. We are wired to connect, yet we so often stay inside our own heads.

Years ago, I went through a phase where I actively practiced being warm toward strangers; starting conversations and trying to keep in touch. If someone seemed receptive, I would share something genuine about myself, opening up the space for them to let down their guard. I did this often on buses, in parks, and across university campuses in Shanghai. These little experiments led to all kinds of outcomes. Some turned into long-lasting friendships; others evaporated the moment the conversation ended. Yet, looking back, I can’t remember a single one that wasn’t pleasant.

When I first walked the streets of Shanghai in the summer of 2008, the air was thick, hot, and humid under the massive, leafy trees of the French Concession. I remember sipping something I had never tasted before: the complex, creamy sweetness of oolong milk tea, chewing on tapioca pearls through a wide straw. My feet had awkwardly adjusted to navigating the city in a pair of thin, black flip-flops, walking along streets wider and longer than anything I had ever seen in Norway.

I was young enough to still be living with my parents, yet there I was, on the other side of the globe. My senses were on fire; the flavor of my cold drink, the chaotic chorus of car horns and scooters, the bright green leaves catching the midday sun. I was acutely aware of how much my blonde hair stood out in the crowd. And yet, I felt a profound connection to the strangers walking around me. We are all different, but we are the same, I realized. Whether I am in my tiny hometown or on the opposite side of the earth, this is true: we share a core kinship, and because of that, I can feel at home anywhere. That feeling only deepened when I learned to speak their language.

When I eventually returned to Norway after three years abroad, I missed China immensely. One day on campus, I spotted someone who looked Chinese. The rest is history.

Okay, fine, I’ll share what happened.

My first attempt was a bit clumsy. I helped him pick up the pieces of his phone after he dropped it on the floor. He just turned away without looking up, entirely absorbed in his computer. A little later, I was sitting on a sunny bench memorizing Arabic phrases from a lecture when I noticed him sitting on the bench right next to mine. The moment the thought of saying hello crossed my mind, my heart started racing so hard I almost stayed put.

Finally, my curiosity beat my shyness. I walked over and asked, “Are you Chinese?”

He smiled. “Yes, my parents are, but I actually grew up here in Norway.”

That broke the ice. I shared openly about my time in China, my spiritual outlook, and my thoughts on global issues. He jumped in eagerly, filtering much of it through the lens of his sociology studies. Today, that 19-year-old is 36, and he is my husband. This December, we will celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary.

Most bids for connection with strangers don’t end in marriage, of course. But sociology studies show that our influence ripples out far beyond our immediate circles; we affect our friends, and our friends’ friends, not unlike neurons in a network. Every small interaction contributes to the health and functioning of the entire organism.

So what has stayed with me is my new outlook on strangers: I now view strangers a little more like familiar friends. It helps me show I care, even in brief interactions. Whereas before I might have been awkward when having to speak to a stranger in line at the grocery store, now I feel a sense of care. It's the tiny shift from “have a good evening” to “how's your evening so far?” at the cash register, and perhaps sharing a detail about my own, “I had a sore throat during my singing recital earlier but thankfully it went okay.” Over time the group of people I consider my friends has diversified, from being mostly my age, to people of a variety of cultural backgrounds and life situations. What only required a small adjustment on my part has lead to the gift of connection.

Connecting with a stranger isn’t just a quirky habit; it’s a biological and social contribution to the collective health of our neighborhoods, our cities, and humanity at large.

Outside the natural birthing center, it was -10°C. Inside, I bathed in warm water and the soft light of the birthing room. I had just lifted my son from the water to lay him on my chest—a warm, tiny boy resting on my skin for the first time. In that moment of peace, my first instinct was to ensure his safety. I whispered a promise: “I will take care of you. You’re safe.”

As I made that promise, I was struck by an uncomfortable realization as a law student. Just as the walls of the birthing center shielded us from the freezing cold, we need a common legal shield to protect humanity from borderless threats. Our national laws safeguard us within borders, but against universal crisis—like climate change, pandemics, or arms races—our house still lacks a global architecture.

Faced with borderless crises, we are unable to respond as one coherent organism. Our efforts are inhibited by a fragmented institutional framework. Toby Ord, a leading philosopher on existential risk, argues that our technology has developed far more rapidly than our wisdom. Strengthening our institutions is no longer just a political choice; it is a necessity for survival.

The philosopher Immanuel Kant wrote that lasting peace requires international binding law. Currently, the absence of a global peace treaty with a global governing body to enact peace, is a breach in our global spine. As a human family, we have reached a breaking point. We are like neurons that have yet to connect. An isolated neuron is insignificant, but a network gives rise to consciousness, coordination, and the power to survive.

This blog attempts to lay a cornerstone of the growth of healthy and functioning global legal institutions. It is about moving beyond fragmented legal responses toward designing the “synapses” that allow us to function together. By building a global legal architecture that mirrors our humanity, we can stop being isolated neurons and become the coherent civilization our children deserve. Only then will I truly be able to keep the promise I gave to my son in that warm bath, while the winter raged outside.