The Hug Deficit

About the Video:

In this video, Josh explores the quiet ache of being “touch-starved” and why we’ve settled for perfunctory, “wet noodle” hugs instead of the genuine connection we actually need. He reflects on his own history of physical scarcity—remembering only one hug from his father in 21 years—and how a cancer diagnosis transformed physical touch from a social luxury into essential medicine. By diving into the tension between our fear of being “weird” and our biological need for closeness, Josh invites you to consider what stopped you from asking for a real hug today and how we might start reclaiming that vulnerability together.

Transcription:
I remember my father hugging me once in my entire life. I was 21. I just survived a burglary where I should have died. But in that moment, my father wrapped his arms around me. One hug in 21 years.

I’m dealing with cancer, and I’ve been thinking a lot about hugs lately.

Real hugs.

I mean, not the wet noodle kind where you sort of lean in, pat someone’s back twice, and pull away as quickly as possible. I’m talking about the hugs where you can feel the love oozing out the kind that actually means something. They’re rare, rarer than they should be, but here’s what I’ve noticed.

We know physical contact matters. The research is clear. Human touch reduces stress, releases oxytocin, strengthens our immune system. Touch is literally medicine, and yet most of us are touch-starved, going through our days with minimal, genuine physical connection to other humans.

Why?

In establishing clear boundaries around inappropriate touch, we’ve also backed away from appropriate, nonsexual physical connection. We’re so worried about being inappropriate that we’ve made all touch suspect.

Real hugs also require giving up control. You have to open yourself physically, let someone be close, be still with them for more than a perfunctory second.

That’s vulnerability. And most of us aren’t particularly good at vulnerability.

Many of us learned early that touch was scarce. One hug in 21 years teaches you that physical affection isn’t part of the normal life you should expect. Distance, not closeness.

And here’s something I’ve never done directly: ask someone for a real hug. I want to. Sometimes I desperately want to say, “Can we have an actual hug?” But I don’t know how to ask without sounding weird. So I hope for the best, and often I’m disappointed.

Here’s when this became urgent for me. When I got my cancer diagnosis, suddenly hugs weren’t just nice—they became essential. When my kids visit and give me real hugs, the kind where we actually hold each other, it makes my day. A good hug can stay with me for days.

It’s medicine—not metaphorically, actually medicine. Research shows physical touch releases oxytocin, reduces stress and anxiety, and can boost immune function. For someone going through cancer treatments, these aren’t small things. Hugs don’t cure cancer, but they make treatment easier. They help with fear. They provide comfort that medical interventions can’t touch.

So here’s what I’m wondering:

What’s your relationship with physical touch?
When was the last time you gave or received a real hug, not a noodle hug?
What did you learn about physical affection growing up?
What stops you from asking for the connection you need?
Who in your life gives good hugs? Have you told them how much it matters?
What would change if you started giving real hugs instead of wet noodle ones?

I’m still figuring out how to ask for what I need, still learning to receive comfort without apologizing for needing it but I’m convinced this matters.

We need each other. Our bodies need each other. Touch isn’t optional, so maybe we should start paying attention. Notice when you get a real hug versus a wet noodle hug and maybe, when you feel ready with someone safe, try asking for what you need.

I’m working on this too, so let’s figure it out together.

Well, that’s what I have to say about hugs today. Thanks a lot for stopping by. I hope to see you back here really soon.