I’ve always found physics fascinating, in part because it forces us to confront the vast and hidden truths of the universe. Recently, I stumbled across an article about entropy, that elusive and slippery concept that measures disorder, uncertainty, and the limits of what we can know. The piece lingered with me long after I’d closed the tab, tugging at an unexpected question: How does entropy apply to social systems?
The idea intrigued me. Entropy—often described as the natural drift of systems toward chaos—felt eerily familiar, not just in science but in the world we live in. Societies, too, fall apart. Relationships fray. Institutions corrode. I had my own thoughts, orbiting Achebe’s powerful phrase, “Things Fall Apart.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more, that this question was worth sitting with. So, I did what I sometimes do when the edges of my understanding need a nudge—I asked ChatGPT.
The response I received unfurled the concept of entropy into something layered and human, threading physics into the fabric of how we live, govern, and connect. The way it broke down made me stop and think: if entropy describes the slow unraveling of order in physical systems, doesn’t it mirror the frictions and failures that ripple through our social systems, too?
At the heart of it is the simple truth that order—whether in nature or society—takes energy. Physical systems, left alone, slide toward chaos because it’s easier that way. Social systems are no different. The energy we pour into our institutions, relationships, and shared norms is the only thing holding back the natural pull toward disorder. Without that energy, structures weaken. Trust erodes. The center cannot hold. And then what happens? We see it all the time: governance grows brittle, communities fragment, and communication falters, spreading the same kind of uncertainty that entropy measures.
This becomes clearest in moments of social decay or complexity. Think of an institution—any institution—and you’ll see the constant tension between maintaining its order and the chaos trying to seep in. Without intentional effort, without care and energy, entropy takes hold. Corruption spreads like cracks in concrete. Inequities deepen. Norms we once relied on start to slip through our hands. The work of upholding a system—whether it’s a democracy, a family, or a community—requires tending, or else it begins to unravel.
But there’s another layer here: information. In physics, entropy reflects the uncertainty of a system. The more unknowns, the more disorder. And doesn’t that feel painfully familiar? In a society saturated with misinformation and half-truths, where narratives collide and the line between what’s real and what’s invented blurs, entropy spikes. We stop trusting institutions. We stop trusting one another. Uncertainty rises, and suddenly, we find ourselves unmoored—adrift in a landscape where clarity feels impossible and action even more so.
It’s not just systems that break down under entropy; relationships do, too. Think about social bonds, the invisible threads that hold people together. In healthy systems, energy moves freely—knowledge, emotions, power, care—all circulating like currents through a shared space. But what happens when those connections weaken? When polarization isolates us, when inequality frays trust, when shared values give way to fragmentation, the flow stops. We see communities splintering, families divided, voices unheard. The energy dissipates, and disorder takes its place.
There’s also a strange symmetry between entropy’s “arrow of time” and the evolution of social systems. In physical terms, entropy marks time’s forward progression; a broken glass doesn’t spontaneously reassemble itself. Social systems, too, have this inescapable momentum—moving forward, gaining complexity, but often spiraling into unpredictability. Technology, for example, gives us progress at a cost. Efficiency rises, but so does disconnection. Innovations solve problems while creating new ones. The line between order and chaos grows thinner.
And yet, I find myself reluctant to see entropy only as decay. Because in both physics and society, there’s another truth: entropy creates space—for adaptation, for resilience, for creativity. Times of high social entropy—when everything feels like it’s falling apart—are also fertile grounds for transformation. The energy of disorder can be harnessed into something new. Civil rights movements, environmental uprisings, calls for justice—they emerge not from stability but from disruption. Out of the chaos comes the chance to rebuild. The disorder becomes a doorway.
But here’s the catch: transformation doesn’t just happen. It takes energy. If entropy represents the slow slide into ignorance and inaction, then knowledge, awareness, and connection are the forces that push back. Education, dialogue, collective action—these are the tools we use to stabilize systems, to turn uncertainty into understanding and disconnection into solidarity. Without them, we risk being swept along the current.
Maybe that’s the lesson here: entropy is inevitable. Things fall apart. That’s the nature of systems, both physical and social. But recognizing that truth doesn’t mean giving up; it means waking up. It means understanding that stability, trust, and connection aren’t passive states—they’re choices we commit to, over and over again. Social systems require energy, the same as any other. They require us to show up, to tend to the relationships and structures that keep entropy at bay.
Because if things fall apart, they can also be rebuilt. And if entropy marks the limits of what we know, maybe it also invites us to lean into what’s possible. The energy we bring—to our communities, to our conversations, to our care for one another—can make all the difference. Order and disorder exist in constant tension, but the outcome isn’t predetermined. It’s up to us.
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