(Frontiers of Social Psychology) Kipling D. Williams, Steve A. Nida - Ostracism, Exclusion, and Rejection-Routledge - Taylor & Francis Group (2017)

OSTRACISM, EXCLUSION,
AND REJECTION
This volume examines research into the related phenomena of ostracism,

exclusion and rejection. Most individuals have experienced both sides of the
coin: being ostracized and ostracizing others. People experience mild forms of
ostracism on a daily basis, but some endure years and decades of being the social
outcast. How does it feel to be shunned, left out, not wanted? Research suggests
that even the mildest and briefest forms of ostracism are painful and have
downstream consequences to our feelings of social connection. Longer-term
ostracism has devastating consequences on individuals’ health and well-being.
This innovative compilation covers how being cast out affects the brain and
body chemistry, feelings and emotions, thoughts and beliefs, and behaviors. In
addition to the primary focus on targets of ostracism, researchers also examine the
motives and consequences of ostracizing. Social scientists from social psychology,
developmental psychology, neuroscience, communication science, cross-cultural
psychology, and anthropology tackle these questions with cutting-edge methods
and provocative theories. A key volume for all in those fields, this book also
presents applications from the schoolyard to the workplace, and sounds a much-
needed call for further research on this universal behavior of all social animals.
Kipling D. Williams is Professor of Psychological Sciences at Purdue University.

His prior posts have been at Macquarie University and the University of New
South Wales, the University of Toledo, and Drake University. His research
focuses on ostracism and social influence.
Steve A. Nida is Professor and Head of the Department of Psychology at The

Citadel, in Charleston, South Carolina. He is a social psychologist whose research
interests have also included helping behavior and sport psychology.
FRONTIERS OF SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY
Series Editors:
Arie W. Kruglanski, University of Maryland at College Park
Joseph P. Forgas, University of New South Wales
Frontiers of Social Psychology is a series of domain-specific handbooks. Each volume provides

readers with an overview of the most recent theoretical, methodological, and practical
developments in a substantive area of social psychology, in greater depth than is possible
in general social psychology handbooks. The editors and contributors are all internationally
renowned scholars whose work is at the cutting edge of research.
Scholarly, yet accessible, the volumes in the Frontiers series are an essential resource for
senior undergraduates, postgraduates, researchers, and practitioners and are suitable as texts
in advanced courses in specific subareas of social psychology.
Published Titles
Ostracism, Exclusion, and Rejection, Williams & Nida
Political Psychology, Krosnick, Chiang & Stark
Aggression and Violence, Brad J. Bushman
Social Neuroscience, Harmon-Jones & Inzlicht
Addictions, Kopetz & Lejuez
Social Communication, Fiedler
Attitudes and Attitude Change, Crano
Negotiation Theory and Research, Thompson
The Self, Sedikides & Spencer
Social Psychology and the Unconscious, Bargh
Evolution and Social Psychology, Schaller, Simpson & Kenrick
The Science of Social Influence, Pratkanis
Close Relationships, Noller & Feeney
Affect in Social Thinking and Behavior, Forgas
Personality and Social Behavior, Rhodewalt
Stereotyping and Prejudice, Stangor & Crandall
Group Processes, Levine
Social Metacognition, Briñol & DeMarree
Goal-directed Behavior, Aarts & Elliot
Social Judgment and Decision Making, Krueger
Intergroup Conflicts and their Resolution, Bar-Tal
Social Motivation, Dunning
Social Cognition, Strack & Förster
Social Psychology of Consumer Behavior, Wänke
Forthcoming Titles
For continually updated information about published and forthcoming titles in the Frontiers of
Social Psychology series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/psychology/series/FSP
OSTRACISM,
EXCLUSION, AND
REJECTION
Edited by
Kipling D. Williams and Steve A. Nida
First published 2017
by Routledge
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and by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2017 Taylor & Francis
The right of Kipling D. Williams and Steve A. Nida to be identified as the authors of the editorial
material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or
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used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
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A catalog record for this title has been requested
ISBN: 978-1-84872-557-7 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-84872-558-4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-30847-0 (ebk)
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CONTENTS
List of Contributors viii
1 Introduction and Overview 1

2 Ostracism: Being Ignored and Excluded 10

Dongning Ren, Andrew H. Hales, and Kipling D. Williams
3 Alone and Impulsive: Self-regulatory Capacity Mediates and

Moderates the Implications of Exclusion 29
Levi R. Baker and Roy F. Baumeister
4 Motivational and Emotional Aspects of Interpersonal

Rejection: Twenty-Five Years of Theory and Research 46
Mark R. Leary
5 The Shared Neural Substrates of Physical and Social Pain 61

Kristina Tchalova and Naomi I. Eisenberger
6 Acute and Chronic Physiological Consequences of

Social Rejection 81
Ellie Shuo Jin and Robert A. Josephs
vi Contents
7 Only the Lonely: The Curious Case of Exclusion

and Aggression 95
C. Nathan DeWall, Brian Enjaian, and Sarah Beth Bell
8 Social Exclusion and the Self 113

Cynthia L. Pickett and Yanine D. Hess
9 Creating the Silence: Ostracism from the Perspective

of the Source 130
Lisa Zadro, Alexandra Godwin, Elena Svetieva, Nisha Sethi,
Rose Iannuzzelli, and Karen Gonsalkorale
10 Social Surrogates and Rejection: How Reading,

Watching TV, and Eating Comfort Food Can Ease the
Pain of Social Isolation 146
Shira Gabriel and Jennifer Valenti
11 Rejection in Romantic Relationships 162

Danu Anthony Stinson, John G. Holmes, and Theresa H. He
12 Ostracism from a Cross-Cultural Perspective 177

Juliette Schaafsma
13 Ostracism in Children and Adolescents 192

Steve A. Nida and Conway F. Saylor
14 Normative Exclusion and Attraction to Extreme Groups:

Resolving Identity-Uncertainty 207
Michael A. Hogg and Joseph A. Wagoner
15 Workplace Ostracism 224

Sandra Robinson and Kira Schabram
16 Social Media and Ostracism 240

Peter Vorderer and Frank M. Schneider
17 Anthropological Aspects of Ostracism 258

Patrik Söderberg and Douglas P. Fry
Contents vii
18 Social Exclusion, Ostracism, and Rejection Research:

Where Do we Go from Here? 273
Eric D. Wesselmann, Kipling D. Williams, and Steve A. Nida
Index 290
CONTRIBUTORS
Levi R. Baker Florida State University, USA
Roy F. Baumeister University of Queensland, Australia
Sarah Beth Bell University of Kentucky, USA
C. Nathan DeWall University of Kentucky, USA
Naomi I. Eisenberger University of California, Los Angeles, USA
Brian Enjaian University of Kentucky, USA
Douglas P. Fry University of Alabama at Birmingham, USA
Shira Gabriel SUNY University at Buffalo, USA
Alexandra Godwin University of Sydney, Australia
Karen Gonsalkorale University of Sydney, Australia
Andrew H. Hales Purdue University, USA
Theresa H. He University of Victoria, Canada
Yanine D. Hess SUNY Purchase College, USA

Contributors ix
Michael A. Hogg Claremont Graduate University, USA
John G. Holmes University of Waterloo, Canada
Rose Iannuzzelli University of Sydney, Australia
Ellie Shuo Jin University of Texas at Austin, USA
Robert A. Josephs University of Texas at Austin, USA
Mark R. Leary Duke University, USA
Steve A. Nida The Citadel, USA
Cynthia L. Pickett University of California, Davis, USA
Dongning Ren Tilburg University, The Netherlands
Sandra Robinson University of British Columbia, Canada
Conway F. Saylor The Citadel, USA
Juliette Schaafsma Tilburg University, the Netherlands
Kira Schabram University of British Columbia, Canada
Frank M. Schneider University of Mannheim, Germany
Nisha Sethi Peter Walker & Associates, Clinical Psychologists, Australia
Patrik Söderberg Åbo Akademi University, Finland
Danu Anthony Stinson University of Victoria, Canada
Elena Svetieva Católica-Lisbon School of Business & Economics, Portugal
Kristina Tchalova McGill University, Canada
Jennifer Valenti SUNY University at Buffalo, USA
Peter Vorderer University of Mannheim, Germany

x Contributors
Joseph A. Wagoner Claremont Graduate University, USA
Eric D. Wesselmann Illinois State University, USA
Kipling D. Williams Purdue University, USA
Lisa Zadro formerly of University of Sydney, Australia

1
INTRODUCTION AND OVERVIEW
Ostracism—being ignored and excluded—has been occurring for as long as there

have been social animals; the term itself emerged in Athens as early as 487 bc,
referring to ostraka, shards of pottery on which votes were taken to expel individuals.
As noted by Williams in his book, Ostracism: The Power of Silence (2001), forms of
ostracism—many of them institutionalized—exist in virtually every culture.
Themes of social exclusion, rejection, and estrangement are ubiquitous in
movies, literature, and music—and thus reflect our common experience. From
the domain of classic American cinema, for instance, consider James Dean’s
character in Rebel without a Cause, Jim Stark, a social misfit who is shunned by
most of his schoolmates. Then there is Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart’s
character Rick Blaine, whose open bitterness toward Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa, his
former lover who resurfaces, reflects the deep and unrelenting pain caused by her
abandonment of him a year or so earlier. More recently, the disturbing book (and
subsequent film) We Need to Talk about Kevin explores the relationship between
social disengagement and mass killings. The list of popular songs about romantic
rejection is seemingly endless: The Beatles’ I’m a Loser, Patsy Cline’s Crazy, the
oft-recorded I Heard It through the Grapevine … and the list goes on and on. Paul
Simon even tells us how to execute an act of romantic rejection in his Fifty Ways
to Leave Your Lover. In fairy tales, we note that Snow White and Sleeping Beauty
have been isolated for some reason, and Cinderella is treated as an outcast and
forbidden from attending the ball. Even in nursery thymes we find the example
of Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater—who has decided to impose ostracism on his wife,
separating her from this rest of the world by putting her away inside a huge
pumpkin! In A Christmas Carol, Scrooge feels the frustration of not being seen or
heard when he visits the past, Brer Rabbit becomes so angry when ignored by the
Tar Baby that he resorts to aggression, and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man first
2 Kipling D. Williams and Steve A. Nida
suffers, then exploits his invisibility to white men. Indeed, almost all of us can
remember an unpleasant episode from our own childhood (or even more
recently) in which we were rejected or intentionally excluded by our peers.
It is somewhat surprising, then, that social and behavioral scientists did not
begin to acknowledge and study this behavior until late in the second half of the
twentieth century. The first compendium of research devoted to ostracism was a
special issue of the journal Ethology and Sociobiology, edited by Gruter and Masters
and published in 1986. In their volume, animal behaviorists and ethologists,
biologists, anthropologists, legal scholars, economists, neuroscientists,
developmental psychologists, political scientists, and sociologists presented mostly
qualitative and case study examinations of ostracism. Notably absent from this
excellent introduction to a focused examination of ostracism across many domains
were chapters written by social psychologists, or experimentalists in any domain.
Within social psychology, a confluence of three labs produced a sudden
interest in ostracism, exclusion, and rejection (more will be said about the
distinctions among these terms a bit later). In 1995 Roy Baumeister and Mark
Leary published a powerful and seminal article, “The Need To Belong.” Here,
they laid out compelling evidence that, like water and food, people needed
belonging—social connections with at least a few others—in order to survive
physically and psychologically. In their respective labs, they began publishing
articles on exclusion (Baumeister’s term) and rejection (Leary’s term), both
emanating in part from the need-to-belong foundation. About the same time,
Kip Williams began publishing theory and experimental research on ostracism
(the term he uses), showing the powerful effects of brief encounters with others,
typically strangers, in which the individual is ignored and excluded in a seemingly
trivial context. In addition to this intersection of research interests, there may
well have been a Zeitgeist in which social scientists coalesced around a focused
interest in the phenomenological, physiological, affective, cognitive, and
behavioral consequences of ostracism, exclusion, and rejection.
Since about 1994, however, this complete lack of experimental research has been
addressed many times over by psychologists in social, developmental, clinical, and
cognitive psychology, as well as those in affective neuroscience. In this Handbook,
we cover the extensive explosion of research on ostracism, exclusion, and rejection
over the last 20 years, conducted by some of our most prolific social scientists.
Overview of Chapters
Broad Theories
The first group of chapters establishes the basic foundations of research and theory
on ostracism, exclusion, and rejection. The later chapters display many of the
valuable insights that have really moved the foundational work forward, making
it truly meaningful.
Introduction and Overview 3
In Chapter 2, Dongning Ren, Andy Hales, and Kip Williams lay the
foundation for this volume as they review and organize the basic psychological
research on ostracism that has evolved over the last two decades. They begin by
defining ostracism as “being ignored and excluded,” an intentionally broad
definition that encompasses not only ostracism in its extreme forms, but also the
common and often subtle ways in which it occurs on a daily basis. Central to
their chapter is a presentation of Williams’s (2009) temporal need-threat model
of ostracism. This theoretical statement, which has guided much of social
psychology’s empirical research on the topic, proposes that the effects of ostracism
take place at three different stages. The initial reaction to ostracism is reflexive,
occurring quickly and indiscriminately. The second, reflective stage produces
behavioral consequences that may be intended to help the ostracized individual
reconnect with the group, or may lead the person to lash out against the
perpetrator(s) of the ostracism; furthermore, motivational, cognitive, and
physiological effects may also result. The third stage, resignation, addresses the
impact of continuing, long-term ostracism. The authors present convincing
evidence to support this conceptualization, and they conclude their chapter by
reflecting on what we can do to mitigate ostracism’s adverse effects.
In Chapter 3, Levi Baker and Roy Baumeister present evidence for the central
role that self-regulatory capacity plays in causing and altering the course of
reactions to exclusion. Research shows the devastating effects of exclusion on
human health and performance across many domains. Why such a consistent and
strong impairment? Baker and Baumeister argue that exclusion saps substantial
resources that are ordinarily devoted toward motivating individuals to achieve
their goals. This leaves excluded individuals to rely on impulsive, often
problematic behaviors. Their model proposes that individuals who are already
suffering from self-regulatory failures are at particular risk when excluded.
Additionally, failures of self-regulation can also lead to exclusion by others, thus
thrusting the excluded individual into a vicious downward spiral.
In Chapter 4, Mark Leary looks back at 25 years of theory and research on
interpersonal rejection. One of the pioneers in this area, Leary examines the effects
of interpersonal rejection on people’s motivation and emotions. Connecting his
seminal paper with Roy Baumeister on the need to belong with both his theory on
relational value (and devaluation) and his influential theory of self-esteem—
Sociometer Theory—Leary traces the development of interest on interpersonal
rejection from the early 1990s to the present. He provides a fascinating “big picture”
analysis of where we began, what we have accomplished, and where we are going
in the pursuit of understanding the complex consequences of rejection and exclusion.
Micro-Level Analyses
The next set of chapters examines the neurological and physiological concomitants
of ostracism, social exclusion, and rejection. How does being ignored, excluded,
and rejected affect our brain? How do certain genetic predispositions and
hormones affect our response to ostracism?
In Chapter 5, Kristina Tchalova and Naomi Eisenberger examine the research
on the neural substrate overlap between physical and social pain. Early theorizing
by Jaap Panksepp in the 1970s led not only to the emergence of affective
neuroscience, but also to notions that social organisms suffer and experience pain
when separated from important others. Fueled by an oft-cited neuroimaging study
(Eisenberger, Lieberman, & Williams, 2003) indicating that both social and
physical pain produce activation in the same brain areas, empirical evidence has
been accumulating for nearly two decades to suggest that the two forms of pain
share to a significant extent a common neurobiological infrastructure—an idea
commonly referred to as “pain overlap theory.” The authors discuss the likely
evolution of such a shared system, and they offer compelling explanations for its
adaptive value and the associated implications. The authors review the literature
that documents areas of overlap between social and physical pain within the neural
architecture, offering extensive and compelling research into how similar social
pain is to physical pain, and how these relate to reactions to ostracism and rejection.
In Chapter 6, Ellie Jin and Robert Josephs present the accumulated research on
the physiological consequences of social rejection. The authors not only cover acute
reactions to short-term rejection manipulations, but also review longer-term chronic
reactions to social rejection. Their chapter includes research on threat responses as
measured by hormonal responses (e.g., epinephrine, cortisol, testosterone,
progesterone), as well as physiological concomitants of long-term social rejection in
terms of social anxiety, depression, and immune responses. Ostracism and rejection
researchers were quick to embrace neuroscience approaches, and this chapter
provides an excellent resource on this research to date.
Intra-Individual Level of Analysis

We next present three chapters that deal with how experiencing rejection,
exclusion, or ostracism affects the inner world of the individual. How are the
excluded individual’s emotions affected, especially anger, and does this increase
the probability of aggression? How does being the outsider affect the individual’s
way of thinking about themselves? How does ostracizing others impact the self?
In Chapter 7, Nathan DeWall, Brian Enjaian, and Sarah Bell present an overview
of correlational and experimental research examining the causal link between being
excluded, feeling angry, and reacting aggressively. Early analyses of news articles
and diaries by Mark Leary show that the majority of school shooters experienced
some form of rejection or social exclusion immediately prior to their rampages.
Groundbreaking experimental work by Jean Twenge, Roy Baumeister, and
colleagues showed a causal link between certain types of social exclusion and
various measures of aggression. Since then, a large number of studies have examined
this link and uncovered boundary conditions that moderate when aggression is
more or less likely in response to exclusion. The authors present an excellent

overarching examination of the accumulated research on exclusion and aggression.
In some ways, the beginning of psychology’s interest in being ignored and
excluded, can be found in William James’s definition of the “social self”—where
we understand who we are, based on how others react to us. He indicated that
being unable to use others’ reactions because they are acting as if the person does
not exist would be devastating, even “worse than bodily torture” (James,
1890/1950; pp. 293–294). It should be no surprise then, that the self is central to
the understanding of how being excluded and rejected affects us. In Chapter 8,
Cindy Pickett and Yanine Hess present a thorough review of the research that
examines the self as it relates to social exclusion. The self—which includes self-
concept, self-esteem, self-consciousness—are affected emotionally and cognitively
by experiencing social exclusion, and aspects of the self can bias, filter, and buffer
such exclusion experiences. Their coverage includes an examination of how
varying levels of narcissism can alter perceptions and reactions to exclusion, to
how these experiences affect our motivation to engage in self-enhancement.
In Chapter 9, Lisa Zadro, Alexandra Godwin, Elena Svetieva, Nisha Sethi,
Rose Iannuzzelli, and Karen Gonsalkorale remind us that it is very likely that our
own most memorable experiences with ostracism have been not when we were
perpetrators, but when we were its targets. Their chapter in this volume considers
ostracism from the target’s perspective. Because the use of ostracism is so common,
they argue, there must be some benefits for the perpetrator—and they do indeed
offer evidence to indicate that ostracism is usually motive-driven, often aiming to
punish. Lisa and her colleagues examine not only why people ostracize, but also
who does so as well as why and when they do it. They also take a look at the
impact of using ostracism on the four needs that are threatened by ostracism—
belonging, self-esteem, control, and meaningful existence. Given the rather
limited amount of research on the sources of ostracism, their chapter also presents
some methodological suggestions intended to encourage a broader analysis of
ostracism and to enhance the external validity of research on the topic.
Interpersonal Levels of Analysis

The next three chapters focus on relationships among people in the context of
ostracism, exclusion, and rejection. The social implications of being outcast
provide some of the most interesting reasons for concern by theorists, researchers,
and the layperson alike.
In Chapter 10, Shira Gabriel and Jennifer Valenti present a strong case for just
how flexible humans can be in their efforts to satisfy the powerful need to belong,
suggesting that people are so hard-wired to develop connections with others that
we can find those relationships even in the absence of actual human beings. They
define “social surrogates” as either human or non-human targets with which
someone is connected psychologically, but not physically. Although they are
mere facsimiles of actual social relationships, these symbolic bonds with others
can and often do function just as real relationships do in serving to fulfill our
belongingness needs. There are different types of social surrogates, they argue: a
parasocial relationship is in action, for example, when one maintains a strong
interest in a celebrity and reads frequently about that person on websites or in
magazines; one can use social worlds as a surrogate, such as when one becomes
engaged with the characters in a favorite TV series; reminders of others (e.g.,
photographs viewed on Facebook) can also function as social surrogates. The
authors present compelling evidence that all three types of surrogates can protect
us against the pain of rejection and isolation.
In Chapter 11, Danu Stinson, John Holmes, and Theresa He discuss a special
and particularly powerful matter: rejection within the context of romantic
relationships. Rejection at the hands of a romantic partner is painful, and it
compromises cognitive functioning. With deep roots in our evolutionary history,
the romantic relationship is a vital bond—and humans are thus strongly motivated
to avoid rejection. To accomplish this, people employ a number of self-regulatory
mechanisms in the cognitive, affective, and behavioral domains not only as they
attempt to initiate romantic relationships, but also as those relationships continue.
According to these authors, one’s level of “relational security/insecurity” plays a
central role in how people use these mechanisms. Also considered in this chapter
are some possible interventions that insecure individuals could use as buffers
against the threat of rejection. During both the initiation and maintenance phases
of a relationship, strategies of this sort might correct unhealthy and self-defeating
thought processes, emotional reactions, and behaviors. The authors conclude by
reminding us that even when rejection cannot be avoided, it still presents an
opportunity for learning and growth.
In Chapter 12, Juliette Schaafsma explores the matter of how culture might
influence one’s responses to ostracism. She suggests that although it has been
established that the experience of ostracism is universally aversive, it may elicit
different types of behaviors or emotions across different cultural settings, and how
people recover from ostracism may vary cross-culturally as well. A central
question in her analysis is whether the culture is individualistic or collectivistic in
nature. For example, the degree to which one’s culture leads people to think of
themselves as independent or interdependent may determine how sensitive they
are to rejection or social exclusion, or may impact how concerned they are with
fitting in. Juliette reviews the somewhat limited research that has examined the
consequences of ostracism and rejection across cultures, and she offers some
valuable suggestions to guide future research on this important question.
Macro-Level Analyses
The next five chapters are devoted to examining intergroup and societal level
implications of ostracism, exclusion, and rejection. These chapters aim to
understand which groups attract marginalized people, how do groups respond to

ostracism, and how does exclusion affect our ideologies and propensities to join
extreme and perhaps dangerous groups? How tolerant are ostracized groups to
diversity from within? How do they relate to other groups?
Bullying in children has formed a centerpiece of interest and research in
psychology for over 40 years, but research specific to interpersonal rejection,
exclusion, and ostracism is relatively new. In Chapter 13, Steve Nida and Conway
Saylor review emerging literature on the effects of ostracism on children and
adolescents, and present some of their own work that examines and compares
experiences with ostracism and bullying during childhood and how these
experiences differentially affect adjustment and success during adolescence. With
all the emphasis on bullying, the results of their comparative studies provide
evidence that more attention should be paid to the less obvious, but perhaps
more pernicious, impact of ostracism.
In Chapter 14, Joseph Wagoner and Michael Hogg delve into the timely topic
of what motivates people to be interested in and to join extreme groups. Whereas
popular media accounts might attribute such behavior to maladjusted personalities,
Wagoner and Hogg suggest that people who feel marginalized by their ingroups
may be particularly susceptible to forming interests and attachments to extreme
groups. Their theoretical model proposes that when one becomes uncertain as to
one’s social identity (as defined by to which groups one belongs), then extreme
groups offer a unique benefit (as compared to moderate groups) in providing self-
certainty. This is a provocative chapter that has many implications for a world
beset by the increasing presence, growth, and actions of terrorist groups.
Given the vast amount of time that people spend at work, it should not be
surprising to learn that ostracism is very common in the workplace. Sandra
Robinson and Kira Schabram suggest in Chapter 15 that most of us have
experienced some form of ostracism at work, and that it is more common than
bullying or harassment. As we would expect on the basis of what we know about
ostracism more generally, workplace ostracism carries a lot of potential impact.
They go on to argue that workplace ostracism, which encompasses a wide range
of behaviors, is also distinct from other negative actions that occur frequently in
the workplace. Robinson and Schabram identify two different forms of workplace
ostracism, personal and task, each of which may have unique antecedents and
consequences (some negative, some positive). The authors also identify a number
of factors—some of which operate at the organizational level, and some of which
operate at the level of the individual employee—that affect how ostracism
operates in the workplace.
The enormous popularity of online communities such as Facebook and
Twitter suggests that the drive to be socially connected is the main reason that
people are using them. If social media can be used to satisfy our need to belong,
then being ignored or excluded over the Internet (or cyber-ostracism) should
produce adverse effects on its targets. That is the premise of Chapter 16 by Peter
Vorderer and Frank Schneider. They point out that although there is a great deal
of research on the motives for and the effects of using social media, very few of
these studies have addressed the matter of cyber-ostracism. Their chapter aims to
connect the research on social media with the ostracism literature. One particularly
valuable part of this chapter is a discussion of several alternatives to Cyberball for
studying ostracism in an online environment, all of which would seem to have
the potential to enhance the ecological validity of ostracism research.
In a fascinating presentation of how traditional anthropological perspectives
and findings can be meaningfully integrated with the social psychological
literature on ostracism, anthropologists Patrik Söderberg and Douglas Fry
examine in Chapter 17 cross-cultural variations and similarities in the use of
ostracism across different types of societies that have been the focus of ethnographic
research. They consider three fundamental questions: What is the function of
ostracism? What are the mechanisms used to exclude people? How do people
react to ostracism? Like most anthropologists, the authors begin with the premise
that actual or threatened ostracism serves as a means of social control, and that
these as well as other mechanisms of social control prescribe correct behavior and
discourage deviant actions. They demonstrate that the use of exclusionary
mechanisms is common and argue that—consistent with the standard social
psychological perspective on the matter—that being able to detect threats of
ostracism as soon as possible would have been of great adaptive value in the
human’s evolutionary past.
Conclusions and Future Directions

In Chapter 18, Eric Wesselmann joins us in taking stock of what we have learned
and directing attention to what needs to be learned.
In two decades, experimental research on ostracism, exclusion, and rejection
has accelerated at a surprising pace, going through predictable stages of maturation.
Early research was done to document the emotional and psychological distress
evoked by a variety of methods used to create a temporary state of exclusion. In
fact, this area of research has been marked with a variety of very innovative and
clever methods used to induce ostracism. Whereas each paradigm may sample a
slightly different aspect of ostracism, exclusion, and/or rejection, the results of
hundreds of studies indicate a remarkable degree of convergence. The next stages
of research dealt with boundary conditions or moderating variables (both
individual differences as well as situational) that provided our understanding of
the impact of ostracism, exclusion, and rejection with a more nuanced appreciation
for how people respond to ostracism, both in the short term and after various
delays. Much of the current work on ostracism, exclusion, and rejection indicates
that these earlier stages of research are creating an impetus for the generation of
interesting and valuable applications to many different fields, including education,
the workplace, and relationships.
What was initially a surprising result (i.e., that individuals could care and feel
bad about not getting a virtual ball toss from strangers) is now considered obvious.
Where two decades ago there was no mention of ostracism, exclusion, or rejection
in our textbooks, we now see these topics featured prominently in almost every
social psychology and introductory psychology textbook.
We are excited about the contributions to this Handbook and hope you share
with us in amazement the astonishing progress social scientists have made over
the last two decades. We look forward to the future contributions that will
emanate from the work these researchers and theorists present.
References
Baumeister, R. F., & Leary, M. R. (1995). The need to belong: Desire for interpersonal
attachments as a fundamental human motivation. Psychological Bulletin, 117, 497–529.
Gruter, M., & Masters, R. D. (1986). Ostracism as a social and biological phenomenon:
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Williams, K. D. (2001). Ostracism: The power of silence. New York: Guilford Press.
2
OSTRACISM
Being Ignored and Excluded
Dongning Ren, Andrew H. Hales, and Kipling D. Williams
If no one turned round when we entered, answered when we spoke, or

minded what we did, but if every person we met “cut us dead,” and acted as
if we were non-existing things, a kind of rage and impotent despair would ere
long well up in us, from which the cruelest bodily tortures would be a relief;
for these would make us feel that, however bad might be our plight, we had
not sunk to such a depth as to be unworthy of attention at all.
(James, 1890/1950; pp. 293–294)
For the psychologist William James, this thought experiment was an intellectual
exercise, helping to explain the concept of “social self”—how we come to know
who we are by observing others’ reactions to us. For James Pelosi it was a painful
reality (Potter & Hardy, 1975). While attending West Point James Pelosi
displeased other students when he allegedly violated the honor code by continuing
to write on his exam after time had been called. For the duration of his remaining
two-and-a-half years other students “cut him dead.” His roommate moved out,
the other cadets refused to look at him or talk to him. When he sat in the cafeteria
at a table occupied by other cadets, they would stand, take their trays, and relocate
to another table.
While extreme, Pelosi’s experience was far from unique. Ostracism is not a
modern invention. The term itself dates back to the ancient Greeks who would
decide the fate of potential exiles by casting votes on shards of broken pottery, or
ostraca. Western cultures have continued the practice of ostracism, with no
shortage of English terms to describe the phenomenon: to shun, to exile, to send to
Coventry, to freeze-out, to give the cold shoulder, or Meidung. Other languages also
have expressions for ostracizing: in Dutch doodzwijgen means to silence to death,
and in German, wie Luft behandeln is to look at as though air. The Japanese and
Ostracism: Being Ignored and Excluded 11
Chinese have symbols representing “to kill with silence” and “treat someone as
though they are transparent,” respectively.
Ostracism—being ignored and excluded—is a painful yet ubiquitous
experience (Nezlek, Wesselmann, Wheeler, & Williams, 2012; Williams, 2009;
Williams & Nida, 2011). This powerful non-behavior phenomenon received
some attention from psychologists as early as 1890, as evidenced in William
James’ explanation of the social self, but the explosion of empirical research on
ostracism and related topics (rejection, social exclusion) started about two decades
ago. Our goal in this chapter is to review and organize contemporary research on
ostracism. We begin by defining ostracism and introducing the available tools
and paradigms used to study it. We then put forth the temporal need–threat
model of ostracism (Williams, 2009), discussing the three stages and the evidence
for and against in each stage. In our introductory section, we review the existing
literature regarding how ostracism is detected and experienced, highlighting the
quick and crude response to ostracism even in its subtlest forms—the reflexive
stage. After the detection of ostracism, a second, reflective stage follows,
generating a variety of consequences that include behavioral, motivational,
cognitive, and physiological changes. Finally, we review the current evidence
that speaks to the third stage of resignation: what happens when ostracism persists
for a long period of time.
What is Ostracism?
Contemporary social psychological research on ostracism has proceeded by
defining ostracism as being ignored or excluded. A notable feature of this
definition is its breadth. The word “ostracism” itself often conjures images of
decades long intra-family silences, or The Scarlett Letter’s Hester Prynne. Of
course these are important and fascinating instances of ostracism. However, the
phenomenon itself is much more common and pervasive than these extreme
cases suggest. Nearly 70 percent of Americans report having used the silent
treatment on a romantic partner (a form of dyadic ostracism; Faulkner,
Williams, Sherman, & Williams, 1997), and when people are trained to make
daily recordings of times they encounter ostracism, the typical person reports
about one experience per day (Nezlek, Wesselmann, Wheeler, & Williams,
2012). In many cases the ostracism manifests itself in relatively subtle forms,
such as denying eye contact, or giving delayed responses to a target’s statements.
As we will see, even these subtle forms of ostracism can have measurable
negative consequences.
Not only is ostracism ubiquitous in the sense that individuals encounter it
frequently, but it is also ubiquitous in the sense that it spans virtually all cultures
(Gruter & Masters, 1986) and appears across the animal kingdom (e.g., Goodall,
1986; Lancaster, 1986), having been documented in lions, wolves, non-human
primates, buffalo, coyotes, dogs, and even bees. Within humans, virtually every
12 Dongning Ren, et al.
modern society practices state-operated institutional ostracism in the form of

incarceration (Zippelius, 1986), and governments commonly banish unwanted
offenders. Ostracism has been documented in close families as well as in the
workplace (Robinson, O’Reilly, & Wang, 2013), and anyone who has watched
youngsters play can testify to its use by children. Languages across the globe have
a variety of expressions testifying to not only the widespread acknowledgement
of ostracism, but also its power. These expressions range from the Japanese
mokusatsu, (or “to kill with silence”) to the Dutch doodzwijgen (or “silence to
death”). The appearance of death-related themes in these expressions may not be
an accident; it has been argued that ostracism is a metaphor for death (Case &
Williams, 2004), and it has been found that experiencing ostracism primes death-
related words (Steele, Kidd, & Castano, 2015). Ostracism appears at the broadest
level of societal organization, as evidenced by its use by cultural institutions such
as religions (e.g., excommunication), educational settings (e.g., time-outs), and
prisons (e.g., solitary confinement). The frequency with which the silent treatment
is used by couples indicates that ostracism also is commonly used at the most
specific level of social organization. Given the ubiquity of ostracism, our
theorizing on the subject takes seriously the possibility that it is highly adaptive,
and perhaps even necessary, for group living.
Ostracism may be ubiquitous, but it is not administered randomly. In the
animal kingdom individuals that are weak or burdensome make a group
vulnerable to predators, and thus they are the most likely targets of ostracism.
Groups become stronger by ostracizing weak members. In humans, those who
are disagreeable are viewed as less trustworthy, and subsequently targeted for
ostracism, especially from other people who are highly concerned with fairness
as a foundation for morality (Hales, Kassner, Williams, & Graziano, 2016).
Hales, Ren, and Williams (2016) recently summarized the use of ostracism as
fulfilling three functions: to protect, to correct, and to eject. Ostracism can be
used as a screening mechanism to protect groups from contact with unsafe or
uncooperative individuals. It can also be used as a signaling mechanism to
existing members that they must correct their behavior when they go astray.
Finally, it can be used as a removal mechanism to eject members who are not
amenable to correction. Because exclusion from a group is a serious threat to
survival, it follows that people will be extremely sensitive to cues that they are
being ostracized.
How is Ostracism Studied?

Social psychologists have applied a full arsenal of methods to the challenge of
understanding ostracism, using both correlational and experimental approaches.
Survey research has been used to identify the prevalence and predictors of
ostracism (Carter-Sowell, 2010; Gilman, Carter-Sowell, DeWall, Adams, &
Carboni, 2013; Sommer, Williams, Ciarocco, & Baumeister, 2001). Survey
research has been complemented by in-depth interviews offering rich insights

into often extreme cases of ostracism (Zadro, 2004), as well as event-contingent
diary studies (Nezlek, Wesselmann, Wheeler, & Williams, 2012), which can
reduce recall biases inherent in normal surveys.
As in any area of study, correlational methods of studying ostracism are useful
in describing and predicting ostracism and its effects, but they fail to allow the
causal inferences necessary to explain behavior. A face-to-face ball-tossing
paradigm was developed to experimentally manipulate ostracism experience
(Williams & Sommer, 1997). In such a paradigm, participants sit in a waiting
room with two confederates, and are instructed not to speak. Placed in the room
is a box of toys, apparently for a different experiment with children. While the
participants are waiting, a confederated finds a ball, which he or she begins
playfully (and quietly) throwing to the other confederate and the participant.
After a few throws to the participant, the confederates begin to ostracize the
participant by throwing the ball only to each other. Despite the fact that these
confederates were strangers whom the participant would likely never see again,
the brief ostracism experience made a strong impact.
Later research revealed that ostracism is detected so efficiently that in-person
confederates are actually not necessary for an ostracism event to be distressing
(Williams, Cheung, & Choi, 2000; see also Williams & Jarvis, 2006). The same
reactions can be evoked using an online version of the ball-tossing paradigm
called Cyberball. Since its inception, Cyberball has inspired numerous research
questions and more than 175 experiments. In Cyberball, participants are provided
with the cover story that the researchers are interested in studying mental
visualization (we have found that, conveniently, this cover story is both believable
and flexible; most participants do not question that a researcher would be
interested in studying “the effects of mental visualization on [insert variable here]”).
They are instructed that the purpose of the game is only to practice their mental
visualization skills (so that any negative effects are not due to how the game
unfolds). During the game participants’ experience mirrors that described in the
in-person ball-tossing game; without warning or explanation the confederates
begin to ostracize the participant by not throwing him or her the ball. Despite
not being able to see the other players, despite not knowing who or where the
other players are, and despite never expecting to meet the other players, targets
of ostracism in Cyberball reliably experience sizable threats to belonging, self-
esteem, control, and meaningful existence. A recent meta-analysis of 120
Cyberball studies with nearly 12,000 participants revealed a large effect size for
ostracism (on average d = 1.40; Hartgerink, van Beest, Wicherts, & Williams,
2015). This effect is reliably obtained with various modified versions of the game
and diverse samples.
A number of other paradigms have been developed to study ostracism as well,
and each paradigm has its unique feature. These include both acute role playing
exercises (such as the “O-Train,” where two participants are instructed to ignore
the third in the context of a scenario where the target deserves their treatment;
Zadro, Williams, & Richardson 2005), and extended role playing exercises (such
as the Scarlet Letter study, in which five psychologists were each ostracized by
the others for a day; Williams, Bernieri, Faulkner, Grahe, & Geda-Jain; 2000).
While these paradigms also offer valuable insights and indicate that ostracism is
indeed painful, they are limited in that participants are aware of the artificial
nature of the ostracism episode. In contrast, Cyberball creates a more spontaneous
and authentic ostracism experience.
A few other paradigms have been developed to promote the goal of understanding
social exclusion, broadly construed. Because ostracism is a form of social exclusion,
these paradigms contributed greatly to the understanding of ostracism. These
include the life-alone paradigm (Twenge, Baumeister, Tice, & Stucke, 2001), in
which participants are given false test feedback that they will live a life devoid of
social contacts, and also the get-acquainted paradigm, in which participants are told
that based on a brief getting-acquainted task, other group members do not wish to
work with them (Wesselmann, Butler, Williams, & Pickett, 2010). These
procedures capture the essence of social exclusion, with the former focusing on the
anticipated lack of social connections in future life, while the latter creating an
actual social rejection experience.
The various experimental approaches to manipulating social exclusion (e.g.
life-alone, get-acquainted, Cyberball) are often treated as if they are
interchangeable; results obtained from using one paradigm are often invoked to
suggest hypotheses to be tested with a different paradigm. The different paradigms
all reflect social exclusion, but they capture different facets of the exclusion
experience, and researchers who treat them as interchangeable risk confusion and
needless theoretical debate. Consider, for example, disagreements concerning
whether social exclusion causes pain or threatens self-esteem (Baumeister,
DeWall, & Vohs, 2009; Blackhart et al., 2009; Gerber & Wheeler, 2009).
Although Cyberball exclusion reliably results in emotional distress and decreased
self-esteem, life-alone exclusion produces null results on these measures. This
inconsistency is likely due to the fact that mild social injury, inflicted by not
receiving a ball during an online game, causes increased social pain, whereas
highly severe social injury, inflicted by the devastating prospect of life-long
loneliness, causes pain numbing (Bernstein & Claypool, 2012). Another possible
reason for the inconsistency is that the future-alone exclusion elicits higher self-
presentation concerns than Cyberball exclusion. As such, participants feel
reluctant to admit their feelings are hurt by life-alone exclusion, producing null
results on explicit self-esteem measures (Bernstein et al., 2013). In brief, whereas
it is clear that experimental paradigms tap into different components of the
rejection experience, current theory has yet to articulate the exact differences
between ostracism and other types of rejection specifically enough to predict
different outcomes between ostracism and other forms of rejection. This is an
area that is ripe for theoretical development.
The Reflexive Stage: How is Ostracism Detected and Experienced?

Humans are exceptionally social primates who depend on each other in order to
maintain access to food, safety, and mating opportunities. For ancestral humans,
ostracism would not just mean social death, but also very likely actual physical
death. It would be extremely adaptive, then, for humans to be adept at detecting
and responding to signs of ostracism (Wesselmann, Nairne, & Williams, 2012).
A nice feature of the Cyberball paradigm is that it allows researchers to examine
responses to the ostracism experience as it plays out in real time. Thus, the
prediction that humans are uniquely sensitive to ostracism can be tested. Indeed,
when people are asked to continuously report their affective state on a dial during
a game of ostracism, the difference between ostracized and included participants
emerges very shortly after the manipulation takes effect (Wesselmann, Wirth,
Mrozek, & Williams, 2012). Other research shows that feelings of ostracism can
be very easily triggered. Cues as subtle as withheld eye contact (Wirth, Sacco,
Hugenberg, & Williams, 2010; Wesselmann et al., 2012) or longer than usual
conversational pauses (Koudenburg, Postmes, & Gordijn, 2013) are sufficient to
make people feel rejected.
In terms of evolutionary adaptiveness, detecting ostracism is necessary, but not
sufficient to ensure survival. Individuals also need to respond in ways that maintain
or reestablish the basic needs that are threatened by ostracism. The temporal
need–threat model of ostracism outlines how these responses unfold over time, in
three stages (Williams, 2009). Once detected, in the reflexive stage, ostracism
immediately triggers threats to basic human needs (belonging, control, self-
esteem, and meaningful existence) as well as feelings of negative affect and pain.
This initial reaction to ostracism is much like what happens when someone
accidentally places his/her hand on a burner on a stove. Just as everyone withdraws
his or her hand immediately from the hot burner, ostracism triggers responses that
are: (1) powerful; and (2) largely resistant to personality variations or contextual
factors. As predicted, research shows that this is the case.
Responses to Ostracism are Powerful

The strength of the typical response to ostracism is evident in: (1) the effect sizes
produced in studies of ostracism; and (2) neuroimaging research. Despite its
minimal nature, Cyberball consistently produces extremely large effects on basic
needs satisfaction, with ostracized participants regularly reporting levels two
standard deviations lower than included participants (Williams, 2009). Similarly,
another minimal ostracism manipulation—not receiving direct eye gaze—has
been shown to produce a large effect on participants’ implicit self-esteem,
measured by an ostensibly unrelated word association task (Wirth et al., 2010).
These consistently observed sizable effects suggest an especially strong immediate
impact of ostracism.
Additionally, functional magnetic resonance imaging research shows that the

pain of ostracism is not just figurative, but literal as well. Ostracism activates the
dorsal anterior cingulate cortex and the right ventrolateral prefrontal cortex, brain
regions that are known to be associated with pain processing and pain regulation
(Eisenberger, Lieberman, & Williams, 2003). People do not merely notice that
they are being ostracized. Instead, it is an immersive, painful, and immediate
feeling. It is exactly the type of feeling that one would be motivated to resolve.
Responses to Ostracism are Indiscriminate

Feelings of ostracism are not just powerful. They are also somewhat indiscriminate—
again, for adaptive reasons. Because inclusion is crucial for survival, the cost of
erring by missing signals that one is being ostracized is much greater than the cost
of erring by falsely becoming alarmed when one is in fact not being ostracized. A
miss means that one could become permanently isolated from the group, whereas
a false alarm means that one expends extra energy monitoring their social behavior.
Clearly the costs of a miss are greater than the costs of a false alarm. The product
of this evolutionary cost–benefit scheme is an ostracism detection system that
often times appears irrationally sensitive.
In an attempt to establish baseline conditions under which ostracism would be
experienced as aversive, Zadro, Williams, and Richardson (2004) successfully
convinced participants that they were playing Cyberball with computers rather
than humans. One would expect, rationally, that no negative feelings should be
aroused from being excluded by a computer. Clearly the computer is not a
meaningful source of inclusion or warmth. Moreover, it knows nothing about
the target individual, so any attributions for the exclusion would necessarily be
external, and therefore less threatening. Despite this, participants did in fact
experience threats to basic needs, even when the source of the ostracism was a
computer. In fact, ostracism produced greater anger when the source was a
computer, apparently because computers are viewed as devices that exist to serve
humans, whereas humans are known to cause disappointment (Zadro et al.,
2004). Similar results were obtained when participants were led to believe that
the sources of ostracism were not choosing to ostracize the participants, but were
instead following a script given to them by the experimenter. Again, one would
expect little or no negative response to ostracism when it is merely the result of
another participant’s obedience. Nevertheless, participants in this condition
reported significant need–threat and negative affect.
Initial attempts to vary characteristics of the source of ostracism found no
evidence that reflexive reactions could be moderated. However, the research just
described had led participants to believe that the source was non-human. Instead,
what if the source were human, but despised? One of the most robust findings of
modern social psychology is a preference for ingroups over outgroups (Tajfel &
Turner, 1986). One would expect people not to mind being excluded by an
outgroup, much less a despised outgroup. In fact, one might even expect it to be
an affectively positive event, perhaps evoking feelings of group pride. To test these
ideas, Gonsalkorale and Williams (2007) convinced participants that they were
playing Cyberball with members of the Australian Ku Klux Klan. Again, sensitivity
to ostracism overwhelmed any tendency to discount the outgroup status of the
ostracizers, and participants still experienced threats to basic needs satisfaction.
The research that has been presented here strongly suggests that the source of the
ostracism is unimportant to how it is experienced. Perhaps there are other contextual
features of an ostracism event that could reduce, eliminate, or even reverse the pain
of ostracism. To test this, van Beest and Williams (2006) arranged to have participants
play versions of Cyberball in which ostracism and inclusion led to different
monetary outcomes. Ostracism was still found to threaten basic needs satisfaction
and mood, even when being included would have cost the participant money. In a
test of another potentially moderating variable, van Beest, Williams, and van Dijk
(2011) had participants play Cyberbomb, a version of Cyberball in which the players
passed around a bomb with a fuse, believing that it could detonate at any moment,
leading to symbolic death. Strikingly, even in this game that is analogous to Russian
Roulette, participants are still more distressed when they are ostracized than when
they are included (van Beest et al., 2011).
Existing research also suggests that people are so sensitive to the pain of
ostracism that they can experience second-hand, or vicarious ostracism (for a
review see Wesselmann, Williams, & Hales, 2013). For example, when participants
observed a game of Cyberball being played by three other players, participants
who observed a game in which one of the players was ostracized reported lower
needs satisfaction than those who observed a game in which all three players were
included (Wesselmann, Bagg, & Williams, 2009). The effect of ostracism was
stronger when participants were instructed to take the perspective of the person
who was being ostracized, but even in the absence of such conditions, participants
reported threatened needs satisfaction merely from witnessing an instance of
ostracism. Similarly, in children, viewing a ten-minute scene of a children’s
movie depicting a group ostracizing a young child threatened basic needs
satisfaction (Coyne, Nelson, Robinson, & Gundersen, 2011).
The Reflective Stage: Consequences of Ostracism

After the immediate reflexive stage, a second reflective stage follows. It is here
that a variety of consequences of ostracism manifest themselves, including
behavioral, motivational, cognitive, and physiological changes.
Behavioral Effects
The initial pain of ostracism motivates people to seek reinclusion. It is well
documented that participants behave in ways that promote reaffiliation after
ostracism. For example, they work harder for the group (Williams & Sommer,
1997), mimic interaction partners unconsciously (Lakin, Chartrand, & Arkin,
2008), and attempt to develop new social bonds (Maner, DeWall, Baumeister, &
Schaller, 2007).
The strong desire to seek reinclusion renders ostracized individuals susceptible
to the forces of social influence. There are empirical studies showing effects of
ostracism in all three domains of social influence, namely, social conformity,
compliance, and obedience (the “social influence trifecta”; Riva, Williams,
Torstrick, & Montali, 2014). To investigate how ostracism affects social
conformity, Williams, Cheung, and Choi (2000) had participants included or
ostracized in Cyberball, and then engaging in a modified online version of Asch’s
conformity task (1956). They discovered that ostracized individuals were more
likely to conform to the unanimous incorrect judgments of the rest of the group
than included counterparts.
Carter-Sowell, Chen and Williams (2008) provided evidence that ostracism
increases compliance, even when complying involves a cost. In their study,
participants were either included or ostracized in a Cyberball game, then were led
to a waiting room where they were approached by a confederate who requested
donations using a foot-in-the-door or a door-in-the-face compliance tactic.
Results revealed that previously ostracized participants were willing to donate
more money compared to included participants, and this pattern of results
generalized across various compliance tactics.
Research has also provided evidence that ostracism increases obedience to a
direct command from an authority figure. Riva and his colleagues (2014) had
participants included or ostracized in Cyberball. The experimenter then
commanded the participants to go outside in 20-degree temperatures to take
creative photos. Ostracized individuals were more creative when taking photos
than included participants, suggesting greater obedience. In brief, people strive to
fit in after ostracism, making them a vulnerable target of social influence.
Paradoxically, people may get angry and lash out after they have been
ostracized. Abundant research provides evidence that ostracized individuals
become aggressive towards the source of ostracism and even innocent others—
e.g., giving more negative job evaluations (Twenge, Baumeister, Tice, & Stucke,
2001), choosing unappealing snacks for their interaction partners (Chow, Tiedens,
& Govan, 2008), blasting louder white noises (Gaertner, Iuzzini, & O’Mara,
2008) and allocating more hot sauce to someone who dislikes spicy food
(Warburton, Williams, & Cairns, 2006; Wesselmann, Butler, Williams, & Pickett,
2010). Ostracized individuals are also more likely to be dishonest (Poon, Chen,
& DeWall, 2013).
In addition to the two primary behavioral responses of trying to fit in and
lashing out, recent work has suggested that there is another likely behavioral
response to ostracism: to withdraw, seek solitude, and “lick one’s wounds.”
(Ren, Wesselmann, Williams, 2016; Wesselmann, Williams, Ren, & Hales,
2014). Ren and her colleagues had participants who were either included or
ostracized in Cyberball. They then asked participants about their preferences for
a subsequent task and found that working alone was strongly preferred to working
with others (either the same or different others) and that this preference for
working alone was greater after having been ostracized.
Although all three behavioral tendencies received empirical support, it is
unclear when people choose to behave prosocially to regain inclusion, antisocially
to hurt others, or withdraw from others to be alone. It is possible that these
behavioral intentions co-exist (Sommer & Bernieri, 2015), and which actions
people take may depend on what needs they try to fortify. Williams (2009)
pointed out that one adopts prosocial behaviors to fortify inclusionary needs
(belonging and self-esteem), whereas one is more likely to behave antisocially in
an effort to fortify power and provocation needs (control and meaningful
existence). Further research should determine both personal and situational
factors that determine the behavioral response of ostracized individuals.
Motivational, Cognitive, and Physiological Effects

Besides the apparent behavioral responses, ostracism induces less obvious changes
in motivation, cognition and physiology. Existing work documented that
ostracized individuals self-regulate less. For example, individuals who anticipated
a future alone were more likely to show reduced impulsive control, as indicated
by less effort in resisting unhealthy food options and giving up sooner on difficult
tasks (Baumeister, DeWall, Ciarocco, & Twenge, 2005). Excluded participants
were also more likely to choose risky lotteries, to select fewer health-enhancing
options, and to procrastinate longer before a test (Twenge, Catanese, &
Baumeister, 2003). Other researchers have found that ostracism impairs self-
regulation especially among socially anxious individuals (Oaten, Williams, Jones,
& Zadro, 2008).
Ostracism interferes with complex problem solving. Experimental studies
have demonstrated that ostracized participants perform poorly on taxing cognitive
tasks (Baumeister, Twenge, & Nuss, 2002), overestimate time intervals, and react
more slowly (Twenge, Catanese & Baumeister, 2003). On the other hand,
ostracism sharpens focus and the ability to pick up on subtle social cues. Ostracized
individuals are more attentive to social information and become better able to
distinguish between real smiles and fake smiles (Bernstein, Sacco, Brown, Young,
& Claypool, 2010; Bernstein, Young, Brown, Sacco, & Claypool, 2008; DeWall,
Maner, & Rouby, 2009; Gardner, Pickett, & Brewer, 2000).
Ostracism hurts, metaphorically and literally. Social pain (a consequence of
ostracism) is believed to share the same underlying neurological system as physical
pain (Eisenberger, Lieberman, & Williams, 2003; Eisenberger & Lieberman,
2005; MacDonald & Leary, 2005; Riva, Wirth, & Williams, 2011). Accompanying
this painful experience, rejected participants have been found to have greater
salivary cortisol than accepted or control participants (Blackhart, Eckel, & Tice,
2007). Thinking of past social exclusion experiences leads to perceiving room
temperature as lower (Zhong & Leonardelli, 2008), and actually experiencing it
leads to lower finger temperatures (IJzerman et al., 2012). Receiving negative
social feedback even causes a transient slowing of heart rate (Moor, Crone, & van
der Molen, 2010).
What Can we Do About it?

Ostracism unleashes various negative consequences but the damages caused by
ostracism may not be obvious to everyone. Simply being educated on the powerful
and hurtful consequences caused by ostracism may reduce the frequency of using
it, especially to loved ones. Although we still know little about how to effectively
reduce using ostracism from a source’s perspective, there is empirical evidence on
how to lessen the immediate pain and aid coping from a target’s perspective.
Lessen the initial pain

We reviewed research earlier in this chapter demonstrating that reactions to
ostracism are powerful and indiscriminate. However, it is not the case that the
immediate responses to ostracism are never moderated by individual differences
or contextual factors, only that ostracism is highly resistant to such moderation. It
has been found that Schizotypal Personality Disorder buffers the immediate
impact of ostracism (Wirth, Lynam, & Williams, 2010). Moreover, one
particularly interesting class of contextual variables has been shown to moderate
the reflexive effects of ostracism: pharmacological interventions. According to
pain overlap theory, the social pain detection system that activates in response to
ostracism evolved in humans after and in concert with an existing physical pain
detection system (Eisenberger & Leiberman, 2005; MacDonald & Leary, 2005).
A social pain detection system “piggybacked” on top of the physical pain
detection system explains why social pain and physical pain appear to have a
highly similar neurological signature (Eisenberger et al., 2003; Kross et al., 2011).
It follows from pain overlap theory that interventions that reduce the intensity
of physical pain should also reduce the intensity of social pain. Following this
reasoning, participants who took Acetaminophen (a physical pain suppressant)
daily for three weeks reported less hurt feelings than those who took a placebo
(DeWall et al., 2010). Self-reported marijuana use was found to reduce the
negative consequences of feeling lonely and being ostracized (Deckman, DeWall,
Way, Gilman, & Richman, 2013). Similarly, a recent field study conducted in a
bar showed that subjective intoxication weakened the relationship between
ostracism and threatened needs satisfaction (Hales, Williams, & Eckhardt, 2015).
One apparent implication of these findings is that such interventions may have
practical value in managing the pain of ostracism. However, using these painkillers
to counter the discomfort of ostracism would not seem to be wise in the long
run. Setting aside the well known side effects of chemical interventions, a major
issue with this approach is that painkilling drugs operate by disabling the ostracism
pain detection system. This system is adaptive and serves the crucial function of
alerting individuals to when their behavior is in need of regulation. Without this
signal individuals are at risk of failing to correct their behavior and behaving in
ways that elicit further ostracism. In essence, chemically numbing the reflexive
pain of ostracism is like fixing a car’s transmission by covering up the “check
engine” light.
Improve coping
Although ostracism is inevitable and it is neither easy nor adaptive to dull the
pain, there are ways to speed recovery from ostracism, as suggested by the research
on ostracism coping. Ostracized individuals should avoid ruminating about the
ostracism experiences. Experimental work has shown that rumination hinders
recovery from ostracism, as indicated by the lower needs satisfaction from
participants who were allowed to ruminate after being ostracized compared to
those who were given a distraction task (Wesselmann, Ren, Swim, & Williams,
2013). A brief focused-attention training (12 minutes) also facilitates recovery
(Molet, Macquet, Lefebvre, & Williams, 2013). Participants were instructed to
focus on their breath or let their mind wander before playing Cyberball.
Afterwards, they reported needs satisfaction immediately after Cyberball and after
a short delay. Although ostracism hurts everyone, participants who received the
focused-attention instruction indicated higher needs satisfaction than their
counterparts. Similarly, religion appears to buffer the negative consequences of
ostracism (Wesselmann & Williams, 2010; Aydin, Fischer, & Frey, 2010; Hales,
Wesselmann, & Williams, 2016). Participants’ personal religion was made salient
(vs. control) after receiving instructions to imagine they were included or
excluded at work. Imagined exclusion led to more aggressive intentions, but a
religion prime mitigated this effect (Aydin et al., 2010). Finally, threatened need
to belong can also be replenished through reminders of belonging, when actual
social interaction is unavailable. Research has shown that the company of a dog
(Aydin et al., 2012; McConnell, Brown, Shoda, Stayton, & Martin, 2011),
thinking of one’s favored television programs (Derrick, Gabriel, & Hugenberg,
2009) or comfort food (Troisi, & Gabriel, 2011) may counter the negative
consequences of ostracism or feelings of loneliness.
The Resignation Stage

If ostracism persists for a long period of time, individuals enter a third stage of
resignation, characterized by the feelings of alienation, depression, helplessness
and worthlessness (Williams, 2009). Williams’ interviews with people who
experience chronic ostracism provide initial evidence for this proposition. These
individuals reported suicide ideation, extreme distress, and feeling like “a ghost.”
In addition to the qualitative evidence, recent work has made the first attempt at
providing empirical evidence directly testing the resignation stage of Williams’
model (Riva et al., 2016). Participant groups included those with chronic social
pain (including ostracism) and those with chronic physical pain. Results from
self-report measures revealed that, consistent with Williams’ model, the social
pain group experienced more adverse impact than the physical pain group.
Three measurements of chronic experiences are currently available for various
contexts. The Ostracism Experiences Scale (Carter-Sowell, 2010) included eight
items rated on a 7-point scale (1 = hardly ever, 7 = almost always) regarding how
often each scenario happens (e.g., “In general, others do not look at me when I’m
in their presence.”). All items are averaged together to provide a single index of
ostracism experience such that higher numbers reflect more ostracism experiences.
The Bullying and Ostracism Screening Scale detects bullying and ostracism in
pediatric populations (Saylor et al., 2012). Alternative versions of this scale can be
used not only by children and adolescents who might be the targets of ostracism
and bullying, but also with teachers or parents to provide a general measure of the
extent to which ostracism and bullying are prevalent in a particular school or
other setting (more details see Nida and Saylor, this volume). The Workplace
Ostracism Scale was developed to measure ostracism in the workplace (Ferris,
Brown, Berry, & Lian, 2008). Research using these scales have demonstrated the
unique negative consequences of ostracism compared to other forms of negative
social interactions such as bullying and harassment. Compared to bullying,
ostracism is just as or more aversive in the short-run, but has longer negative
consequences for workers who have experienced ostracism in the workplace
(O’Reilly, Robinson, Berdahl, & Banki, 2014) and for adolescents who have
experienced ostracism in elementary school (Saylor et al., 2012). Long-term
sufferers of ostracism/silent treatment actually claim that they would prefer to
have been beaten (Williams & Zadro, 2001)!
Conclusions
Ostracism—being ignored and excluded—elicits a powerful and indiscriminate
reaction in the initial stage. The ostracized individuals experience social pain
and threats to their fundamental needs of belonging, meaningful existence, self-
esteem, and control. During the second, reflective stage, people seek to fortify
their threatened needs in an effort to recover. To achieve this goal, they may
try to fit in, lash out, or seek solitude. If ostracism persists for a long time,
people enter a third stage of resignation. It is here that people feel alienated,
depressed, helpless, and worthless. Taken together, the simple inaction of
ignoring and excluding others is powerful and consequential. However, what
seems to be equally powerful and consequential is a simple eye contact, a wave,
or smile. We learned this from a college student named Maria, and we would
like to close this chapter with the story she shared with our colleague and
co-editor, Steve Nida.
“One day in my freshman year, I met a sophomore who I had noticed as
‘different’ than most kids, and a loner. When I introduced myself I noticed he
was uncomfortable so I only tried talking to him in the lunch line and decided
not to invite him to sit with me, as I did not want to make him uncomfortable.
Every day after that, however, I would see him in the cafeteria and would always
smile, or wave, or give a ‘Hey! How are you?’
After that semester, however, I didn’t really see him much again until my
junior year, his senior year … When I saw him again, I decided to leave him a
note in his locker that said something like ‘Glad to see you back at school!’ That
night I had a message from him on MySpace when I got home from cheerleading
practice. I printed and will keep with me forever. It says:
Hi Maria, thank you for saving my life. I have never fit in and have felt like
I didn’t deserve to be here anymore. I have no friends and my family doesn’t
notice if I don’t come home. I thought I would be better off gone, so I took
as many sleeping pills as I could. Before I started to drift away I thought of
you waving to me and giving me a smile and I called 911. Thought you
should know why I was out of school. Thank you for your note.
… I cannot believe that a quick smile let me be the ‘power of one’ in his situation
and helped him get past his darkest days. A quick smile gave him hope that not
everyone wanted him gone, or didn’t care if he was at school. A quick smile
helped ease the pain he felt from being ostracized. I learned this lesson at 16 and
would never have felt comfortable sharing it. I feel like it is a necessity for me to
share it and empower others to be, if anything, a quick smile for others.”
This anecdote provides hope. One might think that for every person who is
ostracizing an individual, there needs to be another person who acknowledges,
includes, and accepts. This perception results in a feeling of hopelessness when
many or most of the people in their social network ostracizes individuals.
However, as Maria’s experience suggests, the “power of one” person offering
social support may be sufficient to offset the downward spiral caused by being
ostracised by many. We call for future research directed at successful interventions
for coping with ostracism.
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3
ALONE AND IMPULSIVE
Self-regulatory Capacity Mediates and
Moderates the Implications of Exclusion
Levi R. Baker and Roy F. Baumeister
Chapter Overview
Exclusion can be a painful and costly experience. For example, excluded
individuals tend to experience greater stress (e.g., Cohen & Wills, 1985; DeLongis,
Folkman, & Lazarus, 1988), are more likely to develop physical health problems
(e.g., DeLongis, Folkman, & Lazurus, 1988; Hawkley & Cacioppo, 2003), have
higher rates of mortality (e.g., Goodwin, Hunt, Key, & Samet, 1987; Lynch,
1979), are more likely to develop mental health problems (e.g., Bhatti, Derezotes,
Kim, & Specht, 1989; Bloom, White, & Asher, 1979; Saylor et al., 2012), and are
more likely to commit suicide (e.g., Wenz, 1977), compared to individuals who
are more accepted by others. Excluded individuals also tend to have greater
academic (e.g., Benner, 2011; Guay, Boivin, & Hodges, 1999), employment
(e.g., Lauder, Sharkey, & Mummery, 2004; Robinson, O’Reilly, & Wang,
2013), financial (e.g., Page & Cole, 1991), and legal (e.g., Leary et al., 2003;
Sampson & Laub, 1993) difficulties than do those who are more accepted.
Why do excluded individuals experience such negative outcomes? Self-
regulatory failures may be a key to understanding this association. More
specifically, achieving desirable outcomes in the aforementioned domains often
requires individuals to have the ability to avoid behaviors that are immediately
satisfying but prevent them from achieving their long-term goals. For example,
people should be more likely to obtain a desired grade in a class to the extent that
they can avoid temptations such as watching television or attending a party and
instead engage in productive behaviors such as regularly attending class and
studying. However, a developing line of research suggests that exclusion decreases
the motivation to self-regulate behavior. Because of that reduction in self-
regulation, excluded individuals should be more likely than accepted individuals
30 Levi R. Baker and Roy F. Baumeister
to engage in impulsive, problematic behaviors. Further, there is evidence that

such tendencies are most pronounced among those whose self-regulatory abilities
are already impaired.
The goal of this chapter is to clarify the role of self-regulation in determining
the implications of exclusion. In pursuit of this goal, the first section presents a
general model of self-regulation and describes how self-regulatory failures can
lead to impulsive behaviors that often lead to exclusion. The second section
describes theory and research suggesting that self-regulatory capacity mediates the
implications of exclusion. Specifically, exclusion impairs individuals’ ability to
regulate their behavior and thus causes them to engage in impulsive behaviors.
The third section describes theory and research suggesting that preexisting self-
regulatory capacity moderates the implications of exclusion, such that excluded
individuals are most likely to engage in impulsive behaviors when their self-
regulatory abilities have already been impaired. The final section describes
evidence that the specific implications of self-regulatory failures depend on other
factors associated with exclusion.
Self-regulatory Resource Model

Some of the most difficult choices people make are between behaviors that are
initially satisfying but prevent them from meeting their long-term goals, and
behaviors that are initially unsatisfying but allow them to meet their long-term
goals (e.g., Mischel, Shoda, & Rodriguez, 1989; Tobin & Graziano, 2010). For
example, people regularly have to choose between eating a delicious dessert and
maintaining their diet in order to lose weight, or between expressing displeasure
with a romantic partner and biting their tongue in order to maintain their
relationship, or between having another drink of alcohol and abstaining in order
to maintain their health, or even between playing an entertaining video game and
writing a chapter in order to further their career. To maximize their well-being,
people often have to resist these impulses by modifying their thoughts, feelings,
or behaviors in a goal-directed manner, a process known as self-regulation
(Baumeister, Heatherton, & Tice, 1993). Self-regulatory failures carry considerable
costs, as they contribute to many of life’s major problems, such as substance
abuse, gambling, eating disorders, obesity, crime, unwanted pregnancy and
sexually transmitted infections, debt and credit abuse, and underachievement.
Self-regulation serves one of humankind’s most basic needs—the need to belong
(Baumeister & Leary, 1995). As a result of hundreds of thousands of years of natural
selection, humans instinctually promote their own well-being. Further, this
instinctual tendency often prioritizes one’s own well-being over the well-being of
others. However, succumbing to these selfish impulses frequently makes people
poor romantic partners, family members, co-workers, roommates, and members of
society (e.g., Rusbult, Olsen, Davis, & Hannon, 2001). Securing and maintaining
social bonds is essential for our survival (Axelrod & Hamilton, 1981; Bowlby, 1969;
Alone and Impulsive 31
Buss, 1990; Moreland, 1987). Thus, although the person’s initial impulse may be to
prioritize his or her self-interests over others’, the person often benefits in the long
term by behaving in a prosocial manner, even if that requires short-term sacrifices.
Self-regulation, which helps people to resist these selfish impulses and instead
engage in socially appropriate behavior, is essential for long-term well-being.
Research is consistent with the idea that self-regulation is essential for securing
social acceptance. First, those who are better able to regulate their behavior are
more likely to engage in behaviors that facilitate, and avoid behaviors that harm,
social relationships (for review, see Fitzsimons & Finkel, 2011). For example,
those with greater self-control are more likely to forgive interpersonal
transgressions than are those with less self-control (Pronk, Karremans, Overbeek,
Vermulst, & Wigboldus, 2010). Similarly, individuals with stronger self-regulatory
capabilities are better at hiding their discomfort in social situations than are those
with weaker self-regulatory capabilities (von Hippel & Gonsalkorale, 2005).
Individuals whose self-regulatory capacities are taxed are also less generous and
trusting of others than are those whose self-regulatory capacities are not taxed
(Ainsworth, Baumeister, Ariely, & Vohs, 2014). Second, people with stronger
self-regulatory abilities are more likely to engage in behaviors that increase their
social status over time. For example, those with greater self-control tend to exert
more effort in the classroom (Dermitzaki & Kiosseoglou, 2004) and workplace
(Barkley & Fischer, 2011), avoid addictive drugs and alcohol (Sayette & Griffin,
2011), and avoid unnecessary spending (Faber & Vohs, 2011). Although each of
these behaviors may not yield immediate social benefits, over time they should
increase one’s relational value and thus lead to greater acceptance. Given that
self-regulation promotes prosocial behavior and increases social status, it should
not be surprising that those with stronger self-regulatory abilities tend to have
more satisfying relationships (Halford, Wilson, Lizzio, & Moore, 2002; Wilson,
Charker, Lizzio, Halford, & Kimlin, 2005), are perceived as being more socially
competent (Ford, 1982; Patrick, 1997), and are liked more by their peers (Gross
& John, 2003) than are those with weaker self-regulatory abilities.
Although most people have a goal of securing acceptance from others and thus
strive to behave in a socially appropriate manner, it is not uncommon for people to
act in a manner that is selfish, aggressive, rude, or violates other social norms. Why
are such self-regulatory failures so common? The limited resource model of self-
control (Baumeister, Vohs, & Tice, 2007) posits that self-regulation operates in a
manner similar to a muscle; just as muscles become tired and inefficient shortly after
being used, self-regulation becomes increasingly difficult immediately following
another act of self-regulation (Baumeister, Bratslavsky, Muraven, & Tice, 1998;
Baumeister, Gailliot, DeWall, & Oaten, 2006; Gailliot et al., 2007; Muraven,
Shmueli, & Burkley, 2006; Muraven, Tice, & Baumeister, 1998). For example, in
a series of studies, Baumeister and colleagues (1998) demonstrated that those who
engaged in tasks that required greater self-regulation, such as eating unpleasant
rather than pleasant food and suppressing rather than expressing emotions, exhibited
less self-control in future tasks, such as persisting with unsolvable puzzles and
watching a boring movie, than did those who did not first engage in such tasks.
Thus, although people may not want to behave in a socially unacceptable manner,
they should find it more difficult to resist such impulses if their self-regulatory
capabilities are depleted (DeBono, Shmueli, & Muraven, 2011). It is for this reason
that socially unacceptable behavior is more likely after a stressful day at work (e.g.,
Repetti, 1989), while dieting (e.g., Werner & Crick, 1999), while ill (e.g., Mangelli
et al., 2006), while trying to avoid spending money (e.g., Spears, 2011), or after
trying to impress others (e.g., Vohs, Baumeister, & Ciarocco, 2005).
Nevertheless, there is also evidence that repeated self-regulatory acts can
increase one’s self-regulatory abilities in the long run (for review, see Baumeister
et al., 2006). For example, Oaten and Cheng (2007) demonstrated that regular
self-regulation led to increases in self-regulatory abilities. Specifically, they
demonstrated that participants who were trained to regularly monitor their
finances and inhibit their spending impulses saved more money than did
participants who did not receive such training. Importantly though, the
participants who received financial self-regulatory training and thus regularly
inhibited their impulse to spend money, demonstrated greater increases in their
ability to regulate their behavior in an unrelated domain (i.e., paying attention to
a boring visual target despite a humorous distractor) than did the individuals who
were not regularly inhibiting such impulses.
Self-regulatory Capacity Mediates the Impact of Exclusion

As discussed in the beginning of this chapter, people who are frequently excluded
tend to have greater social, academic, occupational, financial, legal, and mental
and physical health difficulties than do those who are more accepted. Some of
these difficulties may be due to excluded individuals behaving in ways that create
problems in their lives. For example, after being excluded, people are more likely
to behave aggressively not only toward strangers (e.g., Twenge, Baumeister,
Tice, & Stucke, 2001), but also toward important people in their lives, such as
their peers, friends, and family (e.g., Leary, Kowalski, Smith, & Phillips, 2003;
Leary & Springer, 2000; Leary, Springer, Negel, Ansell, & Evans, 1998; Mabel,
1994; Newcomb, Bukowski, & Pattee, 1993). Similarly, being excluded decreases
the likelihood that someone will behave in a cooperative or helping manner (e.g.,
Twenge, Baumeister, DeWall, Ciarocco, 2007). Excluded individuals are also
more likely to engage in other self-defeating behaviors, such as making riskier
financial decisions, eating less healthy food, avoiding exercise, and avoiding
preparing for upcoming tests, than are those who are accepted (e.g., Twenge,
Catanesse, & Baumeister, 2002). Finally, a consistent body of research has also
demonstrated that individuals in close relationships, who are thus accepted to
some degree, tend to engage in less impulsive behaviors than do those who are
not in such close relationships. For example, those who are single are more likely
to commit crimes (Sampson & Laub, 1993), drive recklessly (Harrington &
McBride, 1970), and abuse alcohol and other substances (Williams, Takeuchi, &
Adair, 1992), than are those who are married. Such problematic behaviors likely
contribute to the numerous difficulties that excluded individuals face.
Why would excluded individuals add to the difficulties they already face as a
result of their exclusion (e.g., loneliness, lack of support) by behaving in ways that
create additional problems in their lives? There is reason to believe that excluded
individuals may engage in such problematic behaviors because exclusion decreases
their motivation to regulate their own behavior (for review, see Baumeister,
Brewer, Tice, & Twenge, 2007; Baumeister & DeWall, 2005). As previously
noted, self-regulation is often needed to prevent oneself from behaving in a
selfish manner and instead behave in a manner that brings acceptance from others.
Although there are costs to restricting such selfish impulses, the overall benefits
of being accepted by others outweigh such costs. Nevertheless, exclusion signals
to a person that he or she is no longer accepted by others and should no longer
expect to receive the benefits of acceptance. Given that the excluded person
should not expect to benefit from sacrificing for others, he or she should thus be
more motivated to behave in a selfish manner. Thus, although one function of
self-regulation may be to prevent exclusion, exclusion paradoxically may prevent
people from engaging in selfless behaviors that reduce the likelihood of future
exclusion. Of course, exclusion may promote selfless behavior if the exclusion
appears to be temporary and not permanent (see later section on Contextual
Moderators of Exclusion Effects).
Thus, the link between social acceptance and self-regulation can be thought
of as an implicit bargain. For modern society to function, people must regularly
prioritize their group’s well-being over their own individual well-being. For
example, a thriving society requires individuals to pay taxes, cooperate with and
help one another, obey laws, and not harm one another. Although people may
impulsively want to behave in a more selfish manner, people regularly control
these automatic selfish impulses in order to make themselves act in ways that yield
social acceptance. However, this is costly, given that self-regulation not only
consumes resources but also is often used to forego selfish benefits and pleasures
(e.g., Baker, McNulty, Overall, Lambert, & Fincham, 2013). But those acts of
self-control help one achieve social acceptance and belongingness, and the
benefits of belongingness outweigh the costs of exerting self-control. However,
this bargain can break down on either side. When people fail at self-control,
others exclude them, such as by romantic breakup, job termination, and even
imprisonment. Conversely, when people are excluded, they may cease to bother
exerting self-control in these ways.
Research findings support the idea that excluded people are less motivated to
regulate their behavior (Baumeister, DeWall, Ciarocco, & Twenge, 2005; DeWall,
Baumeister, & Vohs, 2008; Inzlicht, McKay, & Aronson, 2006; Oaten, Williams,
Jones, & Zadro, 2008). Baumeister and colleagues (2005), for example,
demonstrated with six studies that those who were excluded were less likely to
engage in, or persisted less while engaging in, behaviors that require self-regulation.
The various studies employed two manipulations of exclusion. In one, participants
received bogus feedback indicating that they would end up alone in life (vs.
feedback indicating that they would have many rewarding relationships). In the
other, they were excluded in a group task because no one chose them as a partner
(vs. everyone in the group chose them as a partner). Following exclusion (or
acceptance), participants were asked to engage in different behaviors that require
self-regulation, such as drinking a healthy but unpleasant beverage, avoiding
pleasant but unhealthy food, persisting with unsolvable puzzles, and paying
attention during a frustrating listening task. Across each of these studies, those who
were excluded performed worse on the tasks that required self-regulation than did
those who were accepted. Importantly, Study 5 provided evidence that participants
demonstrated self-regulatory failures because they were unmotivated, rather than
unable, to self-regulate. Specifically, when provided with an alternative source of
motivation (i.e., money), excluded participants were able to self-regulate just as
effectively as those participants who were accepted.
Such self-regulatory failures may explain why excluded individuals engage in
behaviors that cause problems in their lives. Specifically, similar to studies that
have examined the problematic behavior of excluded individuals, studies on self-
regulation have revealed that self-regulatory failures often lead people to engage in
interpersonally destructive behavior (Burnette et al., 2014; DeWall, Baumeister,
Stillman, & Gailliot, 2007; Eisenberg, Fabes, Guthrie, & Reiser, 2000; Finkel,
DeWall, Slotter, McNulty, Pond, & Atkins, 2012; Finkel, DeWall, Slotter, Oaten,
& Foshee, 2009). For example, impaired self-regulatory abilities are not only
associated with aggression in the laboratory among strangers, but also outside of
the laboratory among individuals in established relationships (Finkel, DeWall,
Slotter, McNulty, Pond, & Atkins, 2012; Finkel, DeWall, Slotter, Oaten, &
Foshee, 2009; for review, see Denson, DeWall, & Finkel, 2012; DeWall, Finkel,
& Denson, 2011). Further, impaired self-regulatory abilities are also associated
with avoiding prosocial behaviors that require resisting selfish impulses. For
example, after conducting a meta-analysis of 40 studies, Burnette and colleagues
(2014) revealed a small to moderate association between self-regulation and
forgiveness, a behavior that requires resisting the impulse to retaliate. Similarly,
Eisenberg and colleagues (2000) found that children with greater behavioral self-
control, as assessed by parents’ and teachers’ reports as well as children’s persistence
with a puzzle task, were rated as engaging in more socially appropriate behaviors
by both the children’s teachers and their peers than were children with poorer
self-control. Finally, Rusbult and colleagues’ (Rusbult, Olsen, Davis, & Hannon,
2001) interdependence model of relationship maintenance suggests that
maintaining close relationships requires the motivation to inhibit selfish impulses
and instead engage in relationship maintenance behaviors, such as sacrificing for a
partner, accommodating a partner’s unpleasant behavior, and forgiving a partner.
Self-regulatory failures often lead people to engage in intrapersonally

destructive behavior as well. First, an extensive line of research has implicated
self-regulatory failures in the avoidance of health-related behaviors. For example,
numerous studies (Herman & Mack, 1975; Hofmann, Rauch, & Gawronski,
2007; Polivy, 1976; for review, see Herman & Polivy, 2011) have demonstrated
that people are more likely to abandon their diet and eat high-calorie foods after
engaging in behaviors that taxed their self-regulatory capacities. Self-regulatory
strength is also associated with greater adherence to a physical exercise program
(Hall, 2012; Hall, Fong, Epp, & Elias, 2008). In a similar vein, self-regulatory
impairments are associated with relapse among those addicted to cigarettes,
alcohol, and other drugs (for review, see Hull & Slone, 2004; Sayette & Griffin,
2011). Second, self-regulatory failures have also been implicated in contributing
to poor financial decisions (for review, see Faber & Vohs, 2011). For example,
Vohs and Faber (2007) demonstrated that individuals whose self-regulatory
capacities were first taxed by having to avoid looking at a stimulus were more
willing to engage in impulsive buying and to spend more money on items than
were those whose self-regulatory capacities were not taxed. Finally, poor self-
regulation has been linked to criminal behavior (Gottfredson & Hirschi, 1990;
Longshore, 1998; McGuire & Broomfield, 1994; Wright, Caspi, Moffitt, & Silva,
2001). For example, Wright and colleagues (2001) demonstrated that poor self-
regulatory ability in childhood predicted criminal offences later in life.
In sum, given that exclusion decreases the motivation to regulate behavior,
and given that regulatory failures are associated with a host of problematic
behaviors, it is likely that self-regulatory failures mediate the association between
exclusion and problematic behavior and outcomes. Nevertheless, although many
of the studies that we previously reviewed have demonstrated that exclusion is
associated with problematic behaviors, we are aware of only one study that has
directly tested the possibility that self-regulatory failures mediate this association.
In particular, DeWall and colleagues (2012) demonstrated that poor self-control
mediated the association between exclusion and depressive symptoms. Specifically,
in two samples of adolescents, chronically excluded individuals reported poorer
self-control, which led to greater depressive symptoms, than did included
individuals. The authors interpreted these results to suggest that excluded
individuals were likely engaging in behaviors that contributed to their depressive
symptoms because of self-regulatory failures. Future research would benefit by
further testing whether self-regulatory capacity mediates the association between
exclusion and other problematic behaviors and outcomes.
Self-regulatory Capacity Moderates the Implications of Exclusion

Not only does self-regulation mediate the association between exclusion and
impulsive behavior, but it also moderates this association. More specifically,
research has demonstrated that the undesirable effects of exclusion are strongest
when self-regulatory abilities are already impaired. To illustrate this idea, let us
return to the muscle analogy. In the previous section we described how exclusion
taxes one’s self-regulatory abilities much like running taxes the muscles in one’s
legs. To extend this analogy, if one’s legs are rested and refreshed, they are more
likely to remain relatively strong while running, but if they are already taxed,
they are more likely to give out while running. Similarly, if one’s self-regulatory
abilities are untaxed prior to exclusion, they are more likely to resist impulsive
desires, but if they are already taxed prior to exclusion, they are more likely to
give in to such impulsive desires.
Retaliatory Responses
One line of research suggests that self-regulatory failures may cause excluded
individuals to behave in an antisocial manner by retaliating against the source of
the exclusion. In particular, both I3 theory (Finkel, 2007, 2008; Slotter et al.,
2012) and the General Aggression Model (Anderson & Bushman, 2002; DeWall
& Anderson, 2011; DeWall, Anderson, & Bushman, 2011) posit that people’s
response to provocation, such as being excluded or rejected, depends on their
self-regulatory capacities. Whereas people should be able to resist aggressive
impulses if their self-regulatory abilities are not taxed, they should be unable to
resist aggressive impulses if their self-regulatory abilities are taxed. Research is
also consistent with this idea (Ayduk, Mendoza-Denton, Mischel, Downey,
Peake, & Rodriguez, 2000; DeWall, Gilman, Sharif, Carboni, & Rice, 2012;
Finkel & Campbell, 2001; Finkel, DeWall, Slotter, McNulty, Pond, & Atkins,
2012; Finkel, DeWall, Slotter, Oaten, & Foshee, 2009; Warburton, Williams, &
Cairns, 2006). For example, Finkel and colleagues (2012) demonstrated that after
being rejected by their romantic partners, people were more likely to abuse those
partners if they either had weaker dispositional self-regulatory abilities (Study 3)
or if their self-regulatory abilities were inhibited through the experience of
chronic stress in their daily lives (Study 4), than if their self-regulatory abilities
were not inhibited. Similarly, Warburton and colleagues (2006) demonstrated
that although ostracized participants behaved more aggressively than did included
participants when they did not have control over an unrelated task, ostracized
participants did not behave more aggressively than did included participants
when they had control over the unrelated task.
Affiliative Responses
To be sure, another line of research suggests that self-regulatory failures may
cause some excluded individuals to behave in a prosocial manner by seeking out
greater affiliation with others. Specifically, Murray and colleagues’ risk-regulation
model (2006) suggests that self-regulatory failures may inhibit the tendency to
avoid intimacy and closeness among individuals with relational insecurities. In
particular, their model posits that although people normally are motivated to
affiliate with others, a regulatory system inhibits this goal when rejection appears
likely. This model also accounts for the tendency of those with relational
insecurities to avoid intimacy and closeness in their relationships with others
(Gaucher, Wood, Stinson, Forest, Holmes, & Logel, 2012; Murray, Derrick,
Leder, & Holmes, 2008; Murray, Leder, MacGregor, Holmes, Pinkus, & Harris,
2009; see also Baker & McNulty, 2013), given that individuals with relational
insecurities (e.g., those with low self-esteem) frequently expect to be rejected by
others (Bellavia & Murray, 2003; Leary, Tambor, Terdal, & Downs, 1995).
Nevertheless, they suggest that self-regulatory failures may inhibit this risk-
regulation system, thus causing those with relational insecurities to seek out
affiliation with others (Cavallo, Murray, & Holmes, 2013, 2014).
Some evidence supports the idea that self-regulatory failures impair the
tendency to avoid affiliation among those with relational insecurities when the
risk of rejection is salient (e.g., Murray, Derrick, Leder, & Holmes, 2008; Cavallo,
Holmes, Fitzsimons, Murray, & Wood, 2012). For example, Cavallo and
colleagues (2012) primed participants with the threat of rejection by having
participants read an article suggesting that people often overestimate the quality
of their relationship. Following this prime, participants were randomly assigned
to learn and remember either a long string of digits, which would tax their self-
regulatory resources, or a short string of digits, which would not tax their
self-regulatory resources. Last, participants reported how much intimacy they
desired from their romantic relationships. Among those whose self-regulatory
resources were not taxed, low self-esteem individuals desired less intimacy than
did those with high self-esteem. However, among those whose self-regulatory
resources were taxed, low self-esteem individuals desired as much intimacy as did
high self-esteem individuals. In sum, this research suggests that self-regulatory
failures may surprisingly benefit some people, as such failures may free those with
relational insecurities to seek out greater affiliation with others.
Contextual Moderators of Exclusion Effects

Taken together, the previous two sections present a seemingly inconsistent
message. Self-regulatory failures can sometimes cause people to respond to
exclusion with retaliation and other interpersonally problematic behaviors—yet
other times they respond by seeking affiliation. For example, as previously
discussed, the way in which people with relational insecurities respond to
exclusion is very different from the way in which people without such insecurities
respond to exclusion. Considering other contextual factors, such as the type of
exclusion and the likelihood of reconnection, may help to further understand
how people respond to exclusion. The remainder of this section describes several
studies that demonstrate that these factors determine the behavioral implications
of exclusion. Nevertheless, it should be noted that some of these studies did not
examine the role of self-regulatory processes. Thus, future research would benefit
by addressing whether the effects reported in these studies are stronger among
those experiencing self-regulatory failures.
First, how individuals respond to exclusion depends on the specific way in
which they are excluded. For example, Molden and colleagues (2009) demonstrated
that whether participants were actively excluded (i.e., rejected) or merely passively
excluded (i.e., ignored) influenced participants’ behavior. Specifically, across four
studies, they demonstrated that although participants who were actively excluded
were more likely to avoid further social interaction, participants who were
passively excluded were more likely to attempt to reconnect with those who
excluded them. Similarly, Sinclair and colleagues (2011) examined the effects of
different rejection messages for engaging in stalking-related aggressive behaviors.
Specifically, participants who read messages that contained internal explanations
for rejection (e.g., “There is nothing I find appealing about you”) reported being
more likely to engage in stalking behavior than were participants who read
messages that contained external explanations for rejection (e.g., “School and
work do not allow me to have time for a relationship”). Further, this effect was
strongest among participants whose self-regulatory capacities were depleted.
Second, people should be motivated to repair social relationships following
exclusion when the exclusion appears to be temporary but unmotivated when
exclusion appears to be permanent (see DeWall & Richman, 2011). As previously
discussed, one reason why exclusion leads to impaired self-regulatory performance
is because excluded individuals lose their motivation to self-regulate (because such
efforts are mainly rewarded by the benefits of belonging). Nevertheless, if excluded
individuals are made to believe that they can reclaim others’ acceptance, they
should remain motivated to restrict their impulsive behavior. A series of seven
studies by DeWall and colleagues (2008) provided evidence for this idea. As
expected, excluded participants performed worse than accepted participants on self-
regulatory tasks when they were told the tasks were diagnostic of their non-social
abilities. However, when participants were told the tasks were diagnostic of their
social abilities, and thus higher scores would indicate a greater likelihood of
reconnection with others, excluded participants performed just as well on the same
self-regulatory tasks as the accepted participants. These studies provide further
evidence that exclusion does not necessarily impair the ability to self-regulate;
rather, it decreases motivation to do so. Nevertheless, contextual factors, such as the
type of exclusion and whether or not the exclusion appears to be permanent, may
keep excluded individuals motivated to self-regulate their behavior.
Conclusion
People are motivated to secure acceptance from others. What happens when this
goal is thwarted? Extensive research has demonstrated that excluded individuals
experience poorer social, academic, occupational, financial, legal, and mental and
physical health outcomes than do people who are included. The current chapter
reviewed evidence suggesting that self-regulatory failures may be one reason why
excluded individuals experience such poor outcomes. Specifically, excluded
individuals are less motivated to inhibit their selfish impulses, which frequently
leads them to engage in problematic behaviors. Further, this tendency to engage
in problematic behaviors appears to be strongest when excluded individuals’ self-
regulatory capacities are already limited. Interpersonally, however, the implications
of exclusion appear to depend on the possibility of future acceptance. Specifically,
people are more likely to seek social connection after being excluded if they
believe they can attain acceptance in the future but are more likely to behave
aggressively if they believe they will be unable to attain acceptance in the future.
Future research would benefit by continuing to identify the conditions that lead
excluded people to engage in prosocial, rather than antisocial, behaviors.
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4
MOTIVATIONAL AND
EMOTIONAL ASPECTS OF
INTERPERSONAL REJECTION
Twenty-Five Years of Theory and Research
Mark R. Leary
Readers who entered psychology after the turn of the new millennium may be
surprised to learn that, as areas of interest within social psychology, interpersonal
acceptance and rejection are relative newcomers. Indeed, until quite recently, one
could read the seminal works in the field, along with most textbooks, without even
encountering the notion that acceptance and rejection play an important role in
human affairs. Developmental psychologists had studied peer rejection in children for
many years, and clinical psychologists had discussed the maladaptive consequences of
parental rejection and neglect on people’s well-being. But, oddly, social psychologists
had somehow overlooked the fact that people are strongly motivated to be accepted
by other people, work hard to avoid being rejected, and experience strong reactions
when they are shunned, ostracized, or outright rejected by friends, romantic partners,
acquaintances, groups, and even strangers. Of course, no one could seriously question
that people are motivated to be accepted or that their concerns with social acceptance
influence their behaviors and emotions. But at the time that I stumbled into this area
in the late 1980s, social psychologists had not given these processes the attention they
deserved as important determinants of human behavior.
This chapter examines motivational and emotional processes that are involved
in people’s efforts to be accepted by other people and in their reactions when
they perceive that they are being rejected. Although dozens of other researchers
have made important contributions to our understanding of these processes, this
chapter focuses primarily on my own work—not because I think that it’s more
important than other people’s, but rather because, as I wrap up 25 years of
research on these topics, I would like to summarize, integrate, and critique this
program of research. I apologize at the outset for the chapter’s autobiographical
tone, but as I began to summarize a quarter-century of work on acceptance and
rejection, the writing emerged naturally as a chronological narrative.
Aspects of Interpersonal Rejection 47
The Need to Belong and the Pursuit of Relational Value

My interest in people’s concerns with acceptance and rejection was an outgrowth
of work that I had started in graduate school on topics related to self-presentation,
specifically the ways in which people’s concerns with other people’s perceptions
and evaluations of them affect their emotions and behavior. Knowing that other
people’s impressions of them have wide-ranging implications for many important
aspects of their lives, people monitor how others regard them and manage their
impressions in ways that they hope will lead to desired outcomes (see Leary,
1995; Schlenker, 2012).
I was particularly interested in factors that influence the kinds of images that
individuals try to convey of themselves to other people and in their emotional
reactions when they think that they are not conveying the impressions they
desire—specifically, social anxiety and embarrassment (Leary & Kowalski, 1995;
Schlenker & Leary, 1982). Based on my work on social anxiety, I was invited to
write a brief commentary to an article by Baumeister and Tice (1990) that
identified potential exclusion from social groups as a primary cause of anxiety.
Although other writers had discussed the importance of belonging to groups
(e.g., Hogan, Jones, & Cheek, 1982), Baumeister and Tice laid out a strong case
for anxiety being a common response to the possibility of exclusion because of
the vital affordances that groups provided throughout human evolution. My
commentary (Leary, 1990) extended their analysis by articulating three basic
propositions: (1) human beings possess a fundamental motive to avoid exclusion
from important social groups; (2) social behavior often reflects attempts to
improve one’s inclusionary status; and (3) people experience negative emotions
when they perceive that their inclusionary status in important groups is lower
than desired. Based on some new data from a graduate student’s thesis (Spivey,
1990), I pointed out that social exclusion not only makes people anxious, as
Baumeister and Tice suggested, but can also evoke other emotions such as
loneliness, jealousy, and depression.
Not long afterwards, Roy Baumeister and I found ourselves at the same small
conference on self and identity in Nag’s Head, North Carolina. During a late
night conversation, we decided that the ideas that we had discussed in our two
articles deserved more systematic treatment. As we thought about people’s efforts
to seek acceptance and to avoid rejection, we realized that this motivation
undergirded much of human social behavior and, thus, most of the content of
social psychology. If so, regarding people as motivated by a pervasive need for
belonging and acceptance would help to integrate and explain a good deal of
interpersonal phenomena. So, we made plans to write a paper that would make a
case for regarding the need to belong as a fundamental human motive. The article
that emerged (Baumeister & Leary, 1995) sparked a good deal of interest in
acceptance and belonging and, as the current volume attests, prompted other
researchers to think about the role of this motive in human behavior.1
48 Mark R. Leary
One regret that I have about the need to belong article involves our use of the
word “belong” as well as the phrase “need to belong.” As normally used, the
word “belong” connotes having membership in groups of one kind or another;
people “belong” to teams, work groups, fraternities and sororities, professional
associations, clans, and other groups. Although the article dealt in part with
belonging in this sense of the word, our use of the term also included having
supportive dyadic relationships, for which the word “belong” would not normally
be used. (For example, we would not normally talk about people wanting to
“belong” to their neighbor, best friend, romantic partner, or parents, for example.)
As we used the term, the “need to belong” included both belonging to groups
and being accepted by individuals, but I fear that we created confusion (as well as
awkward and unclear writing) by using “belonging” to refer to both.
We also ran afoul of imprecise terminology in another way. Early on, most
writers, myself included, used the terms “social inclusion” and “social exclusion”
to refer to states of high and low belonging. However, I soon realized that people
who felt rejected or who were not experiencing an adequate degree of belonging
were not reacting merely to exclusion per se. People can be excluded without
feeling rejected or experiencing the emotions that typically accompany rejection.
Indeed, Leary, Tambor, Terdal, and Downs (1995, Study 3) showed clearly that
mere exclusion from a group (on the basis of a random process) does not make
people feel rejected or evoke rejection-related emotions. For example, when one
is excluded from a theater or stadium because the event is sold out or denied
entry to a secure location that one is not legally permitted to enter, a person
might be frustrated but does not feel “rejected.” Furthermore, people can feel
rejected even while being included. Those of us who were, as children, picked
last for teams on the school playground know that people can feel that they do
not really belong to a group in which they are included. (We used such a
procedure to induce rejection in one study; Bourgeois & Leary, 2001.) Thus,
merely being excluded does not necessarily involve rejection or low belonging,
and people can feel rejected even when they are included. Something other than
inclusion and exclusion must be involved.
Similarly, the terms “acceptance” and “rejection” are sometimes problematic
because people can experience a sense of rejection, accompanied by dejection or
hurt feelings, even when they know that the rejecter accepts and values them.
For example, a woman might feel rejected and hurt when her partner chooses to
watch his favorite television show rather than go to dinner with her even though
she knows that her partner loves her and values their relationship. She would be
unlikely to say that he “rejected” her on that occasion even though she might feel
rejected and hurt.
After some false starts and dead ends in our effort to identify the key
psychological element of “exclusion” and “rejection” that produces their
psychological and interpersonal effects, we concluded that the psychological
experiences of acceptance and rejection are based on people’s perception of their
relational value to other people. Relational value refers to the degree to which
another person (or persons) regards their relationship with an individual to be
important, close, or valuable (Leary, 2001). When people believe that others
value their relationship at the moment as much as they desire, they feel accepted
or like they belong. However, perceiving that one’s relational value is lower than
desired evokes the psychological experience of rejection, along with concomitant
reactions such as hurt feelings and diminished self-esteem (to be discussed
momentarily). Losses of relational value are particularly impactful. Being devalued
by someone who once accepted us is typically more troubling than not being
valued in the first place (Buckley, Winkel, & Leary, 2004). The central ingredient
in experiences of rejection is lower-than-desired relational value, and social
exclusion creates rejection only when it connotes that one’s relational value at the
moment is lower than desired. In the case of the last-picked team member,
begrudging inclusion connotes that one has low relational value, leading to
feelings of rejection or not belonging.
Sometimes the perception of low relational value arises from the belief that
others explicitly desire to disassociate from the person, for example by avoiding,
excluding, ostracizing, or otherwise minimizing their interactions with him or
her. At other times, people infer that their relational value in another person’s
eyes is low based on cues that do not, in themselves, involve rejection, such as
unreturned phone calls, thoughtless critical comments, and teasing. The woman
who feels rejected and hurt by her husband’s choice of television over dinner
perceives at that moment that he does not value his relationship with her as much
as she desires and thereby feels rejected even while knowing that he cares for her.
Thus, although we may talk loosely about rejection causing people to respond in
various ways, the central appraisal that leads to the emotional and motivational
sequelae of “rejection,” “exclusion,” and “low belonging” is the perception that
one’s relational value in a particular situation is not as high as one desires.
Importantly, low relational value is a feature of many phenomena other than
rejection per se, such as prejudice, discrimination, stigmatization, ostracism,
neglect, bullying, and abandonment (Leary, 2001). Although these phenomena
are not the same, they share a common element of low relational value. Viewed
from this perspective, it is easy to understand why people who are the targets of
prejudice, stigmatization, ostracism, or abandonment exhibit emotional and
behavioral indications of being rejected.
Sociometer Theory
In my commentary to Baumeister and Tice’s (1990) article, I mentioned that
exclusion not only causes a number of negative emotions but also tends to lower
self-esteem, and I suggested that self-esteem might be viewed as “an internal,
subjective ‘marker’ that reflects an ongoing assessment of the individual’s
exclusionary status” (Leary, 1990, p. 226). At the time, this comment was
50 Mark R. Leary
unsubstantiated speculation, but it led me and my students to start puzzling over

the question of why self-esteem is consistently related to the emotions that people
experience when they feel rejected. Up until that time, I had avoided the topic
of self-esteem in my research because I had never understood why merely feeling
good or bad about oneself should be related to the reactions and outcomes that
correlate with self-esteem. But viewing self-esteem as a gauge of acceptance–
rejection (or, more precisely, relational value) made self-esteem make sense to me
for the first time. Our first theoretical presentation of sociometer theory appeared
in a chapter (Leary & Downs, 1995) the same year as the first research studies
were published (Leary et al., 1995). Later, I invited Baumeister to co-author a
chapter that presented a fuller exposition of the theory and included research
evidence that had accumulated (Leary & Baumeister, 2000). (More recent reviews
of sociometer theory can be found in Leary, 2006, 2012.)
According to sociometer theory, self-esteem is a psychological gauge that
monitors the degree to which people perceive that they are relationally valued by
other people. Because social acceptance was literally vital during human evolution,
a psychological system evolved that monitored and responded to cues indicating
that the person may be devalued and rejected by other people. State self-esteem
rises and falls with changes in perceived relational value, alerting people to real
and potential rejection and motivating actions that maintain relational value and
avoid interpersonal rejection. Presumably, the sociometer system monitors all of
people’s interpersonal encounters, but I agree with those who have suggested that
people may possess a set of relationship-specific sociometers that monitor different
kinds of relationships such as those with friends, romantic partners, group
members, and kin (Kirkpatrick & Ellis, 2001).
From the standpoint of sociometer theory, events that lower self-esteem—
such as failure, rejection, criticism, embarrassing situations, negative evaluations,
and being outperformed by others—do so because they indicate that one’s
relational value to other people may be lower than desired. Laboratory experiments
have shown that participants who believe that other people value, accept, or want
to interact with them report higher state self-esteem than those who believe that
others have excluded them from groups or interactions, do not want to get to
know them, or hold negative impressions of them (Bourgeois & Leary, 2001;
Buckley et al., 2004; Leary, Haupt, Strausser, & Chokel, 1998; Leary et al., 1995;
Leary, Cottrell, & Phillips, 2001; Nezlek, Kowalski, Leary, Blevins, & Holgate,
1997; Snapp & Leary, 2001; Zadro, Williams, & Richardson, 2004). Similarly,
studies of people’s reactions to real-world instances of rejection and ostracism
show that people consistently report decreased self-esteem following such events
(Leary et al., 1998; Sommer, Williams, Ciarocco, & Baumeister, 2001; Williams,
Shore, & Grahe, 1998). Furthermore, research shows that rejecting feedback
affects state self-esteem even among people who insist that their feelings about
themselves are not affected by others’ evaluations or acceptance of them (Leary,
Gallagher, Fors, Buttermore, Baldwin, Lane, & Mills, 2003).
Neuroscience evidence also supports a link between rejection and state self-
esteem. Eisenberger, Inagaki, Muscatell, Byrne Haltom, and Leary (2011) scanned
participants’ brains as they received positive or negative feedback about themselves
from another person. Analyses showed that reductions in state self-esteem in
response to particular pieces of feedback were associated with greater activity in
the bilateral anterior insula and the dACC, brain regions that have been shown
to process the emotional distress of social rejection (Eisenberger, Lieberman, &
Williams, 2003).
The theory focuses primarily on the effects of acceptance and rejection on
state self-esteem—people’s current feelings about themselves that fluctuate in
response to interpersonal events—but it also addresses the nature of trait self-
esteem. To extend the “gauge” metaphor, trait self-esteem is the “resting point”
on the sociometer in the absence of incoming social information, which is based
on people’s assumptions about their overall relational value and acceptability to
others (Leary & MacDonald, 2003). Thus, people with higher self-esteem view
themselves as having generally higher relational value to others than people with
lower self-esteem do, and most differences between low and high self-esteem
reflect this difference in perceived acceptability.
Research shows that people’s self-evaluations on particular dimensions predict
their trait self-esteem primarily to the degree to which they believe that those
dimensions are relevant to their social acceptance and rejection by other people.
For example, people who believe that their relational value depends greatly on their
physical appearance experience larger decrements in self-esteem when they believe
they are regarded as unattractive compared to people who think that appearance is
less important for social acceptance (MacDonald, Saltzman, & Leary, 2003).
Sociometer theory offered a novel approach to the question of why low self-
esteem is associated with certain psychological and interpersonal difficulties.
Although the relationship between low self-esteem and psychological problems is
not as strong as many assume (Baumeister, Campbell, Krueger, & Vohs, 2003),
people with low trait self-esteem tend to be troubled by problems such as
depression, anxiety, alcohol and drug abuse, and conflicted relationships more
than people with high trait self-esteem. According to sociometer theory, low
self-esteem may be related to maladaptive emotions and behaviors for three
general reasons (Leary, Schreindorfer, & Haupt, 1995). First, believing that one
is not relationally valued elicits aversive emotions such as sadness, anxiety, hurt
feelings, and anger, as well as dysfunctional interpersonal behaviors such as
aggression and derogating other people. As a monitor of relational value, self-
esteem correlates with these problematic reactions to rejection. Second, although
people typically seek acceptance through socially desirable means, people who
feel inadequately valued may use extreme, deviant, or antisocial tactics to obtain
acceptance when they cannot do so in normative ways. Thus, people with lower
self-esteem (who feel inadequately valued or inherently unacceptable) may join
gangs, cults, or drug subcultures in which the standards for acceptance are lower
52 Mark R. Leary
than in socially desirable groups. Third, some psychological and behavioral

problems are related to self-esteem because they precipitate rejection. Because
people devalue and distance themselves from those who display emotional or
behavioral problems, people with psychological difficulties, whatever their cause,
tend to have lower self-esteem.
Sociometer theory suggests that self-esteem is important only as a gauge of
relational value and has no effects in its own right, just as a car’s fuel gauge is not
important except as an indicator of the amount of gasoline in the tank. I had
hoped that the sociometer work would help to lay the self-esteem concept to rest
by pointing researchers away from self-esteem per se and toward the centrally
important role of relational value. Although the field has seen some movement in
this direction, many researchers continue to assume that self-esteem has
significance in its own right rather than as a reflection of people’s beliefs about
their relational value.
Hurt Feelings
In an early, unpublished study of emotional reactions to rejection, we asked
participants to recount an instance in which they were rejected and to describe
how they had felt at the time. Examining participants’ descriptions of their
reactions revealed that a large proportion indicated that their feelings had been
“hurt” by the rejection that they described. Seeing these results spurred us to
consider the effects of rejection on hurt feelings, an emotion that had been
virtually ignored except for work by Vangelisti (1994).
In our first study of hurt feelings (Leary, Springer, Negel, Ansell, & Evans,
1998), participants were assigned to write about a time that their feelings had
been hurt or a time in which they had hurt another person’s feelings. Our content
analyses of participants’ descriptions of these events found that all but two of the
168 hurtful events described by our participants could be classified into one of six
categories: active disassociation (explicit rejection, ostracism, or abandonment);
passive disassociation (being ignored, not being included in others’ activities, and
other instances of implicit rejection); criticism; betrayal; being unappreciated,
used, or taken for granted; and being maliciously teased. Each of these categories
appears to reflect events that lead people to perceive that others do not sufficiently
value their relationship with them. Active and passive disassociation clearly
convey that the target has low relational value, as does betrayal and being
unappreciated, used, or taken for granted. Criticism is, by definition, a negative
evaluation, although whether criticism conveys low relational value depends on
the domain and, perhaps more importantly, how it is delivered. Teasing probably
conveys low relational value only when it is malicious; good-natured teasing can
convey liking and camaraderie.
Most of the hurtful episodes that participants reported involved people that
they knew well. Over 80 percent of the perpetrators were close friends, dating
partners, or family members, and only one participant reported being hurt by a
stranger. Similarly, Whitesell and Harter (1996) found that children reported that
they would be more hurt by a friend than a classmate who called them a name.
To test whether people are more easily hurt by people who know them well, we
conducted an experiment that examined the relationship between familiarity and
hurt feelings (Snapp & Leary, 2001). Contrary to what we expected, results
showed that participants who were ignored by a confederate who had gotten to
know them only superficially reported being more hurt than those ignored by a
confederate who had gotten to know them better. However, our “high
familiarity” condition did not mirror the familiarity and closeness that characterizes
real relationships, and I suspect that, if considered across a full range of familiarity,
the relationship may be curvilinear. At low, superficial levels of familiarity (as in
Snapp & Leary, 2001), the possibility of hurt feelings may be relatively high
because people who are relationally devalued by someone who has virtually no
information about them may reasonably conclude that the other person had an
immediate aversive reaction to them. Thus, being disregarded after superficial
contact may connote lower relational value than after a deeper conversation.
With a moderate level of familiarity, the probability of being hurt declines
somewhat; after all, we all recognize that not everyone who gets to know us will
value their relationships with us. However, as people get to know one another
even more deeply, the stakes increase, people become more invested in being
relationally valued, and signs of low relational value evoke hurt feelings.
Of course, hurt feelings is only one of many emotions that people may
experience when they feel rejected. So, what distinguishes hurt feelings from
other emotional reactions to rejection? Based on two studies (reviewed in Leary
& Leder, 2009), we concluded that the cognitive appraisal that produces hurt
feelings is the belief that one is not relationally valued as much as one desires. In
fact, of all of the emotions that may arise when people are rejected, only hurt
feelings is caused by low relational value per se. The other emotions that occur
when people are rejected are not caused by perceived low relational value (or
rejection) but rather by other features of the rejection episode (Leary, Koch, &
Hechenbleikner, 2001; Leary, Springer, et al., 1998). Situations in which people
perceive that they are rejected are complex and multifaceted affairs, with many
personally relevant outcomes at stake. The presence of low relational value causes
hurt feelings, but other appraisals evoke other emotions as appraisal theories of
emotion predict (Scherer, Schorr, & Johnstone, 2001). For example, when
people perceive that a rejection will result in potentially harmful outcomes—such
as physical assault or loss of financial resources—they are likely to experience
anxiety because they appraise the situation as threatening. However, when a
rejection involves a perceived loss, people will feel sad, and when it involves an
unjustified barrier to a goal, they will become angry.
While working with me as a post-doc, Geoff MacDonald took the lead in
reviewing the literature on the link between hurt feelings and physical pain and
54 Mark R. Leary
concluded that “hurt feelings” is more than a metaphor—that the experience of

social pain utilizes some of the same brain regions as physical pain (MacDonald &
Leary, 2005a, 2005b). His insights prompted a number of fascinating studies that
dealt with the link between physical and social pain (see MacDonald & Jensen-
Campbell, 2011).
Rejection and Aggression

School shootings have become so disturbingly common that we are rarely
surprised when we hear of another attack. Yet, even as recently as the late 1990s,
school shootings were exceptionally rare. In almost all cases, the media portrayed
the shooters as students who were ostracized or loners, but we wondered whether
this characterization was accurate or merely a modern myth. Thus, we conducted
case studies of the 15 shootings that had occurred up until that time (Leary,
Kowalski, Smith, & Phillips, 2003). Consistent with the popular view, our
analyses showed that acute or chronic rejection—in the form of ostracism,
bullying, and/or romantic rejection—was present in all but two of the incidents.
Of course, the vast majority of children who are rejected or even bullied do
not resort to lethal violence, so we looked for other factors in these cases that
might predispose rejected children to shoot their classmates. Although based on
only a small sample of incidents, we found that the shooters were not only
rejected but also characterized by one or more of three other risk factors—an
interest in firearms or bombs, a fascination with death or Satanism, or psychological
problems involving depression, impulse control, or sadistic tendencies. One
interpretation of these findings is that anger and aggressive urges are common—
and normal—reactions to being rejected, but people do not act on those urges
unless other risk factors are present.
Several laboratory experiments confirmed that rejection leads to anger and
aggression (Buckley et al., 2004; Twenge, Baumeister, Tice, & Stucke, 2001;
Warburton, Williams, & Cairns, 2006; Zadro et al., 2003) and to lower prosocial
behavior (Twenge, Baumeister, DeWall, Ciarocco, & Bartels, 2007). Our review
of this literature (Leary, Twenge, & Quinlivan, 2006) showed that, with only a
couple of exceptions, exclusion, rejection, ostracism, and devaluation reliably
increase anger and the motivation to aggress. Moreover, analyses of aggression in
real-world contexts, including close relationships, has also suggested this link.
Many writers have observed that becoming angry and aggressive when one is
rejected seems paradoxical. After all, derogating, threatening, and hurting other
people is not typically an effective means of increasing the degree to which one
is liked, valued, and accepted by other people. Of course, people do not always
aggress after being rejected and, in fact, sometimes behave in particularly friendly,
prosocial ways, presumably to attract other people (Maner, DeWall, Baumeister,
& Schaller, 2007). But what determines whether rejection leads to positive versus
aggressive reactions?
Laura Richman and I proposed that whether people respond prosocially,

antisocially, or asocially (by withdrawing) depends on the pattern of six possible
construals involving: the perceived fairness of the rejection, expectations of
relationship repair, the pervasiveness or chronicity of the rejection, the value of the
damaged relationship, the perceived personal costs of the rejection, and the
availability of relational alternatives (Richman & Leary, 2009). So, prosocial
responses are likely when the person values the relationship highly, views the
rejection as costly, expects to be able to repair and restore the relationship, and
perceives that few other alternatives are available. In contrast, antisocial, aggressive
responses should dominate when the person believes that the rejection was highly
unfair, does not value the relationship highly, and does not think that the relationship
can be repaired or restored. Finally, withdrawal and avoidance are likely when the
relationship has relatively low value, the expectation of repair is low, other
alternative relationships are present, and the rejection is chronic or recurring.
Individual Differences in the Need to Belong

Although all psychologically normal people desire to be accepted and to avoid
rejection, people differ in the degree to which they desire to be accepted and to
belong to groups (Leary & Kelly, 2009). In the late 1990s, we began working on
a self-report measure of the need to belong that was finally published over 15 years
later (Leary, Kelly, Cottrell, & Schreindorfer, 2013). The scale consists of ten items
that assess the desire for acceptance and belonging (e.g., I want other people to
accept me), efforts to be accepted (e.g., I try hard not to do things that will make
other people avoid or reject me), and emotional reactions to rejection (e.g., My
feelings are easily hurt when I feel that others do not accept me). Research shows
that high need to belong is related to, but distinct from, other constructs that
reflect the degree to which people desire to interact with others such as sociability,
extraversion, and affiliation motivation. People may be quite extraverted and
sociable yet not unusually motivated to be socially accepted or to belong to groups.
The fact that people who do not feel adequately accepted in a particular
situation often experience a heightened desire for acceptance has led some to
assume that individual differences in the need to belong are related to people’s
general sense of being accepted versus rejected. However, a particular dispositional
motive should be conceptually and empirically distinct from the degree to which
that motivation is satisfied, and this appears to be the case with the need to
belong. Scores on the Need to Belong Scale do not correlate with the degree to
which people believe that they are accepted, receive adequate social support, or
are lonely (Leary et al., 2013). Thus, the desire for acceptance and belonging is
clearly distinct from the perceived satisfaction of this desire.
Scores on the Need to Belong Scale correlate with neuroticism, which might
suggest that a high need for acceptance and belonging is potentially maladaptive.
Yet, the data do not indicate that being objectively low in the desire for acceptance
56 Mark R. Leary
is preferable to being high or that wanting to be accepted by other people is

dysfunctional. Not surprisingly, people high in the need to belong are more
prone to experience negative reactions when they are not relationally valued than
people who are lower in the need to belong, but these involve normal reactions
to concerns with acceptance, such as social anxiety and the tendency to experience
hurt feelings. To the extent that acceptance by others is never guaranteed and is
often tenuous, people who are highly motivated to be accepted and to belong to
groups may live with an undercurrent of anxiety even when their need for
acceptance and belonging is satisfied at the moment.
Some evidence suggests that people who score high in the need to belong
sometimes respond more effectively in interpersonal settings, presumably because
they are attuned to the nuances of their social relationships and to cues that reflect
acceptance. For example, they are more sensitive to evidence of camaraderie (and
lack of camaraderie) at work (Rego, Souto, & Cunha, 2009), are more accurate
at interpreting other people’s emotions (Pickett et al., 2004), and focus more on
the collective interests of the group when they are members of large groups (De
Cremer & Leonardelli, 2003).
To the Future
When Baumeister and I wrote our article on the need to belong (Baumeister &
Leary, 1995), we were convinced that social psychologists’ understanding of
many interpersonal phenomena could be greatly informed by considering
people’s efforts to establish, maintain, and, if necessary, repair their personal
relationships and group memberships. Interest in maintaining relational value has
a strong and pervasive influence on an exceptionally broad array of human
behavior, and people obviously devote a great deal of attention, effort, and
emotion to managing acceptance and belonging. Even when they are focused on
other goals and not explicitly trying to strengthen their social connections,
people’s actions are nonetheless influenced by concerns about whether their
behavior might influence their acceptance and belonging. Yet, despite the
widespread impact of such concerns, most research has dealt primarily with
people’s reactions to rejection, and far less attention has been directed toward
how people establish and maintain social connections or the role that these
processes play in human behavior more broadly.
For me, the motive for acceptance and belonging offers promise as a broad
theoretical approach for understanding a variety of seemingly disparate human
behaviors. If the desire for acceptance and belonging is a fundamental human
motive, then it must permeate much of what people do and, thus, can help to
explain a great deal of human behavior. Many years ago, social psychology turned
away from macro-level theories that purported to explain a wide range of behaviors
toward smaller, phenomenon-specific mini-theories. Yet, I assume that a wide
swath of human social behavior can be explained by a relatively small number of
broad processes that involve central human motives. And, if that is the case, motives
involving acceptance and belonging may be one of those mega-perspectives that
can explain a great deal of human thought, emotion, and behavior. Many (though
by no means all) phenomena within every major content domain of social
psychology are influenced, if not directly determined, by concerns with acceptance
and belonging, including social cognition, intra-group behavior, inter-group
behavior, close relationships, social influence, aggression, prosocial behavior, and
self and identity. In addition, many individual differences of interest to social
psychologists involve either how people seek acceptance and belonging or respond
to situations in which their relational value is in jeopardy. My hope is that theorists
will find ways to offer increasingly broad perspectives that explain and integrate
these various phenomena and that researchers will design impactful studies to test
ways in which concerns with acceptance and belonging pervade human life.
Note
1 As of October 2016, this article has been cited over 10,000 times in the behavioral
science literature. Typically, authors cite the article to support their assertion that
human beings are motivated to be accepted and to avoid rejection (although some use
it to acknowledge other points in the article). However, the fact that many authors,
myself included, feel the need to provide a citation for the idea that people are
motivated to be accepted rather than rejected seems a little odd, somewhat akin to a
biologist needing a citation to support the claim that people need air.
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5
THE SHARED NEURAL SUBSTRATES
OF PHYSICAL AND SOCIAL PAIN
Kristina Tchalova and Naomi I. Eisenberger
In her 1937 self-portrait Memory, artist Frida Kahlo depicted the anguish roused by
her husband’s infidelity with her sister as a metal spike being driven through a gaping
hole in her chest. Similarly, when reaching out for words to describe experiences of
social loss or rejection, we often clothe our distress in the language of physical pain.
A harsh criticism from an admired colleague stings, rejection of romantic overtures
hurts, the death of a loved one leaves us heartsick, and the withdrawal of a partner’s
love cuts to the core, causing scars. Unlike some other evocative English expressions
that do not stand up well to translation, reliance on physical pain metaphors to
describe social pain is universal, spanning languages as diverse as German and
Inuktitut (MacDonald & Leary, 2005). The universality of this finding raises the
question of whether this linguistic tendency reveals something fundamental about
the way humans experience threats to social connection. In other words, what is the
reason why we gravitate towards physical pain metaphors when describing social
distress, or why images like the one evoked by Frida Kahlo resonate so powerfully
with audiences around the world, regardless of their language or cultural background?
In recent years, an accumulating body of empirical evidence has supported the
theory that there is overlap in the neurobiological systems that process physical
and social pain (Eisenberger & Lieberman, 2004; Eisenberger, Lieberman, &
Williams, 2003; Eisenberger, 2012, 2015; MacDonald & Leary, 2005; Panksepp,
1998). That is, social pain—the emotional response to any negative social event
that threatens or damages our sense of connection to other people—shares some
neural and neurochemical substrates with physical pain. In this chapter we explain
the potential adaptive value of a social injury detection system built on top of a
physical pain system, review social neuroscience evidence for the physical–social
pain overlap, and explore several implications of such an overlap. We also address
some recent criticisms of the physical–social pain overlap theory.
62 Kristina Tchalova and Naomi I. Eisenberger
The Evolution and Adaptive Value of Social Pain

Our social bonds are a precious resource. At birth, humans are utterly dependent
on their caregivers for life-sustaining care and nourishment (Bowlby, 1969). In
our evolutionary past, group living bolstered our ancestors’ chances of
reproductive success and survival throughout the lifespan by providing help with
challenges such as hunting, foraging, predator defense, and child-rearing, as well
as by increasing access to mates (Baumeister & Leary, 1995). Social support was
also indispensable for the survival of individuals severely debilitated by illness or
injury (Hublin, 2009). As solitary humans were not well equipped to take on the
demands of their environment by themselves, it follows that evolution would
favor the emergence of biological mechanisms that signaled potential or
impending threats to social connection and furnished the motivation to avoid
social disconnection and to repair and maintain social ties.
Social–physical pain overlap theory (Eisenberger & Lieberman, 2004;
MacDonald & Leary, 2005; Panksepp, 1998) postulates that one such mechanism
is the social pain system, which emerged by co-opting the evolutionarily ancient
substrates involved in the processing of physical pain. Physical pain helps to
minimize tissue damage and maintain safety in the face of physical threat by
capturing attention and focusing it on the noxious stimulus, motivating behavior
to escape the source of injury, encouraging recuperation, and promoting learning
and avoidance of similar danger in the future (Eccleston & Crombez, 1999). In a
deeply social species, for whom preservation of social ties is just as critical as
preservation of the physical body, a system with these properties would be highly
adaptive for responding to threats to social connection and encouraging proximity
to critical caregivers and other conspecifics.
Although many questions about the precise nature, extent, and boundaries of
the social–physical pain overlap remain, researchers are beginning to gain a better
understanding of the physiological mechanisms involved in processing social
pain. In the next several sections, we review the shared neurochemical and neural
substrates of physical and social pain.
Pharmacological Evidence for the Social–Physical Pain Overlap

Opiates … most blessed power in those moments of pain and languor,
when the whole head is sore, and the whole heart sick.
Walter Scott (Scott, 1887)
The idea that opiate drugs such as morphine, known for millennia for their highly
potent pain-relieving properties, may also alleviate psychological aches and fill
the gaps left by broken or missing relationships is a long-standing cultural trope,
spanning from Homer’s Odyssey (Brownstein, 1993) to modern TV shows like
House. Along similar lines, laypeople and scholars alike have drawn parallels
Substrates of Physical and Social Pain 63
between love and addiction, employing metaphors like “interpersonal heroin” to

describe the pulls of romantic bonds (Peele & Brodsky, 1974; Panksepp, 1998).
Interestingly, a systematic program of research beginning in the 1970s has
suggested that the endogenous opioid system (the site of action for drugs like
morphine and heroin) indeed plays a crucial part in regulating social attachment,
perhaps explaining, in part, why social connection feels so good and why loss of
that connection feels so painful.
The endogenous opioid system comprises a family of opioid peptides (e.g.,
endorphins) and corresponding receptors, broadly distributed throughout the
central and peripheral nervous systems, where these naturally occurring peptides
(as well as the opioid drugs that mimic their effects) bind (Le Merrer, Becker,
Befort, & Kieffer, 2009). This system plays an essential role in dampening physical
pain (Fields, 2007) and reinforcing the hedonic value of rewards such as palatable
food, sex, and mood-elevating drugs (Le Merrer et al., 2009). Given the dual
roles of endogenous opioids in mediating reward and pain, this system may be
ideally situated to regulate social attachment by giving rise both to the pleasures
of social closeness and the pain of social isolation (MacLean, 1990; Panksepp,
1998). Specifically, the Brain Opioid Theory of Social Attachment (Machin &
Dunbar, 2011; Panksepp, 1998) postulates that social contact triggers the release
of endogenous opioids, which reinforces the social bond by giving rise to feelings
of reward, and that the loss of social contact results in a drop in endogenous
opioid levels, which underlies feelings of social pain and motivates pursuit of
social proximity in order to alleviate this aversive state.
Consistent with this theory, animal research has found that morphine, which
exerts its pain-relieving effects primarily by activating a subtype of opioid
receptors called μ-opioid receptors (Matthes et al., 1996), also reduces social
isolation distress (assessed with a specific type of call named a distress vocalization)
in a variety of animal species (e.g., Herman & Panksepp, 1978; Panksepp, Vilberg,
& Bean, 1978; see Machin & Dunbar, 2011, for a review). Contrastingly, opioid
receptor antagonists, which block endogenous opioid receptors, reduce the
quieting typically seen when animals are reunited with their mother or littermates
(e.g., Herman & Panksepp, 1978; Martel, Nevison, Simpson, & Keverne, 1995;
see Machin & Dunbar, 2011, for a review). These findings are consistent with the
hypothesis that isolation distress reflects a state of endogenous opioid withdrawal,
and that social contact assuages this distress by increasing opioid levels.
Given the pivotal role the endogenous opioid system plays in social bonding,
it is not surprising that elimination of the μ-opioid receptor through genetic
engineering leads to severe deficits in attachment, including lack of distress
vocalizing (without affecting vocal responses to other stimuli such as cold
temperatures; Moles et al., 2004). In addition to identifying a potential shared
neurochemical pathway underlying both physical and social pain, work on the
endogenous opioid system also illustrates the broader idea that the capacity for
social pain is an integral part of attachment. That is, the pleasures of closeness and
the pain of social loss are closely linked, and both are necessary for maintenance
of social bonds (Resendez & Aragona, 2013).
Neural Evidence for the Social–Physical Pain Overlap

Neural Substrates of Physical Pain
At first blush, the idea that social and physical pain experiences are processed
similarly at the neural level may appear surprising since we register these two
types of threats through different sensory modalities (harsh words, unlike harsh
blows, do not act on pain receptors in the skin). It is important to note, therefore,
that physical pain is a multifaceted experience comprising two related, yet
dissociable, components: the sensory-discriminative and the affective-motivational
(Ploner, Freund, & Schnitzler, 1999; Rainville, Duncan, Price, Carrier, &
Bushnell, 1997; Treede, Kenshalo, Gracely, & Jones, 1999). The sensory-
discriminative aspect of pain processing provides information about the location,
quality (e.g., pinprick versus burn), and intensity of a pain stimulus. However,
the mere identification of a pain stimulus, regardless of its perceived intensity,
does not necessarily mean that the stimulus will feel bothersome. The affective-
motivational component of pain, by contrast, involves the aversive feelings of
distress that accompany noxious stimulation, as well as the motivational drive to
escape the source of pain. The dissociation between these two pain processing
components is dramatically evident in the case of individuals with pain asymbolia,
who do not experience any suffering in response to pain stimuli (i.e., they lack
the affective component of pain), even though their sensory-discriminative
abilities remain fully intact (Berthier, Starkstein, & Leiguarda, 1988). Notably,
these patients frequently suffer serious physical injuries because they fail to avoid
or adequately respond to physical threat and damage; evidently, stripped of its
affective component, pain experience loses its motivational force.
The sensory-discriminative and affective-motivational components of pain
processing have different neural substrates. The former component is processed
by the primary and secondary somatosensory cortices (SI and SII) and the
posterior insula (PI; Schnitzler & Ploner, 2000). Individuals with damage in these
areas may have difficulty identifying and localizing a noxious stimulus, although
they still experience the pain as aversive and show appropriate avoidance behavior
(Ploner et al., 1999). Conversely, pain affect is processed primarily in the dorsal
anterior cingulate cortex (dACC) and the anterior insula (AI). Individuals with
lesions to the dACC or the AI still report being able to perceive pain, but are less
bothered and distracted by it (Berthier et al., 1988).
As experiences of social pain do not involve direct somatosensory input, and
because the affective component of pain is particularly relevant for driving the
motivation to respond to threat, it seems likely that social pain processing would
primarily rely on brain regions involved in pain affect. As we will show in our
review, this indeed appears to be the case, although a handful of social pain
studies have observed neural activation in sensory-discriminative regions as well.
Another brain region responsive to physical pain is the periaqueductal grey
(PAG; Linnman, Moulton, Barmettler, Becerra, & Borsook, 2012), which
receives both bottom up pain input from pain receptors in tissue (Craig &
Dostrovsky, 1999) and top down input from the ACC (An, Bandler, Ongür, &
Price, 1998). This region is part of a neural circuit that can either increase or
decrease the pain signal depending on the motivational context (e.g., the presence
of reward or an even larger threat) that prevails during physical injury (Fields,
2007). For example, the PAG may inhibit pain during an ongoing confrontation
with a threat in order to allow the animal to engage in emergency fight-or-flight
behavior. As we will see, this region is implicated in social pain processing as well.
Neuropsychological Evidence
ACC
Evidence from comparative neuroanatomical, lesion, and stimulation studies
performed in animals suggests that some of the physical pain processing regions,
like the ACC and PAG, play an important role in regulating social motivation
and attachment-related processes, including separation distress. As MacLean
(1990) notes, the emergence of the thalamocingulate division of the limbic
system, which comprises the cingulate cortex and its innervating thalamic nuclei,
accompanied the evolutionary transition from reptiles, who do not display any
mother–offspring attachment, to mammals, whose survival is predicated on this
attachment bond. One key attachment behavior in mammals is distress vocalizing,
which is crucial for maintaining mother–offspring contact and, as was previously
discussed, is inferred to be a manifestation of separation distress. Paralleling the
involvement of the ACC in physical pain, electrical stimulation of the ACC
results in the production of distress calls (Smith, 1945), whereas lesions to the
ACC (dorsal and/or ventral to the genu) reduce distress vocalizations (Hadland,
Rushworth, Gaffan, & Passingham, 2003; MacLean & Newman, 1988).
Furthermore, animals with cingulate lesions exhibit impairments in maternal
care (Slotnick, 1967; Stamm, 1955) and decreases in affiliative behavior towards
conspecifics (e.g., Hadland et al., 2003; Rudebeck et al., 2007; Ward, 1948).
Notably, the apparent reduction in need for social closeness that these animals
show does not appear to be accompanied by loss of interest for novel or rewarding
stimuli in general (Hadland et al., 2003; Rudebeck et al., 2007). These findings
are consistent with the idea that brain regions involved in processing social pain
should also contribute to social motivation, dovetailing with our earlier discussion
of the endogenous opioid system.
Unfortunately, no studies have investigated the effects of cingulate lesions on
social pain experience in humans. Interestingly, however, some case studies do
implicate the ACC in social motivation. For example, Tow and Whitty (1953)
reported that patients who had undergone a cingulotomy (a surgical treatment for
intractable pain and psychiatric disorders that involves lesioning the dACC)
subsequently exhibited social disinhibition and reductions in self-consciousness
and concern about the opinions of others, all of which could be indicative of
lowered sensitivity to social pain.
PAG
Similarly to the ACC, the PAG also exerts control over separation distress and
other attachment behaviors in animals. PAG lesions reduce distress vocalizations
(Newman & MacLean, 1982; Wiedenmayer, Goodwin, & Barr, 2000), whereas
electrical stimulation of the PAG increases such vocalizations (e.g., Jürgens &
Ploog, 1970; Newman & MacLean, 1982; Panksepp, Normansell, Herman,
Bishop, & Crepeau, 1988). Furthermore, one study using microelectrode
recording within the PAG found a cluster of units in the PAG to be associated
with distress vocalizations (Larson, 1991). Additionally, PAG lesions lead to
impairments in maternal behavior (Lonstein & Stern, 1997), suggesting that this
region has broader relevance for social bonding.
Neuroimaging Evidence
Neural correlates of social pain
The most direct evidence for the neural overlap between physical and social pain
comes from functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) studies. In the first
experiment of this kind to look at social exclusion, Eisenberger, Lieberman, and
Williams (2003) scanned participants while they were engaged in a computerized
ball-tossing game called Cyberball. Although participants believed that they were
playing the game with real people via the Internet, the other players were actually
controlled by a computer script programmed to exclude the participant from the
game partway through the experiment. The scan revealed increased activation in
the dACC and AI when participants suddenly stopped receiving all ball tosses
from their fellow players. Furthermore, the extent of dACC activation was
positively correlated with participants’ self-reported feelings of social exclusion,
such that those who felt most rejected also exhibited the highest levels of dACC
reactivity. These findings suggested that brain regions often involved in processing
physical pain are recruited during the experience of ostracism as well.
Subsequent studies using Cyberball replicated these findings, showing that social
exclusion is accompanied by increased activation in the dACC and/or AI (e.g.,
Kawamoto et al., 2012; Masten, Telzer, & Eisenberger, 2011; Masten, Telzer,
Fuligni, Lieberman, & Eisenberger, 2012; see Eisenberger, 2015, for a review).
Furthermore, dACC (DeWall et al., 2012; Eisenberger, Gable, & Lieberman, 2007;
Onoda et al., 2009) and AI (DeWall et al., 2012; Masten et al., 2009) activity has
again been found to positively correlate with self-reported feelings of social
exclusion, as well as observer-rated social distress (Masten et al., 2011).
Experiments employing other social pain induction paradigms have obtained
similar findings. Kross, Berman, Mischel, Smith and Wager (2011) recruited
participants who had recently undergone an unwanted breakup and carried out a
direct comparison of neural activation exhibited during a social pain condition,
in which participants viewed a photograph of their ex-partner, and a physical
pain condition, in which a painful heat stimulus was applied to their arm.
Consistent with earlier findings, the researchers observed overlapping activation
in the dACC and AI in response to both types of pain. Interestingly, there was
also overlapping activation in the SII and PI, suggesting that certain social pain
experiences may involve a somatosensory component as well (an intriguing
finding given that somatic symptoms are sometimes reported after social pain
experiences; Leary & Springer, 2001).
In another study of romantic rejection (Cooper, Dunne, Furey, & O’Doherty,
2014), participants attended a speed-dating event where they got to meet potential
romantic partners in a series of mini “dates.” In a subsequent scanning session,
participants found out the outcome of each date (i.e., whether each speed-dater had
expressed interest in seeing them again). Analyses revealed increased dACC activation
in rejection trials (i.e., trials in which participants’ interest in a partner was unrequited),
compared to trials where neither partner had expressed romantic interest.
Neuroimaging methods have also been used to examine the neural substrates
of grief during bereavement, another particularly potent type of social pain.
Viewing pictures of a deceased relative activates the dACC and insula (Gündel,
O’Connor, Littrell, Fort, & Lane, 2003; O’Connor et al., 2008), as well as the
PAG (O’Connor et al., 2008). Kersting and colleagues (2009) obtained similar
findings in a group of women grieving after an induced termination of pregnancy
due to fetal abnormality. Specifically, the authors observed increased dACC and
PAG activation in response to images of happy baby faces in bereaved women,
relative to control women who had successfully delivered their child.
These pain-related brain regions have also been shown to be sensitive to negative
social evaluation. Specifically, decreases in state self-esteem that accompany negative
social evaluation—for example, being told that you are boring—correspond to
increased dACC and AI activity (Eisenberger, Inagaki, Muscatell, Byrne Haltom,
& Leary, 2011). Furthermore, Wager and colleagues (2009) have used a common
and highly effective social stress paradigm (Trier Social Stress Test) to show that
social evaluative threat (i.e., a context where the self can be judged negatively by
others) leads to activation in the dACC and the PAG.
Finally, even symbolic reminders of social disconnection may be enough to
induce pain-related neural activation. Specifically, viewing artwork depicting
themes of rejection and loneliness induces dACC and AI activation, relative to
images depicting acceptance (Kross, Egner, Ochsner, Hirsch, & Downey, 2007).
Individual differences
To the extent that certain individual differences are known to modulate social
pain sensitivity, we would expect to see the influence of these factors reflected in
varying levels of neural activation in pain-related brain regions during social
exclusion. Indeed, evidence from a number of studies has supported this
prediction. Our history of interactions with other people—and ensuing
expectations about the quality of social support available to us—greatly shapes
our ability to handle social threat and rejection (Mikulincer & Shaver, 2007).
Accordingly, individuals who spent more time with friends in adolescence show
less exclusion-related activity in the dACC and AI (Masten et al., 2012), and
those who report higher levels of daily support exhibit reduced activity in the
dACC and the PAG in response to social exclusion (Eisenberger et al., 2007).
Contrastingly, adolescents with a history of chronic peer rejection during
childhood show higher levels of dACC activation during exclusion (Will, van
Lier, Crone, & Güroǧlu, 2015). Furthermore, anxious attachment—which is
characterized by chronic and excessive preoccupations about the availability of
social support, stemming from a history of volatile and inconsistent interactions
with intimate others (Mikulincer & Shaver, 2007)—is related to higher dACC
and AI activation in response to social exclusion (DeWall et al., 2012). Similarly,
low self-esteem, which reflects the extent to which we believe we are socially
acceptable (Leary & Baumeister, 2000), also predicts higher levels of dACC
reactivity in response to social threat (Onoda et al., 2010). Altogether, these
findings suggest that brain regions involved in social pain processing are sensitive
to the perceived availability of social resources.
Furthermore, trait rejection sensitivity positively correlates with dACC reactivity
to disapproving facial expressions (Burklund, Eisenberger, & Lieberman, 2007) and
to social exclusion during Cyberball (Masten et al., 2009). Additionally, narcissists,
who have low implicit self-esteem (Jordan, Spencer, Zanna, Hoshino-Browne, &
Correll, 2003) and are particularly reliant on others for maintenance of their positive
self-views (Morf & Rhodewalt, 2001), exhibit higher levels of dACC and AI
activation during Cyberball exclusion (Cascio, Konrath, & Falk, 2015).
Controversies
As this review has shown, a considerable number of studies, employing different
methodologies and examining various types of social pain experience (e.g.,
bereavement, social evaluative threat, romantic rejection) have observed
activation in physical pain-related brain regions. Furthermore, the most
comprehensive meta-analysis of social pain studies to date has confirmed that the
dACC is active during social exclusion, and that the extent of this activation
corresponds to self-reported feelings of social distress (Rotge et al., 2015).
However, the interpretation that these findings reflect a neural overlap between
social and physical pain has been challenged in recent years. These challenges
have primarily revolved around competing interpretations of what the neural
activation in these brain regions—and particularly the dACC—actually means.
That is, does it reflect pain experience, or something else entirely? In the following
section, we briefly highlight some of the discussions in the field (for a more
comprehensive review, see Eisenberger, 2015).
The initial criticism of the original Eisenberger, Lieberman, and Williams
(2003) study forwarded the idea that dACC activation during Cyberball exclusion
reflects expectancy violation, rather than pain. This was consistent with the then-
dominant cognitive account of the dACC as a discrepancy-monitoring and
conflict-processing region, involved primarily during tasks like the Stroop test
(Bush, Luu, & Posner, 2000). Consequently, Somerville, Heatherton, and Kelley
(2006) proposed that Cyberball exclusion violated participants’ expectations of
inclusion, which induced dACC activation.
However, this hypothesis does not account for the finding that dACC activity
correlates with self-reported feelings of social exclusion, or the fact that dACC
activation is seen across a number of other social pain studies where expectancy
violation is not a plausible mechanism. For example, individuals high on trait
rejection sensitivity, who by definition chronically expect social rejection
(Downey & Feldman, 1996), exhibit higher dACC reactivity to social threat
(Burklund et al., 2007; Masten et al., 2009). Furthermore, a variation of Cyberball
that controlled for expectancy violation by including an overinclusion condition,
in which participants received the ball a disproportionately large percent of the
time, still showed greater dACC activation in the exclusion condition relative to
the overinclusion condition (Kawamoto et al., 2012).
Finally, it should be noted that the cognitive and affective accounts of dACC
activity during exclusion are not incompatible. Rather, Eisenberger and
Lieberman (2004) have proposed that the dACC may function as a sort of neural
alarm that detects discrepancies between desired outcomes (e.g., social inclusion)
and reality (cognitive function), and then gives rise to aversive affect as a way of
“sounding the alarm” (affective function). Consequently, the cognitive and
affective roles of the dACC may be complementary in responding to social threat
(Spunt, Lieberman, Cohen, & Eisenberger, 2012).
Another criticism of the physical–social pain overlap theory has proposed that
activation in the pain matrix (dACC, AI, PI, SI, and SII) reflects salience processing
rather than pain (Iannetti, Salomons, Moayedi, Mouraux, & Davis, 2013) and
thus, the fact that social pain activates these regions is not indicative of pain, but
rather of salience. Salience refers to the quality of a stimulus that makes it stand out
against its environment (e.g., a loud noise in an otherwise quiet room). To the
extent that painful stimuli are highly salient, this explanation seems plausible.
However, several studies contradict this interpretation. In accordance with the
salience hypothesis, we would expect to see the highest levels of neural activation
in the “salience network” when two salient stimuli are combined. However,
when participants viewed pictures of their loved ones (highly salient positive
stimulus) while receiving physical pain (highly salient negative stimulus), they
actually showed reduced, rather than enhanced, activation in the dACC and AI
in response to physical pain (Eisenberger, Master, et al., 2011; Younger, Aron,
Parke, Chatterjee, & Mackey, 2010). Similarly, Choi, Padmala, Spechler, and
Pessoa (2014) examined simultaneous activation in the brain regions implicated
in salience processing in response to physical pain and reward (another highly
salient stimulus). Here too, the authors found competitive interference between
pain and reward stimuli, such that the effect of reward was reduced during threat,
and vice versa. Altogether, these findings suggest that salience processing does not
provide a better account of the data obtained in social pain studies.
Summary
Taken together with the pharmacological and neuropsychological evidence
reviewed earlier, neuroimaging studies of social pain provide a compelling case
for a neurobiological overlap between social and physical pain. In the next
section, we discuss two corollaries that stem from the theory that physical and
social pain share overlapping neurochemical and neural substrates. First, we
explore whether factors that render some individuals particularly sensitive to
physical and social pain are related. Second, we examine whether manipulations
that increase or decrease one type of pain experience have a parallel effect on the
other type of pain experience.
Consequences of a Physical–Social Pain Overlap

Shared Sensitivity to Physical and Social Pain
If physical and social pain experiences are underpinned by similar neurobiological
substrates, we may expect individuals who exhibit enhanced sensitivity to one
type of pain to exhibit enhanced sensitivity to the other type of pain as well.
Indeed, a number of personality traits, such as anxious attachment and neuroticism,
relate both to increased interpersonal sensitivity and the propensity to experience
more physical pain (for reviews, see Eisenberger, 2012; MacDonald & Leary,
2005). Furthermore, chronic pain patients report more fear and avoidance of
social situations (Asmundson, Norton, & Jacobson, 1996), suggestive of increased
sensitivity to social pain. Similarly, an experiment directly testing this relationship
in healthy controls found that greater baseline sensitivity to a thermal pain
stimulus correlates with heightened self-reported feelings of rejection during
Cyberball exclusion (Eisenberger, Jarcho, Lieberman, & Naliboff, 2006).
Additionally, variation in the μ-opioid receptor gene (OPRM1) moderates
physical and social pain sensitivity in a parallel manner. Specifically, the G allele of
this gene, which has been linked with increased physical pain sensitivity (Sia et al.,
2008), is also associated with increased rejection sensitivity and increased dACC
and AI reactivity to Cyberball exclusion (Way, Taylor, & Eisenberger, 2009).
Additionally, this same G allele increases the risk of developing depression following
a rejection event (but not a negative, rejection-unrelated event; Slavich, Tartter,
Brennan, & Hammen, 2014), further supporting the idea that this polymorphism
underlies interpersonal sensitivity and proffering a potential physiological
explanation for the link between depression and chronic pain (Fishbain, Cutler,
Rosomoff, & Rosomoff, 1997).
Mutually Influential Effects of Physical and Social Pain

Another prediction derived from the physical–social pain overlap theory is that
any factor that increases or decreases physical pain should have a corresponding
effect on social pain, and vice versa.
For example, analgesics that alleviate physical pain may be expected to decrease
social pain as well. Indeed, as we reviewed earlier in the chapter, opioid drugs
like morphine, which are a mainstay in physical pain management, are also
effective in reducing separation distress in a variety of non-human animal species.
Although no published studies have yet directly examined the effects of exogenous
opioids on social pain in humans, a double-blind, placebo-controlled experiment
showed that participants taking acetaminophen, a common over-the-counter
analgesic, daily for two weeks, reported lower levels of hurt feelings in their daily
lives and exhibited less dACC and AI activation during Cyberball (DeWall et al.,
2010). This suggests that factors that reduce physical pain can reduce social pain
as well.
Conversely, factors that potentiate physical pain appear to increase social pain
experience. One such factor is the inflammatory response mounted by the
immune system to defend against pathogens and injury. Inflammation enhances
physical pain, which is an adaptive response designed to encourage rest and
recuperation (Maier & Watkins, 1998). Paralleling this effect, experimental
administration of a bacterial agent that elicits a temporary inflammatory response
was also shown to induce feelings of social disconnection (Eisenberger, Inagaki,
Mashal, & Irwin, 2010). Furthermore, individuals who exhibited the greatest
increases in inflammatory activity in response to the challenge also showed the
most dACC and AI activation during social exclusion (Eisenberger et al., 2009).
Just as analgesics diminish social pain, we would also expect factors that decrease
social pain to decrease physical pain experience as well. Perhaps the greatest source
of healing we have for dealing with psychological distress, including social pain, is
social support (Mikulincer & Shaver, 2007). Interestingly, social support has also
been shown to alleviate physical pain. For example, cancer patients who have
more social support experience less pain (Zaza & Baine, 2002). Furthermore,
experiments have found that social support or reminders of social connection (e.g.,
holding the hand of a loved one or viewing their picture) decrease subjective pain
and pain-related neural activation (dACC, AI) during pain induction (Eisenberger,
Master, et al., 2011; Master et al., 2009; Younger et al., 2010).
Finally, social and physical pain responses to social threat also run in parallel.
As we discussed earlier, certain neural circuits in the brain can either increase or
decrease pain responses to noxious stimuli in order to enable adaptive coping
with the situation (Fields, 2007). Consequently, social threats like Cyberball that
increase self-reports of social pain have been shown to lead to pain hypersensitivity
on a subsequent pain task (Bernstein & Claypool, 2012), with participants who
feel most excluded also reporting the highest physical pain ratings (Eisenberger et
al., 2006). Contrastingly, some social pain manipulations, such as having
participants interact with an unfriendly confederate (Borsook & MacDonald,
2010) or giving them a bogus personality assessment forecasting that they will end
up alone in life (DeWall & Baumeister, 2006), have been simultaneously linked
to both emotional numbing and physical analgesia.
One factor that may determine whether individuals respond with heightened
or lowered physical pain sensitivity to a social pain manipulation is severity of the
manipulation (Bernstein & Claypool, 2012). It is also possible that the motivational
context of a particular social pain experience may shape the ensuing pain response.
For example, research has shown that explicit social rejection triggers prevention-
focused behavioral responses such as social withdrawal, whereas being ignored
triggers promotion-focused responses such as increased attempts at social contact
(Molden, Lucas, Gardner, Dean, & Knowles, 2009). Future research could
examine whether different types of social pain experience engage different
biological mechanisms to support diverging goals (e.g., seeking out a new source
of social connection versus avoiding further social injury), as well as whether
personality factors linked to approach versus avoidance behavioral responses to
social rejection exert any influence on physical pain responses to social threat
(e.g., self-esteem; Stinson, Cameron, Hoplock, & Hole, 2014). However, extant
research is consistent with the idea that factors that increase social pain lead to
heightened physical pain sensitivity, whereas factors that decrease social pain lead
to analgesia.
Conclusions
The need to belong is one of our most fundamental motivations (Baumeister &
Leary, 1995). When that need is thwarted—when we lose an important social
bond or feel devalued by others—we experience profound distress. In fact, as one
study found, the majority of people identify the loss of an intimate relationship as
the “single most negative emotional event” of their lives (Jaremka, Gabriel, &
Carvallo, 2011). Social neuroscience suggests that part of the reason why these
experiences are so aversive is because social pain shares some overlap in
neurobiological substrates with physical pain. Importantly, this work does not
advance, or seek to advance, the view that social pain and physical pain are
indistinguishable from each other. Rather, it argues that experiences of social

pain tap into the affective and motivational circuitry that safeguards us from
threats that can compromise survival.
This perspective equating social disconnection to physical threat has the power
to shape the way we view social pain and its sufferers. For example, by refuting
the old schoolyard adage “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will
never hurt me,” this work challenges the view that bullying is less serious if it
does not involve physical assault (Covin, 2013). Additionally, some of the research
reviewed in this chapter has been used to inform debates surrounding the morality
of solitary confinement in prisons (Brooks, 2014), contributing to the decision to
overhaul this practice in California.
Perhaps less obviously, work on social pain also has the potential to influence
how we approach physical pain. Although pain affect is not linearly related to, and
does not necessitate, input at pain receptors in peripheral tissue, sufferers of chronic
pain conditions like migraines and fibromyalgia, which do not involve discernible
tissue damage, often face considerable stigma and accusations of malingering (Asbring
& Narvanen, 2002). Furthermore, some chronic pain patients turn to self-injurious
behavior in an attempt to legitimize their suffering (Biro, 2010). Consequently,
there is value in perspectives that emphasize the affective nature of physical pain.
Finally, the study of social pain yields important insights into social attachment
processes more generally. As we have argued throughout the chapter, the capacity
for social pain is an integral part of our ability to connect to others. In this sense,
work on social pain is essential for understanding the nature of the social bonds
that profoundly shape our emotional and physical well-being (House, Umberson,
& Landis, 1988; Mikulincer & Shaver, 2007).
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6
ACUTE AND CHRONIC
PHYSIOLOGICAL CONSEQUENCES OF
SOCIAL REJECTION
Ellie Shuo Jin and Robert A. Josephs
The Ugly Duckling, written by Danish poet Hans Christian Andersen, tells the
story of a homely bird and his experiences with social ostracism before maturing
into a beautiful swan. Andersen (1844) captured the duckling’s profoundly painful
reflection of his loneliness and victimization in a short soliloquy:
It does not matter: better be killed by them than pecked by the ducks,
beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden who feeds the poultry, or
starved with hunger in the winter.
(p. 15)
It is not difficult to empathize with the duckling, who in addition to enduring

significant physical abuse, also experiences extensive social rejection. A large
body of evidence suggests that social ostracism causes individuals to sustain
devastating psychological and physiological consequences (Williams & Nida,
2011). Evolutionarily, exclusion from the group often reduced reproductive
success and increased the risk of premature death as a result of food shortages and
inadequate protection from predators and adversaries (Ainsworth, 1989; Buss,
1990, 1991). Naturalistic observations suggest that banished or evicted animals
experience significantly greater risk of injury and mortality in comparison to
animals whose group membership remains intact (Cant, Otali, & Mwanguhya,
2001; Lancaster, 1986; Robbins & Robbins, 2005). Among humans, mental and
physical health are strongly influenced by the quality of one’s social networks
(e.g., Aldabe et al., 2011; Wilkinson & Marmot, 2003). The core of social
exclusion threatens humans’ most fundamental needs of belonging, control and
self-esteem (Williams, 2002) and confers both acute consequences such as
negative mood and heightened physiological arousal, as well as long term
82 Ellie Shuo Jin and Robert A. Josephs
consequences such as chronic dysregulation of the hypothalamic pituitary adrenal

(HPA) axis, decreased immune function, and increased risk of a disarmingly wide
variety of serious diseases following prolonged social exclusion. It is not surprising,
perhaps, that humans possess a deep motivation to establish and maintain lasting
connections with their conspecifics (Baumeister & Leary, 1995), and will often
exercise extraordinary efforts to avoid being ostracized (Williams & Nida, 2011).
Acute Consequences of Social Rejection, Exclusion and Ostracism

Baumeister and Leary (1995) theorized that humans have a pervasive “need to
belong” (p. 497). In fact, this need is so extensive that it has led to the development
of distinct cultural rituals in terms of the way people speak and dress in order to
identify themselves to in-group members and distinguish themselves from out-
group members (Over & Carpenter, 2009). When individuals’ fulfillment of the
need to belong is threatened, they experience profound psychological distress and
pain. A seminal functional magnetic resonance imaging study demonstrated that
the same brain regions implicated in the experience of physical pain are activated
during social rejection (Eisenberger, Lieberman, & Williams, 2003). Unlike
physical pain however, social pain is relived each time the memory is recalled
(Chen, Williams, Fitness, & Newton, 2008).
In addition to neural activation, social exclusion also initiates a cascade of
physiological changes very similar to those evoked by a perceived environmental
threat. The perception of threat recruits the sympathetic nervous system (SNS)
and the HPA axis. The activation of the SNS results in the rapid release of the
catecholamines epinephrine and norepinephrine from the locus coeruleus
(Chrousos, 2009; Pacak, 2000), and leads to increases in heart rate, blood pressure
and blood glucose levels. Relative to the SNS, the HPA axis responds more
slowly. The release of corticotropin releasing hormone and other neuromodulators
from the paraventricular nucleus of the hypothalamus results in the release of
adrenocorticotropic hormone from the anterior pituitary gland, ultimately
leading to the secretion of the glucocorticoid cortisol from the adrenal cortex.
Given the negative consequences of ostracism, it is not surprising that social
evaluative threats evoke a particularly sharp rise in cortisol concentrations
(Andrews et al., 2007; Dickerson & Kemeny, 2004; Kirschbaum, Pirke, &
Hellhammer, 1993). Although cortisol’s primary function is gluconeogenesis
(with the increase in blood glucose providing the body with a critical source of
energy used to mount a fight or flight response), cortisol freely crosses the blood
brain barrier, exerting regulatory control over various neuropeptides (e.g.,
neuropeptide Y) and neurotransmitters (e.g., acetylcholine, dopamine, glutamate,
norepinephrine, serotonin) involved in the human stress response.
Interestingly, without the threat of social exclusion in tow, being alone is not
sufficient to trigger the acute stress response linked to ostracism. In a now-classic
rejection/acceptance paradigm, Blackhart, Eckel, and Tice (2007) demonstrated
Physiological Consequences of Social Rejection 83
that telling participants that no one wanted to work with them was sufficient to
keep cortisol levels elevated for 45 minutes, in comparison to a control condition
in which participants were assigned to working alone. Furthermore, socially
rejected individuals are more accurate at assessing genuine versus deceptive
expressions of social affiliation, suggesting that rejection increases the salience of
opportunities for belonging and enhances vigilance for future rejection (Bernstein,
Young, Brown, Sacco, & Claypool, 2008).
Sex Differences in Social Exclusion

Benenson, Markovits, Thompson, and Wrangham (2011) proposed that social
exclusion is a specific type of relational aggression that is particularly salient to
women, and as a result, their self-construal is more closely tied to social acceptance
(Cross & Madson, 1997). Furthermore, women are thought to experience greater
distress following social exclusion because of increased rumination following
negative events (Nolen-Hoeksema, Larson, & Grayson, 1999) and the attribution
of these experiences to a lack of personal competence (Rose & Rudolph, 2006).
Using the Yale Interpersonal Stressor Task (Stroud, Tanofsky-Kraff, Wilfley, &
Salovey, 2000), in which two trained confederates gradually exclude and reject a
participant during two interactions, Stroud, Salovey, and Epel (2002) found
greater levels of cortisol secretion and higher blood pressure in women compared
to men, even though no gender differences in self-reported distress were reported.
These results are particularly noteworthy given that in response to most laboratory
stress tasks including public speaking and mental arithmetic (Kirschbaum et al.,
1993; Kudielka, Buske-Kirschbaum, Hellhammer, & Kirschbaum, 2004) as well
as “real-world” examination stress (Frankenhaeuser et al., 1978), men tend to
show greater secretion of both adrenocorticotropic hormone and cortisol.
Testosterone, Progesterone, and a More Inclusive Role of the

Endocrine System in Social Exclusion
Testosterone
Aside from changes in cortisol secretion, differential levels of gonadal hormones
such as testosterone and progesterone have also been observed in response to
social exclusion. Testosterone, a steroid hormone regulated by the HPA axis, has
been positively correlated with aggressive and dominant behaviors in both human
and non-human animals, especially in situations in which social status is threated
(Anestis, 2006; Archer, 2006; Beehner, Bergman, Cheney, Seyfarth, & Whitten,
2006; Ehrenkranz, Bliss, & Sheard, 1974; Mehta, Jones, & Josephs, 2008; Mehta
& Josephs, 2010). Elevated levels of endogenous testosterone have been associated
with reactive aggression following social exclusion (Geniole, Carré, &
McCormick, 2011). Similarly, Peterson and Harmon-Jones (2012) found that
endogenous levels of testosterone positively predicted the subjective experience

of anger following social exclusion. The authors hypothesized that anger and
testosterone may be associated with “attempts to exert power, control, and
dominance over others” (Peterson & Harmon-Jones, 2012, p. 901), particularly
in the event of social ostracism, in which anger may fuel behaviors directed at
regaining social control (Peterson, Gravens, & Harmon-Jones, 2011; Warburton,
Williams, & Cairns, 2006). Lastly, Josephs et al. (2012) demonstrated that the
association between testosterone and responses to threat of social exclusion was
moderated by differences in the functional polymorphism in the promoter region
of the serotonin transporter (5-HTT) gene (SLC6A4), such that 5-HTTLPR S
carriers with higher levels of testosterone are more sensitive to social exclusion
and experience an exaggerated stress response following social exclusion compared
to L carriers with lower levels of testosterone.
Progesterone
Whereas testosterone has been associated with aggressive and dominant behaviors,
progesterone, another steroid hormone regulated by the HPA axis has been
linked with individual differences in affiliative motivation (Schultheiss, Dargel, &
Rohde, 2003; Wirth & Schultheiss, 2006). Women taking oral contraceptives
containing a progesterone derivative show higher levels of affiliative motivation
in comparison to naturally cycling women (Schultheiss et al., 2003). In the animal
literature, increases in affiliative behavior is strongly correlated with circulating
levels of progesterone in female rats (Frye, Petralia, & Rhodes, 2000). Moreover,
when the progesterone metabolite allopregnanolone is blocked, rats’ tendency to
seek social contact with conspecifics dramatically decreases (Frye et al., 2006).
Following threats of social exclusion, Maner et al. (2010) demonstrated that
changes in progesterone secretion are highly dependent on individual differences in
social anxiety and rejection sensitivity. Specifically, individuals high in social anxiety
showed a substantial decrease in progesterone secretion following exclusion, a
pattern consistent with the need to withdraw from others in order to protect
themselves from further rejection and to conserve resources for future social
interactions (Allen & Badcock, 2003; Maner et al., 2010; Molden, Lucas, Gardner,
Dean, & Knowles, 2009). Conversely, individuals high in rejection sensitivity
showed a considerable increase in progesterone secretion following exclusion,
suggesting that rejection-sensitive individuals may be highly motivated to seek out
compensatory social acceptance and closeness from others following ostracism
(Maner et al., 2010; Zwolinski, 2012). In fact, research suggests that social exclusion
may increase pro-social behavior (Carlson & Miller, 1987; Cialdini & Kenrick,
1976; Williams & Sommer, 1997) and the need to affiliate (Maner et al., 2010).
Williams, Cheung, and Choi (2000) demonstrated that following ostracism,
individuals are more likely to engage in appeasing behavior and conform to the
opinions of others in order to gain social acceptance. Similarly, following significant
threats to social status, such as the death of a close relative, female chacma baboons
(Papio hamadryas ursinus) demonstrate an increase in both grooming rate and the
number of grooming partners (Engh et al., 2006). It seems that, in order to attenuate
stress and compensate for immediate loss, female chacma baboons engage in more
communal behaviors to strengthen social relationships (Engh et al., 2006). In
humans, rejected individuals display a heighten sensitivity for social cues signaling
acceptance (Bernstein et al., 2008; DeWall, Maner, & Rouby, 2009) and react
more generously toward individuals who may be good candidates with whom to
develop a friendship (Maner, DeWall, Baumeister, & Schaller, 2007).
Chronic Consequences of Social Rejection, Exclusion and Ostracism

To this point, our discussion has centered on acute effects of social exclusion.
Effects of chronic exclusion, on the other hand, highlights the critical importance
of the need to belong (Baumeister & Leary, 1995). Social support buffers an
individual from acute stress, and the negative consequences of exposure to
chronic stress. By and large, these protections are missing when an individual is
socially excluded (Weik, Maroof, Zöller, & Deinzer, 2010). Social support has
been associated with an attenuated cortisol response following stressful events
(Heinrichs, Baumgartner, Kirschbaum, & Ehlert, 2003; Kirschbaum, Klauer,
Filipp, & Hellhammer, 1995), decreased incidence of mental illness (Kessler &
McLeod, 1985; Taylor & Brown, 1988), and increased longevity (Berkman &
Syme, 1979; Cohen & Wills, 1985; Kawachi et al., 1996). In contrast, a lack of
social support has been associated with anxiety disorders (Torgrud et al., 2004),
mood disorders (Leary, 1990), cardiovascular disease (Sorkin, Rook, & Lu, 2002),
and immunoincompetence (Kiecolt-Glaser et al., 1984).
Effects of Ostracism, Social Support, and Social Isolation on HPA

Axis Function—Consequences for Disease
Social Anxiety
When primed with the idea of persistent and enduring social exclusion (e.g., being
told that their personality profile confers lasting loneliness throughout adulthood),
individuals often experience increases in self-defeating behavior (Twenge,
Catanese, & Baumeister, 2002) and decreases in self-esteem (Leary, Tambor,
Terdal, & Downs, 1995). Through interviews with victims of chronic ostracism,
Zadro (2004) found that these individuals appear to have accepted feelings of
worthlessness and alienation, and in fact will often engage in self-ostracism in what
seems to be misguided attempts to protect themselves from further victimization
and rejection. Individuals with Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD) often engage in
similar avoidant behaviors in order to shelter themselves from situations in which
they may be exposed to the scrutiny of others (Condren, O’Neill, Ryan, Barrett,
& Thakore, 2002). Extensive human and animal research demonstrates that
hyperactivity of the HPA axis has been associated with socially avoidant behavior
(Roelofs, Elzinga, & Rotteveel, 2005). In primates, olive baboons (Papio anubis)
with elevated basal and reactive HPA activity demonstrated significantly greater
social avoidance and behavioral inhibition compared to troop members with
lower overall HPA activity (Sapolsky, 1990). Similarly, in humans, increased HPA
activity in healthy individuals has been associated with selective attentional bias for
threatening social cues and increased social avoidance (Roelofs, Bakvis, Hermans,
van Pelt, & van Honk, 2007; Roelofs et al., 2005; van Honk et al., 1998, 2000).
More recently, Roelofs et al. (2009) demonstrated that patients with SAD
showed greater cortisol responses to a social stressor and subsequent avoidance of
socially threatening stimuli compared to both healthy controls and patients with
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Further, cortisol response predicted the increase
in social avoidance tendencies during stress in patients with SAD. Moreover, this
effect remained even after controlling for possible confounds such as gender and
medication. Collectively, these and other studies suggest that the hyperactivity of
the HPA axis may contribute to increased avoidant behavior and decreased social
competence, resulting in the maintenance of social anxiety and self-ostracism.
Extensive evidence suggests that loneliness is strongly associated with increased
activity of the HPA axis. Individuals who are chronically alone demonstrate
elevated mean salivary cortisol levels throughout the day compared to their
sociable counterparts (Cacioppo et al., 2000). Similarly, Steptoe, Owen, Kunz-
Ebrecht, and Brydon (2004) demonstrated that social isolation was significantly,
positively correlated with cortisol awakening response (CAR), a neuroendocrine
response characterized by a marked increase in cortisol secretion in the first 30 to
40 minutes following awakening (Pruessner et al., 1997), even after adjusting for
waking cortisol value, sex, socioeconomic status, smoking, time of waking and
body mass. Finally, elevated morning cortisol secretion has been shown to predict
clinical depression (Goodyer, Tamplin, Herbert, & Altham, 2000; Halligan,
Herbert, Goodyer, & Murray, 2007; Harris et al., 2000).
Depression
Clinical depression, better known as Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) is a
debilitating mental illness characterized by significant distress, lost productivity
and increased risk for suicidality (American Psychiatric Association, 2013).
Dysregulation of the HPA axis is widely assumed to be linked to both the onset
and the maintenance of MDD (Nemeroff & Vale, 2005; Plotsky, Owens, &
Nemeroff, 1998). Various cross-sectional studies have found associations between
the presence of MDD and alterations of the HPA axis, including elevated cortisol
secretion (Chrousos & Gold, 1992), higher levels of corticopropin releasing
hormone (Ehlert, Gaab, & Heinrichs, 2001), impaired negative feedback of the
HPA axis (Thase, Jindal, & Howland, 2002), and alterations in morning
awakening cortisol (Huber, Issa, Schik, & Wolf, 2006). Perhaps the most effective
buffer against the HPA axis dysregulation is the presence of social support (Cohen
& Wills, 1985; Koolhaas et al., 2011). Unfortunately, at present it is unclear
whether alterations of the HPA axis reflect consequences of MDD, or whether
they reflect a general susceptibility to mood disorders that are present prior to the
emergence of psychopathology (Bhagwagar & Cowen, 2008). There is some
scant evidence supporting the hypothesis that individuals at greater risk for MDD
(e.g., a first degree relative with MDD) demonstrate alterations of the HPA axis
prior to the development of a mood disorder (Mannie, Harmer, & Cowen,
2007). If true, then social support, and by extension social exclusion become
critical risk factors in the development of MDD (Allen & Badcock, 2003).
Immunocompetence
Chronic activation of the stress response caused by psychosocial stressors increases
chronic disease risk, exacerbates preexisting conditions such as hypertension,
atherosclerosis, insulin-resistant diabetes, immune suppression, and increases
susceptibility to acute, infectious diseases (Bolger, Foster, Vinokur, & Ng, 1996;
Miller, Kemeny, Taylor, Cole, & Visscher, 1997; Pressman et al., 2005; Sapolsky,
Romero, & Munck, 2000). Evidence supporting a role for social connectedness
in immunocompetence is emerging. For example, after controlling for age,
gender and health status, individuals with fewer social connections are 2.5 times
more likely to die from the same illness compared to those with more connections
(Kawachi et al., 1996; Sapolsky, 1994). Kiecolt-Glaser et al. (1984) found that
loneliness was associated with a reduction in natural killer cell activity and overall
immunocompetence. Capitanio, Mendoza, Lerche, and Mason (1998) showed
that socially isolated rhesus macaques (Macaca mulatta) infected with simian
immunodeficiency virus had higher glucocorticoid levels, fewer antibodies
against the virus and a greater mortality rate, compared to those not socially
isolated. Poorer immune function was found among women suffering from
various forms of close, personal disruption, including divorce and separation
(Kiecolt-Glaser et al., 1987). Finally, and perhaps most disturbing, Leserman et al.
(2000) found that speed of progression from human immunodeficiency virus
infection (HIV) to full acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS) was
associated with higher serum cortisol and a lack of satisfactory social support.
Collectively, these studies demonstrate that isolated and rejected individuals are
more likely to exhibit dysregulation of the HPA axis and are at increased risk for
the emergence and progression of a host of serious and fatal illnesses.
Conclusion and Future Directions

The core of social exclusion, unlike most other negative social interactions, lies
in its threat of humans’ most fundamental needs; specifically, the need to belong,
the need for control, the need for self-esteem, and the need for meaningful
existence (Williams, 2002). Whereas immediate response to social exclusion
includes negative mood, heightened physiological arousal and hostility, prolonged
social exclusion and the resulting social isolation has been linked to chronic
dysregulation of the HPA axis, decreased immune function, and increased risk of
a disarmingly wide variety of serious diseases.
By and large, the field of psychoneuroendocrinology—the clinical study of
hormone fluctuations and their relationship to human behavior—is still in its early
stages. As a result, the complete hormonal underpinnings of both acute and
prolonged consequences of social rejection have yet to be fully mapped out. It
would be especially revealing to examine individual differences that may confer
protection against the negative consequences of social rejection, such as particular
cognitive styles or coping mechanisms. Findings from these studies have the potential
of providing foundational data for empirically supported clinical interventions.
Moreover, while most studies tend to evaluate social rejection from the perspective
of the target, or the individual experiencing rejection, it would be interesting to
examine social rejection from the perspective of the perpetrator. Studies in this realm
have significant implications in reducing bullying and related behaviors, and provide
greater general understanding of why individuals engage in social rejection.
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7
ONLY THE LONELY
The Curious Case of Exclusion and Aggression
C. Nathan DeWall, Brian Enjaian, and Sarah Beth Bell
It’s hard to go against our instincts. Starving people crave food, the drowning
seek life preservers, and the sick search for medicine. To oppose these natural
drives undermines well-being. In extreme cases, it is a death sentence. This is
why most people do what they can to satisfy their basic needs when those needs
become threatened.
But there is a curious exception to this rule: excluded people often act in ways
that increase their chances of future exclusion. People have a fundamental need
to belong that is deeply rooted in our evolutionary history and has consequences
for modern psychological processes (Baumeister & Leary, 1995; Williams, 2009).
Having evolved in small groups, people relied heavily on others for much of what
they needed to survive and reproduce. Excluded people had to fend for
themselves. To maximize their chances of passing their genes on to future
generations, people needed to respond to exclusion by redoubling their efforts to
regain acceptance. The bad news is that social exclusion causes something to go
awry, leading people to act aggressively rather than peacefully.
Why does this happen? That is what this chapter is about. We seek to explain
what happens to the mind and body of excluded people that makes aggression
seem like the best option. We also show how dominant theories of aggression
can help explain why excluded people behave aggressively and how to reduce
such aggression.
The chapter is divided into eight sections. The first section describes two
social psychological theories of aggression that help explain the relationship
between social exclusion and aggression. The second section discusses how and
why exclusion-related aggression persists despite downward historical trends in
social disconnection and aggression. The third and fourth sections review some
classic laboratory findings that link social exclusion to aggression and offer
96 C. Nathan DeWall, et al.
explanations about what might help explain that relationship. The fifth, sixth, and
seventh sections identify personality traits, biological factors, and features of the
environment that influence exclusion-related aggression. We conclude the
chapter by discussing broader implications of exclusion-related aggression and
how to prevent it.
General Aggression Model and I3 Theory

Before we marinate you in data, we show the value of placing those data within
a broader theoretical context. The General Aggression Model (Anderson &
Bushman, 2002; DeWall, Anderson, & Bushman, 2011; Figure 7.1) is a dynamic,
developmental, and social-cognitive model that blends perspectives from domain-
specific theories of aggression. Personality, biological, and environmental variables
serve as inputs to internal states of affect, cognition, and arousal, which in turn
feed into appraisal and decision processes.
Social exclusion is a situational input that can increase aggression. Exclusion
alters cognition, affect, and arousal (Williams, 2009). It also influences how
Biological Environmental
Modifiers Modifiers
Personality
Person Situation
Social
Encounter
Proximate, Cognition
Episodic Present
Factors & Internal
Processes State
Affect Arousal
Thoughtful
Action
Appraisal &
Decision
Processes
Impulsive
Action
FIGURE 7.1 General Aggression Model

Only the Lonely 97
people appraise conflict, often leading them to opt for impulsive, aggressive
actions rather than thoughtful, prosocial actions. Such aggressive actions have
direct implications for the excluded person’s future behavior and personality.
I3 theory (pronounced I-cubed theory) argues that behavior is determined by
a combination of impellance, instigation, and inhibition (hence the three Is in I3
theory; Finkel, 2014). Impellance refers to situational or stable factors that
enhance the likelihood or intensity of aggression. Instigation is any factor that
triggers an aggressive urge. Inhibiting factors help people override their aggressive
urges. Aggression is highest under conditions of high impellance, high instigation,
and low inhibition.
Social exclusion represents an instigating factor because it frequently increases
aggression. I3 theory helped explain who is most at risk for exclusion-related
aggression and how to prevent such aggression. In one study, the most aggressive
people were those who experienced social exclusion (high instigation), were
highly sensitive to rejection (high impellance), and did not consume a beverage
known to enhance inhibition (low inhibition) (Pfundmair, DeWall, Fries, Geiger,
et al., 2015).
Cultural Changes
The world has never been more peaceful (Pinker, 2011). We rarely attend public
executions and bounty hunter is no longer a thriving occupation. Most instances
of torture now involve people hurling nasty insults online rather than boiling
strangers in iron bulls, burning witches at the stake, and cutting off the tongues
of people who question authority.
War and terrorism captivate worldwide attention, leading people to fall prey
to the availability heuristic when judging over all levels of world violence
(Tversky & Kahneman, 1973). In reality, very few people have died in recent
wars compared with those in previous years (Goldstein, 2012). Even fewer people
have died at the hands of terrorists. Between the years 2004 and 2013, for
example, 80 Americans were killed in terrorist attacks (START, 2015). Only 36
of those deaths occurred on U.S. soil. In the same period of time, 373,598
Americans died in vehicular accidents (IIHS, 2016).
Not only is the modern world mostly nonviolent, it is also filled with more
and more people who feel socially connected. Over the past several decades,
researchers have identified a decline in feelings of loneliness (Clark, Loxton, &
Tobin, 2015). Both of these pieces of evidence suggest that it might be difficult
to find any relationship between social exclusion and aggression. How could such
a relationship exist when feelings of exclusion and aggressive behavior are at
historically low levels?
Exclusion-related aggression still occurs because aggressive urges don’t go
away. When people feel rejected, it hurts. Just as threats to our physical safety
provoke aggressive responses, relationship threats also trigger aggressive urges,
even though aggression is widely regarded as a poor way to resolve conflict. Such
a potent response speaks to the power of the need to belong in shaping strong
behavioral responses when it is threatened. Next, we will identify situations when
socially excluded people typically behave aggressively.
Classic Laboratory Findings

What might happen if today you learned that you would die alone? You might
have friends and relationships now, but they won’t continue. You might marry
or have several marriages, but they’re likely to be short-lived. Relationships don’t
last. When you get past the age when people are constantly forming new
relationships, the chances are that you will be alone more and more.
Such was the situation that some students were led to believe (Twenge,
Baumeister, Tice, & Stucke, 2001). The idea was that anticipating a lonely
future might lead students to feel socially excluded, leading them to behave
aggressively. Other students were told they would always have relationships or
that they would experience a physically, but not socially, unpleasant future (see
Chen, Williams, Fitness, & Newton, 2008; Chen & Williams, 2012, on some
differences between reliving and anticipating social and physical pain). All
students received a full debriefing at the end of the study. Next, students were
given a chance to behave aggressively.
The study yielded some successes and, like any scientific study, had some
limitations. Students who anticipated a lonely future showed the highest levels of
aggression. But how does expecting a future filled with social exclusion compare
with the actual experience of being excluded?
A follow-up experiment tested this question by having participants arrive at
the laboratory in small groups. Participants learned each other’s names and other
personal information. Next, the experimenter led participants to individual rooms
and asked them to identify the two people they liked most and would want as an
activity partner. Finally, the experimenter returned and told some of the students
that no one chose them as a partner. This was the social exclusion condition.
Other students, having been randomly assigned to the social acceptance condition,
were told everyone picked them. The experiment concluded with giving
participants an opportunity to behave aggressively.
Actual exclusion, similar to anticipated exclusion, increased aggression. As
evidence began to accumulate, researchers began to identify other factors that can
increase or decrease exclusion-related aggression. Some early evidence showed
that one reason excluded people behave aggressively is that they lack feelings of
control (Warburton, Williams, & Cairns, 2006). We’ll discuss this line of research
more in later sections.
The main exception to findings linking exclusion to aggression occurred
when researchers allowed excluded people to restore their sense of belonging.
Having a friendly social interaction, thinking about a close relationship partner,
Only the Lonely 99
or expecting to meet a new social partner caused socially excluded people to

become prosocial rather than antisocial (DeWall, Twenge, Bushman, Im, &
Williams, 2010; Maner, DeWall, Baumeister, & Scaller, 2007; Twenge, Zhang,
Catanese, Dolan-Pascoe, Lyche, & Baumeister, 2007). These findings shined a
light of hope on the social exclusion literature by showing how easily excluded
people turn from aggressive to peaceful individuals. By giving excluded people a
feeling of social acceptance, they no longer felt a drive to hurt others.
Offering excluded people opportunities to feel connected can reduce their
aggression, but it does not fully explain why they behave aggressively. The next
section discusses three mechanisms underlying the relationship between social
exclusion and aggression: currently experienced emotion, anticipated emotion,
and hostile cognitive bias.
Mechanisms Underlying Exclusion-related Aggression

Having shown that social exclusion increases aggression, the next step in the scientific
process involved identifying why excluded people act aggressively. The most
straightforward place to start was how excluded people feel. When people describe
their exclusion experiences, they often report feeling sad, anxious, and angry
(Baumeister & Tice, 1990; Leary, Twenge, & Quinlivan, 2006). Unfortunately, early
attempts failed to show that negative affect mediated the link between social exclusion
and aggression. But these studies relied largely on null results, which are inherently
ambiguous. More research was needed to determine what, if any, relationship
emotion played on understanding why excluded people behave aggressively.
Later research showed how focusing on discrete emotions rather than general
negative affect offered a more precise test of the emotion-as-mediator hypothesis.
Anger was a promising candidate because it is strongly linked to both social exclusion
and aggressive actions (Leary et al., 2006; Sell, Tooby, & Cosmides, 2009).
Consistent with this prediction, anger accounted for the relationship between social
exclusion and aggression (Chow, Tiedens, & Govan, 2008). Sadness did not have a
mediating role. These results suggest that discrete emotions that have theoretical
relevance to both social exclusion and aggression represent the clearest path to
understanding how emotion influences excluded people’s aggressive behavior.
Some recent evidence suggests that anticipated emotion plays a prominent role
underlying aggressive responses to social exclusion. Aggression is a reinforcing
behavior that is linked to activation in the brain’s reward centers (Chester & DeWall,
2016a). In a recent series of studies, we showed that socially excluded people behave
aggressively because they expect that such behavior will repair their mood (Chester
& DeWall, in press). They are right: excluded people who behaved aggressively no
longer experienced emotional distress that typically accompanies social exclusion.
Such aggression doesn’t make excluded people feel good; it simply undoes their
distress, returning them to their emotional baseline. Aggression functions as a negative
reinforcer: excluded people escape their negative by lashing out.
Social exclusion also influences cognition in ways that can increase aggression.
Threatened by exclusion, people begin to see the world through blood-colored
glasses (DeWall, Twenge, Gitter, & Baumeister, 2009; Reijntjes, Thomaes,
Kamphuis, Bushman, et al., 2011). Faced with ambiguously threatening
information, excluded people err on the side of caution. Such a hostile attribution
bias is a fundamental process that helps explain reactive aggression (Dodge,
Malone, Lansford, Sorbring, et al., 2015).
Personality Traits
Social exclusion is a potent threat to well-being, but not all people respond with
aggression. Some people have traits that strengthen or weaken their likelihood of
lashing out. Below, we list several traits known to moderate the relationship
between social exclusion and aggression.
Destiny Beliefs
Not all relationships are the same. And not all people think of relationships the
same way. Some people believe that certain people are destined to be together,
whereas others believe that the best relationships are ones in which people grow
through experience and resolving conflict (Knee, 1998; see Dweck, 2006, for a
review). These differing implicit theories of relationships have direct implications
for how people respond to social exclusion. When excluded, people who hold
strong destiny beliefs act aggressively (Chen, DeWall, Poon, & Chen, 2012). In
contrast, people who hold strong growth beliefs do not react to social exclusion
with heightened aggression.
Narcissism
Narcissism refers to having inflated self-worth, feelings of entitlement, and
extreme sensitivity to possible threats (Bushman & Baumeister, 1998). In recent
years, scholars have amassed a large amount of evidence that culture and parenting
practices contribute to the development of narcissism (Brummelman, Thomaes,
Nelemans, S. A., Orobio de Castro, Overbeek, & Bushman, 2015; Twenge &
Campbell, 2009). Social exclusion threatens narcissists’ trumped up egos, which
increases their anger and aggression (Twenge & Campbell, 2003). Neuroimaging
evidence demonstrates that the more social exclusion activates pain regions in the
brain, the more aggressively narcissists behave (Chester & DeWall, 2016b).
Rejection Sensitivity
Rejection sensitive people anxiously expect and respond strongly to social
exclusion (Downey & Feldman, 1996). When excluded, those high in rejection
Only the Lonely 101
sensitivity often behave aggressively (Ayduk, Gyurak, & Luerssen, 2008). One
reason why rejection sensitive people behave aggressively is that they struggle to
control their aggressive urges. Having good self-control breaks the link between
rejection sensitivity and exclusion-related aggression (Ayduk, Mendoza-Denton,
Mischel, Downey, et al., 2000; Pfundmair et al., 2015).
Just-world Beliefs
Most people prize fairness over injustice. Some people take this to an extreme, in
which they believe that people deserve what they get no matter the pain or
suffering they have to experience. Such just-world beliefs influence how people
respond to many events, including social exclusion (Lerner & Miller, 1978).
Among those who hold strong just-world beliefs, social exclusion signals an
injustice that needs to be punished. As a result, they behave quite aggressively
when excluded (Poon & Chen, 2014).
Biological Explanations
Genetics
Some abused and neglected children become antisocial adults, whereas others do
not. Specific genotypes help us understand these different developmental paths.
The MAOA gene, dubbed the “Warrior Gene” (McDermott, Tingley, Cowden,
Frazzetto, & Johnson, 2009), metabolizes neurotransmitters, such as dopamine,
norepinephrine, and serotonin (Cases, Seif, Grimsby, Gaspar, et al., 1995). People
carry either a low-expression or high-expression form of the MAOA gene
(L-MAOA and H-MAOA, respectively).
The MAOA genotype affects not just neurotransmitters but also brain
structure in general. Dorsal anterior cingulate cortex (dACC) activity correlates
with the pain of social rejection (Eisenberger et al., 2003). This relationship
between dACC activity and exclusion-related distress is strongest among
people with low expression of the MAOA gene. Of particular relevance, the
more reactivity MAOA-L carriers show to rejection, the more likely they are
to have an aggressive personality (Eisenberger, Way, Taylor, Welch, &
Lieberman, 2007).
Additional research helped refine our understanding of how the MAOA gene
influences exclusion-related aggression (Gallardo-Pujol, Andrés-Pueyo, &
Maydeu-Olivares, 2013). In this experiment, participants were genotyped and
then experienced ostracism or inclusion using the Cyberball paradigm (Williams
et al., 2000). Participants expressed their aggression by playing a different
computer game where they had opportunities to sabotage the people who had
either ostracized or included them. Excluded participants who had low expression
of the MAOA gene showed the highest levels of aggression.
Physiological Reactivity
Aggression also relates to physiological activity. People quick to anger react fast in
general (Raine et. al., 2002). These rash reactions happen for many reasons. Some
aggressive people have blunted fight-or-flight responses and do not experience
much fear or arousal (Raine et al., 2002). This physiological profile characterizes
a small subset of aggressive people, namely those at risk for psychopathy. Many
other aggressive people have heightened flight-or-fight responses (Obradović et
al., 2011). These overreactions may have helped our ancestors survive and
reproduce. But such overreactions in the modern world can lead to regrettable
aggression that does not seem to serve an obvious evolutionary purpose.
Or do they? To find out, researchers studied a segment of the population
notorious for unnecessary aggression: teenage girls. Participants attended a
summer camp where teenage drama could fester. At the end of the summer, these
young ladies completed an interview that included sensitive questions about
popularity and aggression. While answering these delicate questions, several
physiological measures were taken. The experimenters upped the ante when they
had these girls play Cyberball, in which they experienced ostracism or inclusion.
When ostracized, girls rated as more aggressive on peer reports had the highest
physiological reactivity.
The research team hoped to further understand how reactivity in the central
nervous system and the peripheral nervous system related to angry outbursts. For
example, they measured changes in respiratory sinus arrhythmia activity (RSAR).
Girls had more changes in RSAR if they were more popular, and less of these
changes if they were “wannabees” as coded by peer report. The popular girls
aggressed more when their fight-or-flight system was blunted, perhaps because a
lack of fear allowed for more aggression. However, when the wannabees aggressed,
it was often related to an exaggerated fight-or-flight response. Wannabees had a
more vulnerable social standing, so more action was needed to protect it. When
this standing was threatened and they overreacted, their bodies produced a heap of
signals urging them to aggress (Shoulberg, Sijtsema, & Murray-Close, 2011).
Neural Responses
When people fly into crazy rages, we say that they are out of control. Aggression
relates to a physiological readiness to react, but to what extent can our willpower
override these urges? Neurological research on aggression examines areas of the
brain that help control the heated beast within. We want to aggress to get our just
desserts, but we know there may be undesirable consequences. One part of the
brain that helps us inhibit our aggressive urges is the right ventrolateral prefrontal
cortex (rVLPFC). The rVLPFC also helps people cope with the pain of rejection
(Eisenberger et al., 2003). This finding led some of us to wonder about the role
of the rVLPFC in shaping exclusion-related aggression.
Only the Lonely 103
Can we manipulate the brain to increase our level of self-control? With a little
zap of electricity to our heads, we can quiet our aggressive urges. A new
technology called transcranial direct current stimulation (tDCS) delivers very low
electrical currents to targeted areas of the brain. One type of electrical current, an
anode current, makes neurons more likely to fire in the targeted area. tDCS can
only stimulate the cortex of the brain. It cannot manipulate the deep-seated
dACC, but the prefrontal cortex is fair game.
To manipulate ostracism, we used Cyberball (Riva, Lauro, DeWall, et al.,
2014). But we added a slight twist: some participants underwent the ostracism
manipulation while receiving electrical brain stimulation. Half of the participants
received sham stimulation that felt real but did not stimulate any areas of the
brain. Other participants received anodal stimulation, which stimulated the
rVLPFC. When the participants got a chance to lash out at the mean confederates
who left them out of a game of catch, only the ones who received the fake
stimulation acted aggressively. The people who received the real stimulation
knew they hadn’t received many ball tosses, but they acted as if they had not been
left out at all.
Environmental Factors
Disrespect versus Dislike
Which would prompt a more aggressive response, being excluded because others
disrespect or dislike you? In a series of studies, researchers examined this question
by measuring and manipulating how much people felt accepted or excluded
because others held them in varying levels of respect (e.g., “Their suggestions are
pretty useless and dumb. They seem pretty stupid to me”) and liking (“The
writer doesn’t seem like a very nice person. I don’t think I would have much fun
working with them and I’m sure no one else would either”). Excluded people
who felt disrespected responded more aggressively than did those who felt
disliked (DeBono & Muraven, 2014).
Feelings of disrespect following exclusion may stem from the link between
inclusion and respectfulness (de Cremer, 2002; de Cremer & Tyler, 2005).
Someone who views inclusion as a sign of respect may view exclusion as a sign
of disrespect. The lack of appreciation or lack of regard from others associated
with disrespect can cause the person to perceive a loss of status (Wojciszke, Abele,
& Baryla, 2009). This can lead an excluded person to behave aggressively in order
to regain lost status and honor (Cohen, Nisbett, Bowdle, & Schwarz, 1996).
This does not mean individuals who are disliked are not aggressive. Following
exclusion, the most aggressive individuals are those that perceive a lack of
appreciation, a loss of status, and a lack of fondness. Thus, excluded people who
feel both disliked and disrespected are often those who act most aggressively
(DeBono & Muraven, 2014).
Control
When an individual is ostracized or rejected, four basic human needs come
under threat: belonging, control, self-esteem, and meaningful existence
(Williams, 1997, 2001). A perceived loss of control over a situation leads
individuals to behave more aggressively. This aggression is used to help restore
their lost freedom, reduce negative affect, and gain back a sense of control
(Mueller, 1983).
The General Aggression Model can also help explain the link between control
and aggression. To start, many individuals have beliefs that link a lack of control
to aggression. However, these beliefs alone do not increase aggression. A
situational trigger, such as social exclusion, is needed to enhance the likelihood of
aggression. The combination of individual beliefs and situational factors is what
can lead excluded individuals to respond aggressively. Exclusion cues individuals
to a loss of control, which in turn increases aggression.
To establish the impact of control following exclusion, a simple experiment
was conducted (Warburton et al., 2006). Participants were invited into the lab to
complete a taste preference study. While the experimenter ostensibly checked on
another group, the participant and two confederates sat quietly in a room.
With a basket full of children’s toys nearby, one confederate grabbed a toy and
began a game of toss. Excluded participants were tossed the ball three times at
first, only to never be tossed the ball again. They were forced to sit and watch the
two confederates continue the game without them. Included participants received
a third of the tosses, playing the entire time.
Following the impromptu game of toss, participants were escorted to individual
rooms. Here, they were informed that their sense of hearing would be
overwhelmed prior to the taste task. To engulf participants’ hearing, they listened
to unpleasant noises. The noises ranged from chalk squealing on a blackboard to
high-pitched human screams. Participants not given control were forced to sit
through 50 seconds of unpleasant noises. The noises came randomly and lasted
for different amounts of time. Those who were allowed to regain control of their
situation could choose when they would listen to the unpleasant noises.
Aggression was measured by asking the participant to give a sample of hot
sauce to one of the confederates from the ball tossing game. The confederate
strongly disliked hot sauce; rating spicy foods a “3” on a 21-point scale. Greater
amounts of hot sauced doled out meant higher levels of aggression.
Excluded individuals who were not in control of the aversive noise gave
confederates the most amount of hot sauce. Those who were given control
behaved less aggressively (Warburton et al., 2006). These data support the idea
that aggression is one tactic individuals use in order to regain control of their
situation following rejection. When an individual is given control, there is no
longer a need to aggress.
Only the Lonely 105
Expectations About Exclusion

Because exclusion was detrimental in our ancestral history, humans evolved
mechanisms for detecting and responding to exclusion (Kerr & Levine, 2008;
Spoor & Williams, 2007). Sociometer theory states that we read others’ behaviors
to predict how it will affect our status and relationships in society (Leary, Tambor,
Terdal, & Downs, 1995). Based on others’ behaviors, people can predict whether
they will be excluded or accepted by the group.
Activation in the dorsal anterior cingulate cortex correlates with predictions
of social exclusion (Eisenberger et al., 2011). The more exclusion people
anticipate experiencing, the more blood flows to the dACC. This finding
dovetails nicely with earlier work linking such activation to the pain of rejection
(Eisenberger et al., 2003).
The link between control deprivation and aggression is not solely the result
of a desire to regain control of the situation or of other people. Sometimes
people behave more aggressively when they feel that they can no longer
accurately predict social exclusion (Wesselmann, Butler, Williams, & Pickett,
2010). In one study, participants were allowed to interact with a group of
confederates. The confederates either acted friendly or ignored the participant.
These interactions led participants to make predictions about whether they
would be accepted or rejected.
Not surprisingly, participants who perceived the group as friendly predicted
that they would experience social acceptance. When these individuals experienced
social exclusion, they responded aggressively. If people already expected to
experience exclusion, they did not react to being excluded by behaving
aggressively. The increase in aggression can be attributed to individuals feeling
that they lost predictive control over their situation.
Perceived Group Cohesion

Most studies that examine social exclusion and aggression focus on how individuals
respond when they experience exclusion by another individual. Though
uncommon, sometimes excluded people aggress against multiple people. For
example, on April 16, 2007, Cho Seung-Hui, who had experienced chronic
exclusion, fatally shot 32 people at Virginia Tech University. Most of the time,
exclusion-related aggression is retaliatory. People feel excluded and harm those
who excluded them. In the case of Cho Seung-Hui, however, investigators were
unable to identify a connection between Cho Seung-Hui and most of his victims.
The cohesiveness of the group can help explain why some individuals retaliate
against multiple victims. As a group begins to be viewed as cohesive or close, the
individual members start to become blurred with one another (Hogg, 2006;
Hogg, Terry, & White, 1995; Tajfel & Turner, 1979). This blurring effect can
lead to group members to become interchangeable. The behavior of one member
can then be generalized to other group members or the entire group (Crawford,
Sherman, & Hamilton, 2002).
A correlational study found that as perceived closeness of a group increases, the
more an excluded individual fantasizes about aggressing against that group (Gaertner,
& Iuzzini, 2005). To test the true relation of cohesion and multiple victims, researchers
conducted an ingenious experiment (Gaertner, Iuzzini, & O’Mara, 2008). To
manipulate cohesion, a group of confederates entered the lab, one at a time. Those
in the cohesive group condition discussed a volleyball game from the day before.
When the group was not perceived as close, the confederates remained silent.
Everyone was then told that there were too many participants and one
individual would have to leave. Participants were asked to draw cards to decide
who would be dismissed from the study. One confederate stood up, pointing to
the participant, and stated, “S/he should be the one who leaves!”
The experimenter asked the participant to help with the remainder of the
study. The participant’s job was to control how loud the noise levels should be
set for the noise tolerance task. The noise blast would be sent simultaneously to
all the confederates. Aggression was measured by how much the participant made
the confederates suffer by listening to loud blasts of noise.
Despite being rejected by only one individual, aggression against the entire
group varied. When the participant viewed the group members as close to one
another, excluded participants administered louder noise blasts to the group. This
suggests that Cho Seung-Hui may have fatally shot so many people because he
viewed them as a single, tightly knit group.
Dyads
When excluded people have the opportunity to affiliate with others, they become
less aggressive (Twenge et al., 2007). Affiliation helps reduce aggression because
it fulfills an individual’s need to belong. However, affiliation has a directional
effect on reducing aggression. If an individual is accepted by a group before being
excluded by another, the excluded individual will respond aggressively to the
exclusion experience (Tang & Richardson, 2013).
In one study, dyads and individuals were brought into the lab. Dyads played with
other dyads, whereas individuals played against other individuals. When a dyad was
excluded, they responded more aggressively than if an individual was excluded (van
Beest, Carter-Sowell, van Dijk, Williams, 2012). Thus, affiliation prior to exclusion
does not act as a buffer against aggressive behaviors following exclusion. Instead,
exclusion at the group level can lead to an increase in aggressive behaviors.
Broader Implications
What can we conclude from our voyage through the research literature on social
exclusion and aggression? The first, and most important, point comes from
Only the Lonely 107
historical data: we should see fewer and fewer instances of exclusion-related

aggression in the future. More and more people feel socially connected, resulting
in lower feelings of loneliness (Clark et al., 2015). Aggression also continues to
decline, as people find better strategies to resolve their conflicts (Pinker, 2011).
Thus, exclusion and aggression will both continue, and sometimes happen
together, but they should occur less frequently and intensely over time.
A second point concerns how much exclusion-related aggression hinges on
the prospect of acceptance (DeWall & Richman, 2011). Most early studies on
social exclusion and aggression offered excluded people no opportunity to regain
a sense of belonging. The target of aggression was either the person who excluded
them or an innocent bystander whom they would never meet. When excluded
people felt a small amount of social acceptance, their aggression dropped. The
possibility of acceptance can also drive excluded people to help, conform, and
mimic others who they see as potential friends (Lakin & Chartrand, 2008; Maner,
DeWall, Baumeister, & Schaller, 2007; Williams & Sommer, 1997).
These findings have two broader implications, one that is positive and one
that is slightly negative. On the bright side, it shows how easy it is to turn
someone who is at risk for aggression into someone who poses little threat to
anyone. But the downside is that this strong urge to reconnect may lead excluded
people to engage in antisocial behavior when doing so can earn them social
acceptance. Although no research has investigated this possibility, excluded
people may “go along to get along” with a new aggressive friend if doing so will
earn them social acceptance.
Finally, future investigations may consider how developmental changes in
relationship orientation may influence the relationship between social exclusion
and aggression. The research reviewed in this chapter dealt primarily with
undergraduate college students. But there are ripe theories regarding why these
effects may become stronger or weaker across the lifespan.
In early adolescence, children become hypersensitive to social acceptance.
Such sensitivity to peer acceptance helps explain why teens are prone to take risks
(Steinberg, 2014). Given the importance of peer acceptance, social exclusion may
cause them to experience tremendous hurt, leading to aggressive responding. In
contrast, older people tend to adopt a relationship orientation marked by avoidant
attachment, in which they desire autonomy and interpersonal distance (Chopik
& Edelstein, 2014; Chopik, Edelstein, & Fraley, 2013). This heightened avoidant
attachment orientation may help explain why older adults show muted responses
to social exclusion (Hawkley, Williams, & Cacioppo, 2011).
People need people, and when this need to belong becomes threatened
sometimes people behave aggressively. Over the past 15 years, researchers have
provided substantial evidence regarding the relationship between social exclusion
and aggression. But in many ways this is only the start of many intriguing findings
to come. The future is full of possibilities, and we hope researchers continue to
investigate this topic in order to prevent exclusion-related aggression.
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8
SOCIAL EXCLUSION AND THE SELF
Cynthia L. Pickett and Yanine D. Hess
Social exclusion and ostracism are phenomena that have been observed among
humans and across a range of non-human species, including primates, wolves,
lions, and bees. However, humans are unique in that they possess self-
consciousness. Humans are aware of themselves as beings and this awareness leads
to the generation of thoughts, feelings, and actions in relation to the self. The
goal of this chapter is to explore how human selfhood shapes responses to social
exclusion as well as how social exclusion shapes the self. In the first part of the
chapter, we examine how aspects of the self moderate responses to rejection. In
doing so, we highlight the fact that focusing on the self can help us better predict
responses to rejection. In the second half of the chapter, we review research on
how the experience of rejection alters the self. This work suggests that self-views
and self-motives can be significantly influenced by rejection even when the
rejection experience is minimal or fleeting. The chapter concludes with a
discussion of future avenues of research that might provide further insights into
the relationship between the self and social exclusion.
The Self as a Moderator of Responses to Social Exclusion

The experience of social exclusion has been shown to be associated with a variety
of emotional, cognitive, behavioral, and physiological responses. However,
substantial variation exists in the nature and extremity of these responses. Much
of the work examining how aspects of the self moderate responses to social
exclusion has focused on relatively stable, dispositional features of the self (e.g.,
narcissism, self-esteem), while a smaller body of research has examined the role of
other features such as self-structure. In the following sections, we summarize the
research to date that demonstrates how aspects of the self moderate responses to
114 Cynthia L. Pickett and Yanine D. Hess
rejection focusing specifically on the domains of emotion, cognition, behavior,

and physiology.
Emotional Responses
A universal reality is that social exclusion hurts. The pain of exclusion is reflexive
and even brief rejection episodes can result in sadness, anger, and hurt feelings
(Leary & Leader, 2009). In their multimotive model, Richman and Leary (2009)
have proposed that after the immediate, reflexive, and globally negative emotional
response to rejection has occurred, individuals’ construals of the rejection
experience will shape their subsequent behavioral responses. In the current
section, we argue that variation also exists in terms of individuals’ emotional and
cognitive responses and that the self is a key moderator. Although there tends to
be wide agreement that negative emotions are easily and quickly triggered by
exclusion experiences, the magnitude of these emotional reactions may differ
across individuals, particularly once one moves beyond the immediate, reflexive
stage (see Hartgerink, van Beest, Wicherts, & Williams, 2015; Ren, Hales, &
Williams, this volume).
Narcissism
Narcissistic personalities possess highly inflated, unrealistically positive views of
the self, feelings of entitlement, and a lack of regard for others. Although narcissists
do not place a lot of value on their relationships (Campbell, Rudich & Sedikides,
2002), they are sensitive to the fact that a lack of these relationships signals low
relational value (Twenge, 2007). Social rejection, which indicates low relational
value, flies in the face of the narcissists’ grandiose self-views. This can lead to
externalization of blame in the form of anger (an externalizing emotion) rather
than sadness or anxiety (Twenge & Campbell, 2003). Thus, individuals’ emotional
experience following social exclusion should vary according to levels of narcissism.
One of the first set studies to examine this possibility was conducted by
Twenge and Campbell (2003). In one study, participants were asked to recount
a rejection experience and report their emotional experience at the time of the
original event. Narcissism was positively correlated with feelings of anger (when
controlling for internalized negative affect) and negatively correlated with
internalized negative affect (when controlling for anger). A second study using a
live rejection experience replicated this pattern of effects for anger. Thus, anger,
an externalizing emotion, appears to be experienced more strongly by those who
are higher in narcissism.
The relationship between narcissism and emotional responses to social rejection
has also been studied looking at different forms of narcissism. Besser and Priel
(2010) had participants read scenarios depicting interpersonal rejection and
examined how grandiose and vulnerable narcissism differentially predicted negative
Social Exclusion and the Self 115
state mood (dysphoria, hostility, and anxiety) and feelings of anger. Grandiose
narcissism is characterized by arrogance, self-absorption, a sense of entitlement, and
reactivity to criticism. In contrast, vulnerable narcissism is characterized by a more
covert style of arrogance in that vulnerable narcissists may appear shy and convey
the appearance of empathy. In addition, vulnerable narcissists experience greater
anxiety in establishing and maintaining relationships with others and are
hypervigilant to cues of separation (Besser & Priel, 2009). For this reason, Besser
and Priel (2010) hypothesized that vulnerable narcissists would react to an imagined
social rejection with greater distress. Supporting this hypothesis, after imagining an
interpersonal rejection, high levels of vulnerable narcissism were significantly
associated with greater changes in negative mood state and anger.
Attachment Anxiety
Individuals possess ‘internal working models’ that include expectations about the
self as worthy of love and attention (the model of the self) and about others as
supportive and responsive (the model of the other; Bowlby, 1973). These
working models of self and other are shaped by early caregiving experiences and
have long-lasting consequences for self-evaluation, interpersonal perceptions, and
behavior (e.g., Colin, 1996), including expectations about adult relationships.
Individuals high in attachment anxiety (i.e., negative model of self) tend to
experience more intense negative emotional states and have exaggerated
perceptions of threat, whereas those high in attachment avoidance (i.e., negative
model of other) tend to distance themselves from threatening situations (see
Mikulincer & Shaver, 2007). For this reason, one might expect individuals high
in attachment anxiety to be particularly reactive to the possibility of social
rejection and those high in attachment avoidance to be less distressed by rejection.
Using imagined rejection scenarios, Besser and Priel (2009) found that
attachment anxiety was associated with increased anxiety, depression, and
hostility, as well as greater anger. These researchers framed their results in terms
of the vulnerability that attachment anxiety can produce. When people have
more negative representations of the self, this can result in greater emotional
distress and anger when confronted with the possibility of rejection. Conversely,
individuals experience less distress when they already hold negative representations
of others due to avoidant attachment styles (Yaakobi & Williams, 2015) or
personality disorders characterized by severe distrust and detachment from others
(Wirth, Lynam, & Williams, 2010).
Self-esteem
As is the case with attachment anxiety, fragile self-esteem (such as contingent self-
esteem) renders one vulnerable to the negative implications of rejection—i.e., the
suggestion that one is not valued or worthy of love—because feelings of
self-worth can only be maintained to the degree that the individual meets the
standards upon which his or her self-esteem is based (Kernis, 2003). Zeigler-Hill,
Besser, and King (2011) proposed that possessing fragile high self-esteem would be
associated with stronger reactions to social rejection compared to possessing secure
high self-esteem. In their study, participants responded to imagined romantic
rejection or neutral scenarios and predicted their emotional response to the
situation. Results demonstrated that individuals with contingent high self-esteem
expected to experience the greatest negative affect in response to the rejection
scenario compared to the neutral scenario. Thus, self-related vulnerabilities appear
to be predictive of the strength of individuals’ emotional reactions to rejection.
However, it is important to keep in mind that this study examined participants’
expected reactions, and how individuals actually respond to rejection may not be
subject to moderation by self-esteem (Williams, Cheung, & Choi, 2000).
Cognitive Responses
In addition to the emotions that are experienced following social rejection, a
cascade of cognitive responses also occurs. Social rejection appears to alter
relatively basic cognitive functioning at both early and late stages of processing.
The question that we address next is how these cognitive responses to rejection
differ as a function of the self. The cognitive changes elicited by social rejection
are thought to be motivated by a desire for reconnection or the desire to avoid
further rejection. Which of these motivations ultimately wins out depends in part
on the individual’s expectations regarding the potential for reconnection or
rejection (Maner, DeWall, Baumeister, & Schaller, 2007). Negative feelings
about the self (e.g., believing that one is not worthy of belonging and acceptance)
and negative beliefs about social situations (e.g., that rejection is inevitable) should
result in negative expectations and cognitive responses dominated by negativity
and social avoidance.
Self-esteem
Support for this idea comes from work on the association between self-esteem
and attention to rejection-related words. Dandeneau and Baldwin (2004)
demonstrated that participants with low (but not high) self-esteem exhibited
heightened attention to rejection words. Sinclair and Lentz (2010) conducted a
similar study examining the activation of acceptance and rejection cognitions
among high and low self-esteem individuals. Regardless of whether they had
previously been included or excluded, high self-esteem individuals tended to
inhibit thoughts of rejection as indicated by their slower responses to rejection
words in a Lexical Decision Task. In contrast, low self-esteem individuals
exhibited equal accessibility of rejection and acceptance words. A similar
pattern of results was observed in a study by Koch (2002). Low self-esteem
participants responded more quickly to rejection words in a Lexical Decision

Task after being presented with rejection or ambiguous primes, while high self-
esteem participants were not affected by the primes. Thus, once again we see
that individuals who are lower in self-esteem appear to show a bias toward
rejection-related cognitions whereas those higher in self-esteem either show no
preference between rejection and acceptance cognitions (Dandeneau &
Baldwin, 2004; Koch, 2002) or demonstrate inhibition of rejection cognitions
(Sinclair & Lentz, 2010).
Perceptions of the rejection experience are also moderated by self-esteem.
Nezlek and colleagues (1997) gave participants information indicating that they
had been included in or excluded from a laboratory group and then had them rate
how rejected they felt. When they had been excluded, low self-esteem participants
perceived more rejection than high self-esteem participants, suggesting greater
sensitivity to the rejection event. These researchers concluded that low self-
esteem might place people at risk for dysphoria and self-devaluation following
interpersonal rejection because of these negatively-biased perceptions.
Supporting the notion that low self-esteem may lead to self-devaluation,
research on self-perceptions finds similar negative biases. In one study, lower self-
esteem was associated with less positive self-appraisals after implicit rejection
(Sommer & Baumeister, 2002). Similarly, Ford and Collins (2010) found that low
self-esteem participants responded to a romantic rejection by appraising themselves
more negatively and making more self-blaming attributions. They proposed that
individuals with low self-esteem may have a prevention-oriented cognitive-
motivational system that quickly detects rejection, signals the possibility of hurt,
and motivates protective action.
Self-enhancement Motivation
As noted previously, negative beliefs and expectations can result in social
avoidance and negatively bias cognitive response to social rejection. In contrast,
adaptive disengagement (the motivation to self-enhance by removing negative
feedback as a basis of self-esteem) should buffer self-esteem from negative
feedback (Leitner, Jones, & Hehman, 2013). Leitner, Hehmen, Jones, and Forbes
(2014) hypothesized that individual differences in the tendency to engage in
adaptive disengagement would moderate responses to social rejection. To test
this, these researchers had participants complete the Adaptive Disengagement
Scale (Leitner et al., 2013) in a pretesting session weeks prior to a computer-based
laboratory session where they were told that other participants would be viewing
their image and profile and deciding whether to reject or accept their profile.
Results revealed that although all participants received equal amounts of
acceptance and rejection feedback, participants who engaged in less adaptive
disengagement estimated more instances of rejection, suggesting again a negative
cognitive bias.
Rejection-sensitivity
Another self-related construct that has been shown to moderate cognitive
responses to potential social rejection is rejection-sensitivity. Rejection-sensitivity
is characterized by the tendency to anxiously expect, readily perceive, and
overreact to social rejection (Downey & Feldman, 1996). Supporting this,
Romero-Canyas and Downey (2013) found that low rejection-sensitivity
participants perceived less negativity from a video of another person purportedly
viewing and judging them. This suggests that, when faced with the potential for
rejection, low rejection-sensitivity can mitigate the negativity of individuals’
subjective perceptions of how others see them.
Rejection-sensitivity can also influence how individuals see themselves
following rejection. Ayduk, Gyurak, and Luerssen (2009) specifically examined
the link between rejection-sensitivity and self-concept clarity—the extent to
which self-knowledge is clearly and confidently defined, internally consistent,
and temporally stable. Because self-concept clarity can be undermined by
failures in valued goal domains, Ayduk and colleagues hypothesized that an
experience of rejection would cause highly rejection-sensitive individuals to
experience diminished self-concept clarity. As predicted, self-concept clarity
was indeed undermined following rejection among those participants high in
rejection-sensitivity.
Self-concept Organization
In addition to personality traits, structural features of the self can also influence
responses to rejection. Carolin Showers proposed a model of evaluative self-
organization with two types of self-structure. Integrated self-structures are
characterized by self-aspects that contain a mixture of positive and negative
self-beliefs. In contrast, in compartmentalized self-concepts, positive and
negative attributes about the self are contained in distinct self-aspects such that
each self-aspect contains mostly positive or mostly negative information.
Compartmentalized self-structures are hypothesized to leave individuals
vulnerable to negative events because those events can activate a purely
negative self-aspect. Based on this reasoning, Zeigler-Hill and Showers (2007)
predicted that individuals with compartmentalized self-structures would be
more negatively affected by social rejection than those with integrated self-
structures. In a two-part, lab-based study, participants first completed a
measure of self-structure. After experiencing exclusion or inclusion in a
second session, participants reported their state self-esteem and perceived
social rejection. In response to exclusion, those with an evaluatively
compartmentalized self-structure reported lower state self-esteem and greater
perceived rejection compared to those participants with an evaluatively
integrated self-structure.
Behavioral Responses
Control, Persistence, and Performance
Past research has found that individuals low in self-esteem exhibit deficits in self-
regulation following social rejection. Across two studies, individuals low in self-
esteem demonstrated decreased self-control after social rejection (VanDellen et
al., 2012). Similarly, after an implicit rejection manipulated through priming
rejection-related words, low self-esteem individuals persisted less at an unsolvable
anagram task and performed worse on a solvable anagram task (Sommer &
Baumeister, 2002). In contrast, high self-esteem individuals exhibited increased
persistence after the implicit rejection, although their actual performance on the
solvable anagram task was unaffected by the rejection. Although these results
could suggest that lower self-esteem individuals are unable to self-regulate after a
social rejection, additional research indicates this is not the case: When a self-
regulation task was presented to participants as an indirect measure of social skills,
low self-esteem (compared to high self-esteem) individuals demonstrated greater
self-regulation. This suggests that low self-esteem individuals are capable of self-
regulating, but may be motivated to regain belonging, consequently allocating
their attention and self-control accordingly (VanDellen et al., 2012).
Interpersonal Responses
Negative and aggressive responses to social rejection, as well as preferences for
future interaction partners also appear to be moderated by the self. Rejection-
sensitivity, narcissism, and a perceived lack of control have all been found to
predict greater aggression after social rejection. Experimentally induced reductions
in feelings of control (Warburton, Williams, & Cairns, 2006) and greater
rejection-sensitivity (Ayduk, Gyurak, & Luerssen, 2008) have both been linked
to a greater allocation of hot sauce to innocent others after a social rejection.
Similarly, narcissism has been associated with greater aggression in administering
static noise blasts against both the rejecter and an innocent third party (Twenge
& Campbell, 2003).
In contrast, those manipulated to feel powerful demonstrated heightened
reconnection motives after social rejection, including a greater willingness to join
a social network site and to contribute money to a student social event (Narayanan,
Tai, & Kinias, 2013). Similarly, high self-esteem individuals demonstrated pro-
social behavioral responses as evidenced by their relative willingness to interact
with rejecting evaluators (Rudich, Sedikides, & Gregg, 2007). Although all
individuals preferred to interact with an accepting evaluator, this bias was less
pronounced among high self-esteem individuals. Additional analyses suggested
that this willingness might have stemmed from high self-esteem individuals’
greater expectations that subsequent interactions would be positive.
Health and Well-being

Considerable research has documented the negative effects of social rejection on
individuals’ health. This research suggests that high self-esteem may buffer
individuals from the negative psychological and physiological consequences of
social rejection. For example, in a longitudinal daily diary study, Ford and Collins
(2013) found that lower self-esteem was associated with increased risky behaviors
and poorer sleep quality on days in which individuals felt more rejected, as well
as greater stress, depressed mood, feelings of unhealthiness, and increased reports
of physical symptoms the day after the rejection. Thus, self-esteem played a
crucial role in the negative impact of social rejection, as well as the persistence of
that negative impact the next day. Rejection-sensitivity has also been linked to
negative health impacts in the form of self-directed hostile cognitions—i.e., the
desire to harm oneself—that are a precursor to actual self-injurious behavior
(Nock, Prinstein, & Sterba, 2009). Brienes and Ayduk (2015) found that
participants who were high in rejection-sensitivity were more likely than those
low in rejection-sensitivity to report or show greater self-directed hostile
cognitions in rejection conditions compared to control conditions.
Differences in well-being after rejection may be due to the different ways in
which high and low self-esteem individuals experience and interpret social
rejection. Low self-esteem individuals interpret personal feedback less positively
(Somerville, Kelley, & Heatherton, 2010), mirroring findings among highly
rejection-sensitive individuals (Romero-Canyas & Downey, 2013). Additionally,
research suggests that low self-esteem individuals respond to rejecting feedback in
a self-defensive manner: low self-esteem individuals distanced themselves from
and derogated their relationship partners after a perceived relationship threat. In
contrast, high self-esteem individuals used close others as a resource after
experiencing rejection by affirming their relationship partner and increasing
closeness (Murray, Rose, Bellavia, & Kusche, 2002). Furthermore, high self-
esteem individuals experienced less rejection distress if a close other, rather than
a stranger, was present (Teng & Chen, 2012). Overall, these findings indicate that
low self-esteem individuals may interpret and experience social rejection more
negatively, feel less comforted by their close others, and consequently experience
greater detriments to their well-being after a social rejection.
Neurological and Physiological Responses

In recent years, researchers studying social rejection have begun to explore the
neurological and physiological underpinnings of individuals’ responses to social
exclusion. This research has yielded important insights into how the brain
processes information signaling rejection and how differences in neurological and
physiological activity predict emotional, cognitive, and behavioral outcomes. In
this section, we review studies that have examined the relationship between
social rejection and neurological or physiological responses as a function of self-

related characteristics.
Self-esteem
A growing body of studies indicates that self-esteem moderates both neural and
physiological responses to social exclusion. After rejection, lower self-esteem has
been shown to be associated with greater attentional responses in ERP (Li et al.,
2012), heightened startle responses (Gyurak & Ayduk, 2007), greater vACC/
mPFC responses to positive versus negative social feedback (Somerville et al.,
2010), and increased activation of neural areas of the brain that process social pain
(Onoda et al., 2009). In addition, Ford and Collins (2010) observed greater
cortisol reactivity to rejection among those lower in self-esteem.
Narcissism
As previously noted, individuals who are high in narcissism tend to respond
more negatively to real or imagined rejection because rejection flies in the face
of their grandiose and inflated self-views. Sommer and colleagues (2009) sought
to probe this relationship more deeply by examining physiological responses to
imagined rejection as a function of levels of narcissism. After completing
measures of overt (i.e., Narcissism Personality Index; NPI) and overt–covert
narcissism, participants imagined either an interpersonal acceptance or rejection
scenario while their systolic and diastolic blood pressure were measured. Results
demonstrated that overt–covert narcissism and the Entitlement/Exploitativeness
dimension of the NPI were positively associated with increases in systolic and
diastolic blood pressure and recovery elevation of heart rate following rejection
but not acceptance. Thus, cardiovascular reactivity to rejection appears to be
sensitive to individual differences in individuals’ self-views as captured by the
construct of narcissism.
Rejection-sensitivity
Facial expressions are an important source of social information and can quickly and
easily convey to people whether they are being rejected by others. Burklund,
Eisenberger, and Lieberman (2007) hypothesized that neural responses to
disapproving facial expressions (a precursor to rejection) would be moderated by
individual differences in rejection-sensitivity. Using fMRI, these researchers
scanned participants while they viewed brief video clips of facial expressions
depicting disapproval, anger, and disgust. As predicted, participants who scored
higher on a measure of rejection-sensitivity exhibited greater dorsal anterior
cingulate cortex (dACC) activity in response to disapproving facial expressions, but
not in response to anger or disgust facial expressions. These results suggest individuals
high in rejection-sensitivity may be more sensitive specifically to facial expressions

signaling potential rejection and that this can be detected at a neural level.
Attachment Anxiety
Although research has demonstrated that responses to the threat of separation and
potential rejection differ according to individual differences in attachment anxiety
and avoidance (Mikulincer & Shaver, 2007), the neural underpinnings that give
rise to these responses have only recently been investigated. In one such study,
DeWall and his colleagues (2012) used neuroimaging techniques to examine how
neural activity during a simulated experience of social exclusion was uniquely
correlated with anxious and avoidant attachment scores. Results of their study
revealed that anxious attachment was associated with heightened activity in the
dACC and anterior insula, while avoidant attachment was related to less activity
in these regions. These findings are consistent with previous behavioral data
indicating that anxious attachment is linked to greater distress at the prospect of
rejection from others.
Effects of Rejection on the Self

The first section of this chapter was devoted to reviewing research that
demonstrates how aspects of the self can moderate responses to social rejection.
However, the relationship between the self and rejection is reciprocal. Aspects of
the self can alter responses to rejection and the rejection experience itself can
change the self. Social exclusion has been shown to be associated with a variety
of lower- and higher-order cognitive changes, including shifts in visual perception
(Knowles, Green, & Weidel, 2014; Pitts, Wilson, & Hugenberg, 2014), greater
preferences for mentalizing about positive social information (Powers, Wagner,
Norris, & Heatherton, 2013), changes in perceptions, attention, and behavior
toward others (e.g., DeWall, Maner, & Rouby, 2009; Knowles, 2014; Pickett &
Gardner, 2005), and changes in worldviews (e.g., Aydin, Fisher, Frey, 2010; Hess
& Ledgerwood, 2014). Research also suggests that social rejection affects general
cognitive functioning (e.g., Baumeister, Twenge, & Nuss, 2002; Kim, Vincent,
& Goncalo, 2013; Twenge, Catanese, & Baumeister, 2003). In the next section,
we provide a selective review of research studies that specifically highlight how
rejection alters individuals’ self-views, self-construals, and self-motives.
Self-views
Individuals’ views regarding their self-worth and their perceptions of belonging,
control, and meaningful existence (Williams & Nida, 2011) are heavily
influenced by social exclusion. Across numerous studies, rejected individuals
have reported a decreased sense of belonging after social rejection as well as
decreased state self-esteem during the rejection experience. Similarly, individuals

exhibit decreased feelings of personal control over their rejection experience
(Williams & Nida, 2011), which subsequently motivates rejected individuals to
regain a sense of control in other ways (such as aggression; Gerber & Wheeler,
2009; Warburton, Williams, & Cairns, 2006). Additional research has also
shown that the experience of ostracism, in particular, additionally undermine
an individual’s sense of self-control to the extent that individuals feel their
existence is meaningless (Williams, 2007). Thus, social rejection leads to many
negative self-perceptions.
Self-construal
In addition to negatively influencing self-perceptions, social rejection also affects
how individuals construe the self. The limited research in this area suggests that
rejected individuals may adopt an interdependent construal as a coping mechanism
to deal with the negative effects of social rejection. Supporting this, Knowles and
Gardner (2008) found that individuals showed heightened activation of group
constructs such as “family” and “woman” after being rejected. Furthermore,
rejected participants self-generated more idiosyncratic group and social identity
self-descriptors to describe themselves, indicating a tendency to view themselves
in terms of their group membership.
In addition to focusing on one’s groups, rejection can also lead individuals to
adopt the stereotypes of their in-groups. For example, socially rejected women
reported greater acceptance of stereotypical gender norms and greater accessibility
of female-stereotypic words (Aydin et al., 2011). Importantly, because the
concept of family is not fundamental to male stereotypes, men showed no changes
in activation of family related words after rejection, suggesting the effect is unique
to in-group stereotypes, rather than reflecting the more general interdependent
construal effect mentioned previously. Finally, additional research examining
identity fusion with one’s group suggests that identity fusion may moderate
certain group responses to rejection. Specifically, Gómez and colleagues (2011)
found that both in-group and out-group ostracism increased endorsement of
extreme, pro-group actions among those with fused identities, further
demonstrating this tendency among at least some rejected individuals to adopt
group perspectives and norms.
Thus, the current, albeit limited, research suggests that rejected individuals
may shift toward more interdependent self-construals. Although an interdependent
self-construal does not ameliorate the immediate pain of rejection, research
suggests that it is associated with a faster recovery (Ren, Wesselmann, & Williams,
2013). Thus, shifts in construal after rejection may provide a psychological buffer
against some of the negative effects of the self, including feelings of distress and
decreases in self-esteem, as well as serve to reestablish a sense of connection with
others (Knowles & Gardner, 2008).
Self-motives
Social rejection can activate self-protective and reconnection motives that drive
individuals’ perception, attention, and behavior (Hess & Pickett, 2010). As a
result, research has found a mix of pro-social and anti-social responses to rejection
reflecting each of these motives. Research on attention has consistently found
that rejected individuals attend more to social cues provided by others. For
example, Wilkowski, Robinson, and Friesen (2009) examined rejected and
accepted individuals’ attention to eye gaze. Results demonstrated that rejected
participants followed others’ eye gaze significantly more than accepted participants.
Similarly, DeWall and colleagues (2009) found that rejected individuals attended
more to smiling faces, but showed no attentional differences for neutral or
negative faces, or for objects (social or non-social). Additional research examining
smiles found that excluded individuals (compared to included or control)
demonstrated greater discrimination between genuine, Duchenne smiles and
non-Duchenne smiles, and indicated a greater preference to work with those
who displayed a genuine smile (Bernstein et al., 2008). Taken together, this body
of research suggests that social rejection may activate reconnection motives that
selectively attune individuals to attend to emotional cues in their social
environment that signal potential re-inclusion.
In addition, research on self-focused emotions suggests that individuals may
attend less to their own internal emotional states following rejection (Baumeister,
DeWall, & Vohs, 2009; Twenge et al., 2003; for a competing perspective, see
Gerber & Wheeler, 2009). In one study, rejected individuals were less likely to
report seeing quickly presented emotion words (e.g., scared), regardless of
valence, than accepted or control participants (Twenge et al., 2003). An additional
study also demonstrated that rejected individuals were less willing to face a mirror,
thus avoiding self-awareness. Taken together, this research suggests that, while
rejected individuals are motivated to attend to others’ emotions, they are also
motivated to protect the self and withdraw from their own emotions.
Research on rejection and social memory has found similar findings. Rejected
(compared to accepted) individuals remembered a greater proportion of social
entries after reading journal entries purportedly written by another student
(Gardner, Pickett, & Brewer, 2000). However, if participants imagined the
journal belonged to the self rather than to another individual, the reverse effect
was found: rejected participants recalled a smaller proportion of social entries than
accepted participants (Hess & Pickett, 2010). Thus, rejected individuals
demonstrated a self-protective motive, withdrawing from social information
when it was imagined to belong to the self despite their greater memory for that
same information if it reflected others’ social information.
Given that the research suggests rejected individuals are simultaneously trying
to pursue two, sometimes conflicting motives, it is unsurprising that research on
interpersonal behavior finds evidence for both pro-social and anti-social,
self-protective behavior (Maner et al., 2007). Some research has found that
rejection leads to an increased desire to work with new others, more positive
ratings of novel faces, greater interest in joining a social network, and greater
reward allocation to new interaction partners (Maner et al., 2007), while other
research finds negative responses including aggression and less helping behavior
(for a review, see Twenge & Baumeister, 2005). A recent meta-analysis suggests
that individuals pursue self-protective goals when the opportunity to regain
control is provided, but instead behave pro-socially if no option to regain control
is available (Gerber & Wheeler, 2009).
Conclusion
In this chapter, we sought to explore how human selfhood shapes responses to
social rejection as well as how social rejection shapes the self. In the first half of
the chapter, we examined how the self moderates responses to rejection. In the
second half of the chapter, we reviewed research on how the experience of
rejection alters the self. This work suggests that both chronic and transient self-
views and self-related motives can be significantly influenced by the experience
of rejection.
As is evident in this chapter, the extant research in this area has tended to focus
on the relationship between social rejection and a small subset of self-related
characteristics (e.g., self-esteem, narcissism). Future research in this area will
hopefully broaden to encompass other individual differences and self-related
features such as self-concept structure. In addition, work in this area could benefit
from a more expansive conceptualization of the self—i.e., considering not only
the personal self but also collective self-representations. Given that the limited
work in this area illustrates how the self and the group are intimately related and
how responses to rejection reflect the interplay between the two, researchers
should continue to explore how features of both the individual self and the
collective self may moderate responses to rejection. Finally, work in this area
could be enhanced by a greater focus on the temporal dynamics of rejection-
related processes. Most of the studies in this research domain assess outcomes at a
single point in time. Researchers should be encouraged to complement their
experimental designs with longitudinal designs that allow them to observe the
reciprocal nature of the relationship between the self and rejection outcomes.
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9
CREATING THE SILENCE
Ostracism from the Perspective of the Source
Lisa Zadro, Alexandra Godwin, Elena Svetieva,

Nisha Sethi, Rose Iannuzzelli, and Karen Gonsalkorale
There are two sides to every conflict. Within each ostracism episode, there is a
dynamic interplay between the target (the person being excluded and ignored)
and the source (the person/group that is excluding and ignoring). Given the vast
possibilities for ostracism in our day-to-day lives—in the schoolyard, the home,
and the workplace—we will all experience ostracism from the perspective of both
the target and the source. In fact, in a phone survey of more than 2,000 U.S.
citizens, 67 percent of respondents had regularly given the “silent treatment”,
whereas 75 percent reported that the silent treatment had been used on them
(Faulkner, Williams, Sherman, & Williams, 1997).
Many of our most memorable and painful ostracism experiences are those
when we were targets rather than sources of ostracism. For example, we remember
when we were the only ones not invited to a mutual friend’s party, or given the
silent treatment by a romantic partner. It is thus unsurprising that researchers have
focused their attention on the consequences of being excluded and ignored (for
a review, see Williams, 2007). Research findings have clearly demonstrated the
devastating psychological, physiological, and behavioral ramifications of being a
target, including threats to four primary human needs—belonging, control, self-
esteem, and meaningful existence (Williams, 2007). Other consequences of
ostracism include antisocial responses directed toward neutral third parties (e.g.,
Warburton, Williams, & Cairns, 2006) and depleted self-regulatory ability
(Oaten, Williams, Jones, & Zadro, 2008).
Clearly, ostracism is a particularly detrimental form of interpersonal conflict …
or is it? Could it be that the detrimental consequences of ostracism decried in the
literature are merely the product of a one-sided view of the ostracism experience—
that of the target? Given the ubiquity of ostracism across species, age groups, social
settings, and cultures (see Gruter & Masters, 1986), it seems logical to assume that
Creating the Silence 131
there must be some benefits to engaging in exclusionary behavior, even if there are
none to be had from receiving it. And herein lies the problem with the current state
of ostracism research—we have substantial evidence of the nature, causes, and
consequences of being a target of ostracism, but we know very little about sources.
Early ostracism research did acknowledge the importance of sources, investigating
the ostracism-related experiences of both targets and sources (e.g., Zadro, Williams,
& Richardson, 2005). Moreover, early versions of the core model of ostracism
(Williams, 1997; 2001) acknowledged sources, albeit fairly briefly, by outlining
factors that led sources to ostracize (i.e., antecedents), and the taxonomic structure
of the ostracism experience (i.e., the methods and motives for ostracizing). At the
same time, however, the model ignored other key aspects such as the effects of
ostracizing on sources’ primary needs, or the factors that moderate the consequences
of ostracizing. Later versions of the model completely removed sources altogether,
creating a purely target-centric model that in many ways accommodated the target-
centric focus of experimental research (see Williams, 2009). Multiple, easy-to-use
paradigms allowed researchers to reliably investigate the consequences of being a
target of ostracism (such as Cyberball; Williams, Cheung, & Choi, 2000), while at
the same time fostering a relative dearth of paradigms that could investigate sources
(see The Future of Source Research: Directions and Pitfalls section below).
Given the lack of experimental research on sources, most of what we know
about ostracizing comes from real-world examples involving both sources and
targets. These have included structured interviews (e.g., Zadro, Arriaga, & Williams,
2008), surveys (Iannuzzelli, 2014), event-contingent diaries (Williams, Wheeler, &
Harvey, 2001), and autobiographical recall techniques (Sommer, Williams,
Ciarocco, & Baumeister, 2001). These qualitative accounts highlight the complexity
of the phenomenon in its methods, motives, and consequences. Moreover, these
accounts provide evidence that ostracizing can lead to both positive and negative
outcomes, in contrast to the universally aversive outcomes experienced by targets.
Thus, the current chapter focuses on delineating what we currently know
about sources of ostracism: Why do sources ostracize (i.e., what are their motives)?
Who is more likely to ostracize (i.e., are there individual differences associated
with the use of ostracism rather than other forms of interpersonal conflict)? When
do we ostracize (i.e., are some situations more conducive to ostracism than other
forms of conflict)? How do sources ostracize (i.e., what are the methods used to
ostracize targets)? And finally what are the consequences of ostracizing and the factors
that moderate these effects? In the sections that follow, we will attempt to answer
these questions by drawing on real-world accounts of targets and sources, and the
handful of laboratory studies that have focused on sources.
Why do we Ostracize? Motivations to Exclude and Ignore Others

Compared to other forms of conflict, there are clear advantages to ostracizing.
Unlike verbal or even physical forms of conflict, the source has full control over
132 Lisa Zadro, et al.
every aspect of the ostracism situation: they choose when it begins, how it
manifests, and when it ends. This gives the source unilateral control over both the
target and the situation, which cannot be attained through other forms of
interpersonal conflict, such as an argument. Ostracism is also undeniably effective;
research suggests that it uniformly and adversely affects targets’ primary needs
(Williams, 2001; 2007). In addition, targets typically attempt to regain the source’s
regard and attention, by giving the source gifts, praise, apologies, or even pleading
for the silent treatment to end (Zadro et al., 2008).
As a form of punishment, ostracism has one particular advantage over others
that both enables and explains its widespread use. Studies of moral decision
making repeatedly find that individuals see omissions that lead to harm to be
more acceptable than acts that lead to harm (principally via an analysis of causal
attributions; Cushman & Young, 2011). In the case of ostracism, the passive act
of excluding or ignoring others may be seen as more acceptable than directly
punishing them via verbal or physical means. Ostracism is thus subtle, often
undetectable, and less likely to be condemned than other, more visible, forms of
conflict. Using ostracism, therefore, should lead to lower moral culpability and
less guilt than direct punishment. Ostracism sources may also feel “safer” in their
choice of conflict, as it may be less likely to lead to retaliatory behavior and
aggression by the target than the use of more proactive punishment.
Although the above factors explain why sources may prefer to use ostracism
instead of other forms of conflict, they do not speak to the specific motives
underlying its use. A survey study found that although targets often expressed that
they do not know why they are being ostracized, sources stated that the decision to
ostracize was always motive-driven (Iannuzzelli, 2014). In some cases the decision
was prompted by the behavior of a target, whereas on other occasions it served as
a means of achieving personal goals. Either way, as one source stated: “There is
always a reason why ostracism takes place” (Iannuzzelli, 2014; unpublished data).
Williams (1997; 2001) outlined three motives for intentionally ostracizing
others. Punitive ostracism is motivated by a desire to punish targets for their actual
or perceived wrongdoing. Punitive ostracism is often observed in the animal
kingdom, where members who challenge the authority of higher status members,
or who jeopardize the safety of the group, are forcibly removed (e.g., de Waal,
1986). Similarly, sources may punish a target’s inappropriate behaviors (e.g.,
children placed in time-out for their “naughty” behavior; Williams, 2001), or
their personal characteristics (e.g., beliefs, racial group). Moreover, punitive
ostracism acts as a deterrent for future similar behavior. As a punitive method,
ostracism does work: behavioral economists have demonstrated that introducing
ostracism as a punishment for defection promotes immediate behavioral change;
more specifically, players become more likely to cooperate (Hirshleifer &
Rasmusen, 1989) and to contribute to a public good (Maier-Rigaud, Martinsson,
& Staffiero, 2010). Ostracism is thus an effective punitive tool that enforces social
norms and ensures that members contribute towards the group.
Defensive ostracism occurs as a means of trying to minimize any form of

aversive outcome, whether it is to the self (i.e., psychological, physical), to others
(e.g., to one’s partner), or to a relationship. The aversive outcomes may range
from the relatively minor (e.g., ignoring a target rather than starting a conversation
that will make us late for an appointment), to more major aversive outcomes. For
instance, sources may defensively ostracize when trying to protect themselves
from targets (e.g., who are becoming verbally or physically abusive), or trying to
prevent the situation from escalating further or irreparably damaging the
relationship. In such highly charged conflict situations, defensive ostracism can
often be used as an emotional regulation strategy wherein the source hopes to
minimize the amount of highly negative emotion (e.g., distress, sadness, anger)
that both the source and the target feel and express. Such a strategy also extends
to situations where defensive ostracism is used as a result of prior exclusion; for
instance, an individual who is being ignored by a partner may physically (and
emotionally) withdraw from the relationship to minimize further distress, or
regain some control over the situation.
Finally, oblivious ostracism refers to ostracism episodes where the source does not
even deign to acknowledge the target’s existence. This typically arises in situations
where the target is beneath the notice of the source (e.g., passers-by ignoring the
existence of homeless people), or because the source has decided to cut the target
from his or her life (e.g., disowning a family member). Phrases such as “s/he is dead
to me” typify oblivious ostracism. Oblivious ostracism can also be differentiated
through the nature of the emotional experience associated with the ostracism:
during punitive and defensive ostracism, the source is likely to feel highly charged
emotions of anger and distress, and a desire to punish or affect the target. However,
the more passive nature of oblivious ostracism means that it is more likely to be
accompanied by contempt and disgust for the target (Hutcherson & Gross, 2011).
Although the motives outlined by Williams (1997; 2001) encompass a wide
variety of ostracizing behaviors, others are not captured by these categories.
Iannuzzelli (2014) identified additional motives from surveying over 200
participants about their real-life ostracizing experiences. Induced ostracism refers
to when an individual excludes and ignores a target at the behest of another. For
instance, within the Amish community, all members are instructed to ostracize
any member who is found guilty of disobeying the laws of their community
(Gruter, 1986). For induced sources, there may be penalties or negative
consequences for not engaging in the ostracism act (e.g., they may be ostracized
in turn, or may lose the friendship of the source or the security of the group).
In contrast, instrumental ostracism occurs when the source uses ostracism to
attain a specific personal goal. This goal may include using ostracism to fortify
primary needs. For example, in order to become part of a group and thus fortify
belongingness needs, an individual may voluntarily join other sources in excluding
a target. Similarly, a source may ostracize a target in pursuit of gaining control
over a situation. Ostracism may also be used instrumentally to achieve an
interpersonal goal, such as gaining the upper hand in a conflict or ending a

romantic relationship.
Thus, although many acts of ostracism appear similar on the outside—the
source does not speak to, look at, or in any way acknowledge the target—the
motive behind these acts may differ substantially. As a consequence, the source’s
thoughts, feelings, and behaviors (and possibly those of the target as well) may
also be differentially affected. For instance, Gooley, Zadro, Williams, Svetieva,
and Gonsalkorale (2015) compared the experience of sources who ostracized at
the behest of the experimenter (induced sources) to those who chose to ostracize
an obnoxious target (motivated sources). Induced sources reported significantly
more guilt and shame and behaved more prosocially toward their target than
motivated sources, who may have felt that the target deserved to be ostracized
(see also Legate, DeHaan, Weinstein, & Ryan, 2013). Clearly, more research is
needed to systematically investigate how motives influence the consequences of
ostracism for both sources and targets.
Who is More Likely to Ostracize? Individual Differences

Associated with the Use of Ostracism
It has been well established that ostracism is practiced frequently by men and
women from a variety of age groups, cultures, and socio-economic backgrounds
(Williams, 2001). Williams et al. (2001) asked 61 community members to document
instances when they ostracized over a two-week period. Participants recorded
1,005 episodes of ostracizing (approximately 16.5 episodes per person). Thus,
ostracizing is a common practice, probably used by all of us from time to time.
Some people, however, are perpetual sources; that is, they choose to use ostracism
rather than other forms of conflict or other methods of solving the problem (e.g.,
reasoning with the target, mediation, etc.). Interviews with real-world sources
have consistently highlighted several common traits of sources, including
stubbornness (“I’ll hold a grudge ’til the day I die”; Zadro, 2004, p. 88), and poor
verbal communication skills (“I’m not quick-witted and I can’t debate, nor do I
have snappy, sassy, comebacks—so when people want to argue, ostracism is my
defense”; Williams, 1997, p. 160). The trait of self-esteem has also emerged as an
important factor, such that individuals with low trait self-esteem report ostracizing
others more frequently, and often for defensive motives (Sommer et al., 2001).
Finally, individuals who have perfectionistic (Hewitt & Flett, 1991) and/or
narcissistic (Morf & Rhodewalt, 2001) traits may socially exclude people who do
not meet their expectations.
Ostracism is also sometimes used by individuals with mental health disorders,
often as a coping mechanism. For instance, as a way of managing their anxiety,
individuals with social phobia may avoid people whom they believe are likely to
make poor evaluations of them (Turk, Heimberg, & Hope, 2001)—that is, as a
form of defensive ostracism. Similarly, individuals who have psychotic symptoms
may defensively ostracize those whom they believe to harbor malicious intent
toward them, therefore avoiding them at all costs (see Freeman, Freeman, &
Garety, 2008). However, like many coping behaviors, ostracism is often not an
adaptive strategy. For example, the tendency for individuals with social phobia to
ostracize others may paradoxically maintain social anxiety (Turk et al., 2001). By
avoiding others, individuals are unable to gather evidence to disconfirm their
beliefs that others will make negative evaluations of them.
Finally, many sources state that familial tendencies play a large role in
determining whether they become perpetual sources (Iannuzzelli, 2014; Zadro,
2004). In interview and survey studies, sources often stated that they came from
families where they had observed the silent treatment being used by their parents
(typically where their father used the silent treatment on their mother), or where
one or both parents used the silent treatment on them (Iannuzzelli, 2014; Zadro,
2004). Through experience or observation, ostracism thus became their default
form of interpersonal conflict.
When do we Ostracize? Situational Factors Leading to the

Use of Ostracism
In contrast to perpetual sources, sporadic sources are more likely to use ostracism
as a result of factors arising from the situation. These sources react to environmental
factors indicating that ostracism is the most appropriate, effective, or possibly the
only sanctioned course of action. For instance, sources may be particularly likely
to use ostracism in public, as it is less obvious than arguing or using physical
abuse. Children who misbehave in class are often placed in “time-out,” as other
forms of punishment are not sanctioned within the school setting (e.g., canings
or verbal abuse; Williams, 2001).
Another antecedent identified in interviews with real-world sources is target
characteristics (Iannuzzelli, 2014; Zadro, 2004). In these studies, sources reported
ostracizing targets who excelled at other forms of social conflict (e.g., those who
had good debating skills), who were either higher in status (e.g., employees who
ignore their boss because they cannot verbally abuse them without negative
repercussions) or lower in status (e.g., CEOs may regularly obliviously ostracize
their lowly employees), or who showed a particular susceptibility to being
ignored. These studies also revealed that some targets naively inform their loved
ones of their susceptibility to ostracism, prompting their loved ones to use this
tactic towards them to gain the upper hand in conflict.
Finally, individual differences and situational factors often interact in
influencing a person’s decision to ostracize others. A socially anxious individual
may chronically avoid friends and acquaintances but interact normally with close
family members (Turk et al., 2001). Similarly, people with a strong fear of being
abandoned may ironically choose to ostracize others in certain contexts, perhaps
in order to protect themselves from getting close to others and then being hurt
(Young, Klosko, & Weishaar, 2003). Individuals with these beliefs may ostracize
romantic partners, but not friends, and vice versa. Thus, factors that may not
necessarily lead to ostracizing behavior on their own may trigger exclusion when
they occur along with other precipitating factors.
How do we Ostracize? Methods of Ostracizing

No two ostracism episodes are identical. An ostracism episode can vary along a
number of dimensions, including the medium in which the ostracism takes place,
the style of ostracism, the quantity of ostracism delivered, the causal clarity of the
episode, and the duration of the ostracism episode (Williams, 1997).
According to Williams (1997; 2001), ostracism can occur over three potential
mediums, which in turn influence the visibility of ostracism. Social ostracism occurs
when the source excludes and ignores the target while in the target’s physical
presence (e.g., not talking to or giving eye-contact to the target). Physical ostracism
occurs when the source physically removes him or herself from the target’s
presence (e.g., leaves the room when the target enters, a prison placing a person
in solitary confinement). Finally, Cyberostracism encompasses all forms of ostracism
that occur in the cyber realms (e.g., phone, email, fax, social media). If the source
is particularly perturbed with the target, he or she may simultaneously ostracize
the target across all three mediums.
The style of ostracism may also play a considerable role in dictating the
ostracism experience from the perspective of all involved. Interviews with real-
world sources reveal that the style of ostracism can be broadly classified as either
“noisy” or “quiet” (Iannuzzelli, 2014; Zadro et al., 2008). Noisy silence typically
stems from punitive motives. Sources engaging in this style of ostracism use
flamboyant gestures of ostracism, such as slamming doors in the target’s presence,
giving verbal verifications that they are ignoring the target, or theatrically leaving
a room when the target enters. It could be argued that noisy silence is not
ostracism in the strictest sense, as the source’s gestures signal acknowledgment of
the target’s existence that can be perceived by the target. Nevertheless, the source
is clearly intending to ostracize the target. Somewhat ironically, making the
intention to ostracize obvious to the target via gestures that acknowledge his or
her existence means that noisy silence is typically not as aversive as other styles of
ostracism. Moreover, given the considerable amount of energy that it takes to
maintain noisy silence, it is typically a short-term tactic.
In contrast, quiet silence is typically what comes to mind when one thinks of the
silent treatment (i.e., when the source ceases to acknowledge the target’s presence,
curtailing all verbal and non-verbal interaction with the target). Quiet silence can
be broadly divided into four categories. Holding-back occurs when sources are
enraged by the actions of the target, but rather than yell, they bottle their rage
inside. Tuning-out refers to instances where a source chooses to focus his or her
attention on something other than the target, effectively blocking out the target’s
presence in favor of performing a more preferred task (e.g., watching television

while the target is speaking). Shutting down occurs when the source is experiencing
extreme emotional stress (e.g., financial stress) and, lacking the resources to
adequately deal with the situation, the person grows unresponsive as a defense
mechanism to cope with the situation. Finally, the most potentially destructive
form of quiet silence is cutting off—when the source deliberately and completely
ignores the target, acting as if that person does not exist and wanting nothing
more to do with the target.
Once the source has selected the medium and style by which to conduct the
exclusion, he or she may also shape the ostracism experience by varying aspects
of the act itself; this can be accomplished through at least three different
mechanisms. The first is the quantity of ostracism delivered, ranging from partial
or low (e.g., still responding to some of the target’s comments, allowing occasional
eye-contact) to complete or high (e.g., completely cutting off contact with the
target verbally and nonverbally). The second is to alter the causal clarity of the
ostracism experience—that is, one can either make the reason for the ostracism
explicit to the target, or keep it ambiguous. Finally, sources can vary the duration
of the ostracism episode—i.e., whether ostracism is prolonged or episodic.
Prolonged ostracism consists of a single, unremitting period of exclusion that can
stretch anywhere from a couple of days to several years. In contrast, episodic
ostracism occurs when the source exposes the target to multiple episodes of
ostracism throughout the duration of their relationship.
Overall, the method by which sources ostracize the target will inevitably
influence the dynamics of the ostracism episode and its impact on both target
and sources.
What are the Consequences of Ostracizing?

Ostracizing is a complex behavior that varies in motive and method, and is driven
by myriad individual differences and situational forces. Not surprisingly, the
consequences of ostracizing on the primary needs and behavior of sources are
equally complex.
Effects of Ostracizing on Primary Needs

Williams (2007) stated that ostracism is unique from other forms of interpersonal
conflict because it adversely affects four primary human needs (belonging, control,
self-esteem, and meaningful existence). It has been clearly established that targets
of ostracism show a powerful and consistent depletion of all four primary needs
(Williams, 2007; 2009). However, evidence suggests that the effects of ostracism
on sources tend to be less consistent and predictable than the effects on targets.
The most consistent finding across both real-world and laboratory research is
the increased sense of control that sources experience when giving the silent
treatment. Unlike during an argument, where the target and source can both
attack, retaliate, and ultimately engage with each other during the interaction,
during ostracism it is only the source who controls the target and the dynamics of
the interaction. Sources decide when to initiate ostracism, and whether or not to
terminate the episode (e.g., “it feels good to be in control of the situation. Any
other alternative would decrease my level of control”; Williams, 1997, p. 160; see
also Zadro et al., 2008). The same fortification of control has been observed in
experimental research. For example, Zadro et al. (2005) found that during a
triadic “train ride” role-playing interaction (O-train; whereby two participants
play the role of the sources, and the other the role of the target during a simulated
train ride), sources of ostracism reported significantly higher levels of control
compared to sources of argument.
Ironically, despite the initial increased control that comes from ostracizing,
real-world sources often report losing control of the ostracism episode. As
ostracizing the target becomes less effortful and more habitual, the source risks
being unable to stop the ostracism episode even when he or she wishes to
reconcile with the target. The habit of excluding the target, even after a few days,
may become very difficult to break.
In contrast to the fairly consistent findings for control, the effects of ostracizing
on the other needs are mixed. Real-world sources have reported both heightened
and threatened belongingness; it is heightened when ostracizing with a co-source
and threatened when the target is a loved one (e.g., in reference to ostracizing
their partner, a source stated “You feel like crap … you don’t feel that you
belong …”; Zadro, 2004, p. 94). Moreover, avoiding the target can come at a
cost to one’s own social inclusion. For example, real-life sources reported
avoiding social situations, social networking groups, and conversations that they
knew the target would be part of (Iannuzzelli, 2014). These behaviors limit the
source’s access to social support, leading to their own relative isolation.
Similarly, some sources report heightened levels of self-esteem when
ostracizing (“when I’m giving the silent treatment, I feel good”; Zadro, 2004,
p. 94), whereas others report no change or even a decline as they may think less
of themselves for resorting to ostracism tactics with a loved one (“I felt pretty
low”; Zadro, 2004, p. 94). Finally, although real-world sources typically report
no change in their sense of meaningful existence, all sources admit that the
target pays more attention to them during the ostracism episode (Zadro, 2004).
Sources may feel like the center of attention because targets often resort to
drastic, often ingratiating behaviors in an attempt to terminate the ostracism
episode, such as begging the source to speak to them (Zadro et al., 2008).
Laboratory studies paint a similarly inconsistent picture. Zadro et al. (2005)
found that ostracizing fortified a source’s belongingness and self-esteem, not just
compared to inclusion but also to other forms of interpersonal conflict (e.g.,
arguing). In contrast, Bastian et al. (2013) found that participants who ostracized
reported a significantly greater threat to belonging and felt that their behavior was
more immoral, compared to participants who did not engage in ostracism. Thus
it appears that uniform threat to primary needs is unique to targets’ experience of
ostracism. For sources, using this complex phenomenon yields both need–threat
and fortification.
Additional Effects of Ostracizing

Laboratory studies have discovered other negative consequences for sources who
ostracize compared to those who include. They have shown significantly
diminished self-regulatory ability across a variety of tasks (Ciarocco, Sommer, &
Baumeister, 2001), higher levels of self-dehumanization (Bastian et al., 2013),
and even higher levels of sensory pain intensity (Bieri, Reeve, Champion, &
Addicoat, 1990) when writing about a time when they excluded someone (Chen,
Poon, Bernstein, & Teng, 2014). Thus, it appears that for many laboratory-based
studies of ostracizing, sources experience many of the negatives (threats to needs,
adverse behavioral consequences) and fewer of the “perks” (e.g., heightened
positive attention from the target) than real-world sources.
Moderators of Ostracism: Factors that May Explain Discrepant

Ostracism Findings
The often unpredictable and inconsistent effects of ostracism on sources suggests
that there may be multiple moderating factors at play, mostly relating to individual
differences and cognitive attributions (see Williams, 1997; 2001; 2009). For
example, sources may differ in their attitudes and beliefs about ostracism. One
source proudly stated: “I have often given the silent treatment to my husband, as
I believed it was my best weapon … It can make a grown man cry, without
having to hit him over the head” (Williams, 2001, p. 37). In contrast, other
sources may be penitent, expressing their shame and remorse at the detrimental
consequences of using ostracism on loved ones. One source stated: “I am not
proud of giving this treatment, and often feel I have let myself down by doing it
…” (Zadro, 2004, p. 86). Proud sources experience positive consequences and
report fewer aversive effects of ostracizing than penitent sources, deriving a sense
of power, control and even enjoyment from the episode. Other trait-like
individual differences also moderate the effects of ostracizing. For instance, several
sources who stated that they enjoyed solitude typically did not report a reduction
to their feelings of belonging or sense of meaningful existence as a result of
ostracizing the target (Zadro, 2004).
Attributions may also play a role in moderating the effect of ostracizing.
Sources whose motive for ostracism is punitive, and hence blame the target for
causing the ostracism episode (i.e., make an external attribution for the cause of
ostracism), report feeling less guilty about using the tactic (e.g., Gooley et al.,
2015). They are also less likely to initiate reconciliation with the target, and
instead wait for the target to make some form of overture, such as an apology,
before terminating the ostracism period (Zadro, 2004). In fact it is likely that any
factor that influences the nature of the source’s emotional reactions to his or her
own behavior, be it pride or contempt versus guilt and sadness, will affect how
aversive the experience is for the source.
The identity of the target and that person’s relationship to the source also
influence how aversive ostracism is for the source. Sources find it more difficult
to ostracize a loved one than an acquaintance, especially for an extended period
of time. For instance, one source stated that she would never ostracize family
members for more than a day, yet ostracized an acquaintance (whom she had
argued with) for over a year (Zadro, 2004).
Support networks may also moderate the effects of ostracizing as they help to
fortify the emotional bonds that are affected when sources ostracize. For instance,
one source stated that while she was ignoring her boyfriend, she would make a
concerted effort to go out with her female friends (Zadro, 2004). Support networks
can also lessen the aversiveness of ostracism for sources while they are taking part
in ostracism episodes (e.g., when a source’s friend, in a show of solidarity, also
decides to exclude the target). Experimental source paradigms in which participants
ostracize with one or more co-sources have reported some beneficial outcomes
(e.g., increased levels of control and belonging, Zadro et al., 2005; and increased
liking for fellow sources, Poulsen & Kashy, 2012), whereas those in which
participants ostracize alone have predominantly yielded detrimental outcomes for
sources (e.g., increased negative affect and depleted self-regulatory ability,
Ciarocco et al., 2001). Ostracizing with others may diffuse the source’s individual
responsibility for the ostracism and, through this collusion, also maintain (or even
heighten) his or her sense of belonging (Gruter & Masters, 1986).
The Future of Source Research: Directions and Pitfalls

The field of ostracism is still in its infancy and, as such, every study conducted
adds to our understanding of this phenomenon. Our knowledge about the nature
of ostracizing has improved considerably with several recent studies that have
been conducted from the perspective of sources (see Zadro & Gonsalkorale,
2014). However, findings from laboratory research have not always been
consistent with findings from real-world studies. This disparity may be due, in
part, to the difficulties in inducing participants to ostracize a stranger in ways that
reflect real-world instances of ostracizing. Developing ecologically valid source
paradigms is a key challenge for future source research.
Developing and Refining Source Paradigms

A variety of source paradigms have been developed to date, each with its own set
of strengths and inherent limitations. Broadly, source paradigms can be divided
into recall inductions, direct-source inductions, induced-source inductions,

contagion-source inductions, and motivated-source inductions.
Recall inductions are those where participants write about a real-life experience
where they ostracized another person (e.g., Bastian et al., 2013). This paradigm is
arguably high in ecological validity, as participants are likely to recall an ostracism
episode that is self-relevant. However, it is difficult to standardize aspects of the
ostracism episode (e.g., the target’s previous relationship with the source) across
participants using this paradigm.
Direct-source inductions or simulations are those where participants are
instructed to play the role of the source of ostracism during an interaction that may
be scripted (e.g., Zadro et al., 2005). In induced-source inductions, experimenters
ask participants to exclude another participant during an interaction. Although
participants are often given the choice to either include or exclude, they are also
informed that everyone else has chosen to include and that participants in the
ostracizing condition are “truly needed,” to increase the likelihood that participants
will exclude (e.g., Ciarocco et al., 2001). One limitation of both direct- and
induced-source inductions is that participants ostracize at the behest of the
experimenter. Thus, participants may feel that they are not personally responsible
for the ostracism. Feelings of personal responsibility may also be relatively low in
contagion-source inductions, in which two confederates initiate ostracizing the
target, and the participant must choose whether or not to join them (e.g.,
Wesselmann, Wirth, Pryor, Reeder, & Williams, 2013).
Researchers have recently attempted to address the potential limitations of
induced-source paradigms. Sommer and Yoon (2013) used a confederate who
was portrayed as either a jerk or a nice-guy. The experimenter instructed the
participant to either converse with, or ignore, the confederate during a subsequent
task. This could be classified as an induced paradigm because participants are being
instructed to explicitly ignore the confederate. However, the portrayal of the
confederate as a jerk may provide a motive to punish him, which may even affect
the duration and intensity of the ostracism episode that participants decide to
elicit. Thus, ostracizing in this paradigm could be considered motivated.
Motivated-source inductions aim to induce punitive ostracism by providing
participants with the opportunity to ostracize an unlikeable confederate (e.g.,
Gooley et al., 2015), or to investigate personal responses to stigma (e.g., Pryor,
Reeder, Wesselmann, Williams, & Wirth, 2013). The decision to ostracize may
not always be punitive, but instead directed towards increasing group cohesion.
Wesselmann, Williams, and Wirth (2014) modified the Cyberball paradigm to
include a confederate who takes too long to throw the ball. The participant’s choice
to ignore this confederate may be motivated by wanting to increase the productivity
of the group, which is not amenable to the target’s delayed ball-tossing.
Ultimately, experimental paradigms for source induction are characterized by
some degree of limited ecological validity. The ostracizing episode is typically
short in duration and requires participants to ostracize a stranger in the context of
an artificial interaction, often for arguably artificial motives. In contrast, real-world

ostracism occurs in contexts where the target and source typically have a meaningful
and pre-existing relationship, the motives for ostracizing are frequently punitive,
and the duration of the ostracizing episode can be long-term, varying from hours
to decades (e.g., Zadro et al., 2008). Given these discrepancies, findings from
empirical studies of ostracizing have limited applicability to real-world sources.
Enhancing the applicability of laboratory studies requires paradigms that capture
more features of real-world ostracizing, such as the motives for ostracizing.
Examining Targets and Sources Simultaneously

An ostracism episode is not static—it is a constant interaction between the target
and the source. Even though the source appears to have full control over the
ostracism episode, the target’s responses may influence the ostracism experience
for both targets and sources. For instance, sources may initially choose to
punitively exclude a target after the target has committed a transgression;
however, if the target refuses to change their behavior, the source’s motivation
may evolve into oblivious ostracism where they no longer care to acknowledge
the target’s existence. Moreover, the roles in the situation may also shift; real-
world targets stated that, as a result of being repeatedly rebuffed in their attempts
to regain the source’s attention, they often defensively (and ultimately, obliviously)
ostracized the source in return (Iannuzzelli, 2014). Hence, the roles of target and
source can be reversed to the point where it is difficult to determine who is
ostracizing whom.
Given the dynamic interplay between targets and sources, the challenge for
researchers is to create paradigms that are not only informed by real-world
experiences of ostracism, but that also allow the examination of both targets and
sources simultaneously to better understand ostracism in its entirety. However,
enhancing ecological validity while also capturing the perspective of both targets
and sources is no easy feat. For example, the train ride role-play paradigm (Zadro
et al., 2005) is one of the only paradigms that simultaneously examines both
sources and targets. However, as an induced-source paradigm in which participants
are instructed to ignore another participant, its ecological validity is potentially
affected. A promising avenue is to incorporate target conditions in motivated-
source paradigms, which provide participants with a motive for ostracizing and
thus more closely reflect real-world source experiences. By using this approach,
Gooley et al. (2015) revealed that ostracism leads to greater need–threat for targets
than for sources.
Another step towards better understanding the interplay between targets and
sources while achieving ecological validity would be to refine experience-sampling
methods. For example, the Sydney Ostracism Record study (Williams et al., 2001)
asked participants to fill out questionnaires in the moment, when they noticed
themselves ostracizing someone. This method could be applied to couples rather
than individuals, to examine effects on targets as well as sources. However,

although experience-sampling may be high in ecological validity, there is reduced
standardization in such factors as the types of situations participants find themselves
in when they complete the questionnaires, the severity and duration of the
ostracism episode, and whether what they perceive as ostracism is really ostracism.
The difficulty in ostracism research lies in investigating this multifaceted
phenomenon as it occurs in the real-world, while also creating standardized
experimental procedures to examine particular aspects of the phenomenon in the
lab. This conundrum underscores the need to continue examining ostracism both
in the lab and in the real-world. Moreover, it is important to explicitly
acknowledge the limitations inherent in any ostracism paradigm, taking care not
to generalize findings beyond the specific conditions created in a particular study.
For example, freely deciding to exclude an unlikeable individual yields different
effects than adhering to instructions from an experimenter to ostracize (Gooley et
al., 2015). Clearly, findings discovered in studies using a particular ostracism
paradigm cannot apply to all forms of ostracism.
Conclusion
Considering the potentially devastating effects of ostracism on the psychological
and physiological well-being of targets, understanding what underlies the decision
to ostracize is crucial. Systematic experimental research on sources will also allow
us to expand current models of ostracism so that they represent a more
comprehensive and empirically driven account of the ostracism experience.
Expanding the model to include physiological, psychological, behavioral and
even clinical effects on both targets and sources will ultimately inform researchers
and clinicians in their quest to better understand this complex phenomenon and
ameliorate its pernicious effects (Sethi, Moulds, & Richardson, 2013).
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10
SOCIAL SURROGATES
AND REJECTION
How Reading, Watching TV, and Eating
Comfort Food Can Ease the Pain of
Social Isolation
Shira Gabriel and Jennifer Valenti
We read to know we are not alone.

(C.S. Lewis in Shadowlands, Attenborough, 1993)
As illustrated again and again in this volume and others, the need to belong is
pervasive, potent, and comprehensive. Humans require the experience of
inclusion and connectedness with others in much the same way they require food
and drink, sleep, shelter, and safety (Baumeister & Leary, 1995; Williams, 2007).
In addition, the same affective system that serves other basic needs also serves the
need to belong. When we feel connected to others, we experience positive
emotions such as happiness. When our needs are thwarted, we feel negative
emotions such as anxiety, sadness, and jealousy (Frijda, 1988). We therefore strive
to maintain a sense of connection and fulfill this basic need. The current chapter
looks at the flexibility with which humans can fulfill the need to belong and
guard against feelings of rejection and isolation.
Illustrations of ways in which humans are flexible in filling other basic needs
abound. For example, historically, humans have relied upon naturally occurring
substances (e.g., coca leaves) or meditation to suppress appetite when food was
scarce. More recently, humans have turned to technologies, such as diet drugs, or
gastric-bypass surgery, to experience satiety without eating. Modern humans are
also quite flexible in filling their need for sleep, using caffeine to provide energy
when rest is scarce. In the current chapter, we argue that commonplace leisure
activities, such as reading narrative fiction, watching television, eating comforting
foods, browsing through Facebook feeds, and surfing the web for information
about favored celebrities can also provide the experience of need fulfillment. We
present research supporting the hypothesis that the facsimiles of social interactions
Social Surrogates and Rejection 147
presented in many leisure activities may actually be satisfying the fulfillment of

belongingness needs. Just as Harlow’s (1958) infant monkeys experienced comfort
from cloth surrogates, so too may beloved books, television programs, movies,
foods, and celebrities potentially serve as “social surrogates,” leading to an
experience of belongingness even when no real, bona fide belongingness has
been experienced. In this chapter we focus on social surrogates and their efficacy
in filling belongingness needs and reducing the negative effects of rejection and
isolation. We begin by defining social surrogates; next we discuss how social
surrogates may fill belongingness needs and protect against social rejection, and
then we consider their possible negative effects. Finally, we discuss what social
surrogates can teach us about the need to belong.
What are Social Surrogates?

Accumulating evidence suggests that humans can fulfill the need for social
connection not only through actual relationships, but also through symbolic
bonds called social surrogates (e.g., Derrick, Gabriel, & Hugenberg, 2009; Gabriel
& Young, 2011; Troisi & Gabriel, 2011). Social surrogates can be defined as
human or non-human targets with which one has a psychological, but not
physical connection. They fall under three basic categories: parasocial relationships
are one-sided psychological bonds with specific media figures, such as favorite
celebrities or fictional characters (e.g., Derrick, Gabriel, & Tippin, 2008; Young
& Gabriel, 2013; Young, Gabriel, & Sechrist, 2012); social worlds are narratives in
which people immerse themselves, like favorite books, movies, and TV shows
(e.g., Derrick et al., 2009; Gabriel & Young, 2011); and reminders of others are
non-human entities which serve to remind one of real social relationships, such
as pictures of friends, comfort foods from one’s childhood, and Facebook status
updates (e.g., Troisi & Gabriel, 2011).
Parasocial Relationships
We live in an age of the superstar, in which every celebrity’s whim, action, and
interaction can be monitored via celebrity “news” programs, gossip magazines,
and websites. This high level of contact with celebrities can lead to the
development of parasocial relationships (Horton & Wohl, 1965), in which people
experience one-sided psychological bonds and feelings of intimacy with these
individuals. In other words, consumers of popular culture may develop a sense of
closeness with celebrities, mimicking the psychological connection found in real
relationships (Derrick, Gabriel, & Tippin, 2008). Parasocial relationships are not
unusual, and are even seen as a normal part of identity development (Boon &
Lomore, 2001). These relationships form as time is spent with the social surrogate,
and a sense of intimacy develops out of “shared” experiences and interactions
over time. For example, the more a teenage girl learns about Taylor Swift’s life
148 Shira Gabriel and Jennifer Valenti
and the more she reads about things Taylor Swift has experienced, the closer she
is likely to feel to Ms Swift. The social surrogate becomes predictable, and fans
come to believe that they know and understand the media persona. With social
attraction (i.e., it seems like the social surrogate could be a friend) and repeated
exposure to the social surrogate, the parasocial relationship gains in relational
importance (Rubin & McHugh, 1987).
Social Worlds
The need for social connection (Baumeister & Leary, 1995; Maslow, 1968) propels
humans to affiliate with collectives (i.e., groups). Purportedly, the survival value of
collective life for our evolutionary ancestors (Caporael & Brewer, 1995) led to the
evolution of internal mechanisms that propel modern humans to collectives
(Stevens & Fiske, 1995). These mechanisms predispose people to experience
pleasure from collective affiliations, such as increased life satisfaction and positive
affect (Baumeister & Leary, 1995; Myers, 1992). The potency of the desire for
collective bonds leads people to easily take on collective identities, even on the basis
of the most minimal criteria (Tajfel, 1970). People even assimilate collectives to
which they do not belong, adopting their behaviors, attitudes, and traits (DeMarree,
Wheeler, & Petty, 2005). Research on narratives suggests that exposure to books,
movies, and TV shows can provide the positive experience of connection to a
collective by leading to the psychological assimilation of the collective described
within the narrative. In other words, research has suggested that reading the Harry
Potter books does not necessarily lead to a feeling of being friends with Ron,
Harry, or Hermione, but instead to a feeling of being a student at Hogwarts—of
being a member of Rowling’s magical world (Gabriel & Young, 2011).
Reminders of Others
Social surrogates also include non-human reminders of actual human relationships,
such as photographs and letters (e.g., Gardner, Pickett, & Knowles, 2005).
Indeed, research suggests that among an elderly population, looking at
memorabilia, like old pictures, reduces feelings of loneliness and isolation
(Sherman, 1991). Reminders of others can also come in the form of foods that
were previously cooked for us by loved ones. Those foods (perhaps not
surprisingly colloquially known as “comfort foods”) can provide a sense of
belonging via the cognitive link they retain to the caring relationship (Troisi &
Gabriel, 2011). Finally, Facebook and other social media sites can sometimes be
used to fulfill belongingness needs, in part, by looking at pictures and other
reminders of close others on those sites (Nadkarni & Hofmann, 2012).
Although the three different kinds of social surrogates detailed here differ in
many ways, they also share common, important features. Specifically, they are all
symbolic social connections (as opposed to real, tactile relationships), and they
have all been linked to the fulfillment of social needs. Early theorizing on social
surrogates generally assumed that they were a secondary method of filling social
needs that would be used mostly by people who were deficient in their ability to
form “real” bonds. However, empirical work has found little, if any, support for
that hypothesis (e.g., Rubin, Perse, & Powell, 1985). Indeed, instead of being
related to personality characteristics that make real relationships difficult, parasocial
bonds tend to be related to personality characteristics that are helpful for real
relationship formation, such as extraversion and empathy (Tsao, 1996). Similarly,
research suggests that parasocial bonds are associated with high, not low, self-
esteem (Turner, 1993) and are not predicted by chronic loneliness (Ashe &
McCuteaon, 2001). Thus, rather than demonstrating that using symbolic social
bonds as social surrogates is deviant or unusual, research seems to suggest that
such behavior is a normal part of modern human social need fulfillment.
Furthermore, the bonds formed with social surrogates mirror the bonds with
real relationship partners in many important ways. For example, research suggests
that maintenance and commitment to parasocial bonds, like real bonds, can be
predicted using the investment model of close relationships, which argues that
commitment to a current relationship can be predicted by satisfaction with the
relationship, quality of alternatives, and the amount invested (Rusbult, Agnew, &
Arriaga, 2012). Furthermore, attachment styles predict formation and success of
parasocial bonds in much the same way as it predicts these factors in regular
relationships (Cole & Leets, 1999). Finally, contact with social surrogates from
outgroups, in the form of watching television shows featuring members of other
groups, can lead to reduced prejudice in much the same way that contact with
real members of outgroups can reduce prejudice (Schiappa, Gregg, & Hewes,
2005). Thus, research suggests that social surrogates don’t replace real relationships
in one’s life but instead supplement them and operate using the same mechanisms
as those real relationships (Cohen, 2005).
Social Surrogates Can Protect against the Pain of Rejection

As detailed elsewhere in this volume, social isolation and rejection are serious
problems with a myriad of negative effects for those afflicted. Social rejection has
been found to frustrate social needs, leading to negative mood, feelings of
isolation, and reduced self-esteem (Gerber & Wheeler, 2009). Social exclusion
can also motivate the desire to forge new social bonds as a means of replenishing
depleted social connection. For example, people who have been excluded show
greater interest in making new friends and work harder to form positive bonds
with others (Maner, DeWall, Baumiester, & Schaller, 2007). However, forming
new bonds is tricky not only because they are not always available, but also due
to the inherent risk of rejection. Thus, although individuals who have been
rejected may want to form new social connections, attempting to form new
relationships can be risky. The inherent riskiness of real relationships suggests that
social surrogates can play a key role in fulfilling belongingness needs without the
chance of rejection.
Parasocial Relationships Fulfill Belongingness Needs and Protect

against Rejection
Sometimes the fear of social rejection can be enough to keep people from
fulfilling their connectedness needs through actual relationships. Ironically, the
times when one needs friends most can be the times when friends are hardest to
find, toughest to reach out to, and most likely to disappoint (Murray, Holmes,
MacDonald, & Ellsworth, 1998). Research on close relationships has found that
people who need the benefits of close relationships the most—those who are
psychologically vulnerable and at risk of the negative effects of isolation and
rejection—are often the least able to obtain the benefits of social support and
interaction (e.g., Murray, Holmes, Griffin, Bellavia, & Rose, 2001). At those
times social surrogates may be especially helpful because they offer the social
benefits of real relationships, but with much lower risks of rejection.
The relative safety of parasocial relationships in comparison to real interpersonal
relationships has led some researchers to suggest that people who experience
dispositional social deficits should be more likely than people who do not
experience those deficits to engage in parasocial relationships in an attempt to
establish “safe” social connections (Putnam, 2000). Despite the intuitive appeal of
such theorizing, however, research linking social deficits with parasocial
interaction has failed to provide consistent empirical support (Cohen, 2006).
Chronic loneliness (Ashe & McCutcheon, 2001), neuroticism, and low self-
esteem (Tsao, 1996) do not reliably predict parasocial interaction.
Because the fear of rejection plays a particularly large role in the social deficits
experienced by low self-esteem individuals, it is most surprising to find that people
with low self-esteem are not especially likely to form parasocial relationships.
Specifically, the devaluation of self that occurs with people of low self-esteem
makes them especially concerned about the threat of rejection from others, leads
them to distance themselves from relationship partners, and prevents them from
getting many of the benefits of a supportive partner (e.g., Murray et al., 1998).
Thus, one might suspect that people with low self-esteem would be particularly
attracted to parasocial relationships because of the low risk of rejection. However,
the data do not support that hypothesis (Tsao, 1996). In summary, the appealing
hypothesis that people with social deficits are more likely to experience parasocial
relationships has not been supported in the literature.
Gabriel and colleagues addressed this quandary by examining the consequences
of social surrogate use rather than its antecedents. After all, our society offers a
seemingly unlimited level of opportunity to engage with social surrogates (e.g.,
Giles, 2002), and for a wide variety of reasons (e.g., Derrick et al., 2009). It was
hypothesized that, although both low and high self-esteem people would experience
parasocial relationships, only those with low self-esteem would use those parasocial
relationships to derive benefits for the self. In other words, in order to protect
themselves from the negative effects of rejection that real relationships can bring,
low self-esteem people will rely on parasocial bonds to bolster themselves.
According to self-discrepancy theory, most people have some level of
discrepancy between who they wish they were and who they actually are
(Higgins, 1987; see also Markus & Nurius, 1986). However, relationships can
help reduce the discrepancy. Friends can bring people closer to their ideal self,
particularly in people who are comfortable being close to others (Gabriel,
Carvallo, Jaremka, & Tippin, 2008). This arises through “basking in the reflected
glory” of a relationship partner (Cialdini et al., 1976). In other words, people
assimilate the attributes of a relationship partner that are similar to one’s ideals for
the self, leading to a reduction in self-discrepancies. In addition, a romantic
partner can facilitate similar growth toward one’s ideal self (Drigotas, Rusbult,
Wieselquist, & Whitton, 1999). Indeed, romantically involved people report
being significantly closer to their ideal self than romantically uninvolved people
(Campbell, Sedikides, & Bosson, 1994).
Ironically, people with low self-esteem have an especially hard time garnering
reductions in self-discrepancy from real relationship partners. This is despite the fact
that people with lower self-esteem are especially likely to have large actual–ideal
discrepancies (Higgins, 1987) and are particularly likely to be attracted to friends
who are similar to their ideal selves (Mathes & Moore, 2001). Deriving benefits for
the self from a relationship partner requires that people risk the rejection that is
always a possibility when we feel close to a real person. Indeed, assimilating the
positive characteristics of another person, rather than making a threatening upward
social comparison (e.g., Tesser, Millar, & Moore, 1988), is dependent on closeness
to the relationship partner (Gardner, Gabriel, & Hothschild, 2002; Lockwood,
Dolderman, Sadler, & Gerchak, 2004). Similarly, people experience self-growth in
friendships and romantic relationships only when they are comfortable with
closeness (Gabriel et al., 2007), and when they experience affirmation and positive
regard from the relationship partner (Drigotas et al., 1999). Unfortunately, people
with low self-esteem, who need these benefits the most, are often unwilling to risk
closeness due to the prospect of rejection (Murray et al., 1998).
Parasocial relationships, on the other hand, present little threat of rejection.
Thus, parasocial relationships should provide a context in which low self-esteem
people can feel safely connected to others and garner the same benefits that
individuals high in self-esteem can get from real relationships. Gabriel and
colleagues have examined that hypothesis (e.g., Derrick et al., 2008). An initial
study found that low self-esteem people (but not high self-esteem individuals)
perceived similarity between their favorite celebrities and their ideal selves, and
they liked the celebrity more when they were seen as more similar to ideals.
Study 2 primed high and low self-esteem participants to think about their favorite
celebrities or a control celebrity. As predicted, thinking about their favorite
celebrities significantly reduced the self-discrepancies of low (but not high) self-
esteem individuals. Finally, Study 3 replicated Study 2 but added a close
relationship partner condition to determine whether the effect observed in Study
2 was unique to parasocial relationships. A dependent measure, actual-self/
celebrity similarity, was added to test mediation. As predicted, the effects were
unique to parasocial bonds. In other words, low self-esteem people were unable
to garner benefits from their actual relationship partners, but they were able to
garner them from parasocial bonds. In addition, the effects were mediated by
actual-self/celebrity similarity. That is, when low self-esteem individuals thought
about their favorite celebrities, they changed to feel more similar to those
celebrities. That adjustment made them feel more similar to their ideal selves. In
summary, parasocial bonds provide a means to bolster the self for people who are
unable to garner that benefit from real relationships due to fears of rejection.
Experiencing traumatic events also brings an increased need for social
connection and, paradoxically, a heightened degree of difficulty in forming close
bonds. The threat of possible social rejection to someone who is already suffering
psychologically may be too worrisome to allow that person to reach out and get
the social support that is needed. Therefore, social surrogates may provide safe
methods of social connection for individuals who have experienced traumatic
events. In a pair of studies, Gabriel and colleagues examined the unique role
social surrogates play in fulfilling the social needs of people who have experienced
trauma (Gabriel, Read, Young, Bachrach, & Troisi, 2014). Study 1 suggested
that participants who had experienced trauma were more likely to report being
drawn to social surrogates when lonely; the more PTSD symptoms indicated, the
more interested they were in social surrogates. This was true even when
controlling for other related constructs, including depression, self-esteem, and
attachment style. A second study found that participants who had experienced
trauma but did not suffer from PTSD felt more socially connected after thinking
about a social surrogate. Thus, those participants were able to use the social
surrogates to feel better. However, trauma-exposed participants with significant
PTSD symptoms actually felt worse after thinking about the social surrogate. This
suggests that while some people, despite a history of trauma, are able to effectively
use social surrogates to fill social needs, those with posttraumatic stress face yet
another challenge when attempting to seek out others (King et al., 2006). This
research also expands on what is known about the efficacy of social surrogates for
filling belongingness needs and gives the first suggestion, to our knowledge, that
social surrogates can play a role in dealing with mental illness. It also suggests that
under some conditions social surrogates can produce negative effects.
Social Worlds Fulfill Belongingness Needs and Protect against Rejection

A number of lines of research suggest that narratives play an important role in the
fulfillment of belongingness needs. For example, correlational data suggests that
narratives increase social skills by enabling people to learn the rules of human
interaction and empathy (e.g., Oatley, 1999). Furthermore, engaging in narratives
leads to an increase in thoughts and emotions congruent with the ones presented
in the narrative (Oatley, 1999), and exposure to narratives is related to more
sophisticated social skills and abilities (Mar, Oatley, Hirsch, dela Paz, & Peterson,
2006). Indeed, Mar and Oatley (2008) argue that one core function of narratives
is to mentally simulate social interactions, potentially facilitating subsequent social
behavior. In addition, identifying with characters while reading a narrative leads
to a merging of self with the characters (Sestir & Green, 2010), which has the
potential to provide social benefits. The most common themes in narratives are
social (Hogan, 2003), and strong initial research demonstrates that narratives
engage people in social processing (Mar & Oatley, 2008). Finally, many of the
neural regions activated while reading about activities mirror the same regions
activated when people actually engage in the activities, suggesting that reading
about social relationships may lead to fulfillment of social needs (Speer, Reynolds,
Swallow, & Zacks, 2009).
Correlational work suggests that watching favorite shows on television is
related to feeling like one has more friends (Kanazawa, 2002). This is not
surprising given that television programming, particularly reliably followed
favorite programs, allows viewers the opportunity, week after week (or even day
after day), to regularly immerse themselves in a narrative about a recognizable
“social” world in which familiar people, situations, landscapes, and events become
intimate and comfortable (Cohen, 2006). Indeed, Americans report spending an
average of three hours per day watching television (U.S. Department of Labor,
2006). This is more than half the total time spent on leisure activities, and is
substantially more time than is actually spent with friends. Furthermore, television
provides a rich visual and auditory environment, mirroring almost completely
our daily experience and requiring few of the cognitive resources necessary to
simulate lexically mediated parasocial relationships. In summary, television
viewing is ubiquitous and copious, and it provides multi-sensory stimulation—
making it a potent facsimile of social interaction.
In four studies, Gabriel and colleagues directly examined the Social Surrogacy
Hypothesis: that thinking about valued television programs leads to feelings of
belonging and protects against the negative consequences of social isolation and
depression (Derrick et al., 2009). Study 1 suggested that people reported turning
to favored television programs when feeling lonely, as well as feeling less lonely
when viewing those programs (Derrick et al., 2009, Study 1). Across three
additional studies, the propensity of the social world afforded by favored television
programs to address belongingness needs aroused by threats to a real relationship
was examined. In Study 2, reminding people of a time when they had strife
within an actual relationship led them to revel longer in descriptions of favored
(but not non-favored) television programs. In Study 3, thinking about favored
(but not non-favored) television programs buffered against the drops in
self-esteem and mood and increases in feelings of rejection commonly elicited by

threats to close relationships. In other words, social worlds were able to completely
eliminate the negative psychological consequences of social isolation in our
participants. Finally, in Study 4, participants who were primed to think about
favored television programs had reduced activation of chronically activated
rejection-related words in a word completion task. These results yield provocative
evidence for the Social Surrogacy Hypothesis: thinking about valued television
programs appears to yield the experience of belongingness and protect against the
negative consequences of social isolation and depression.
Gabriel and colleagues have also examined whether narratives lead one to
psychologically become a part of the collective described within the narrative
which then fulfills belongingness needs (e.g., Gabriel & Young, 2011). To
examine the hypothesis, participants read passages from either the Harry Potter or
Twilight books. After participants finished reading, they completed an identity
Implicit Association Test (identity IAT; Gabriel, Kawakami, Bartak, Kang, &
Mann, 2010) and an explicit (albeit somewhat indirect) measure of collective
assimilation, the Twilight/Harry Potter Narrative Collective-Assimilation Scale.
Both implicit and explicit measures revealed that participants who read Harry
Potter psychologically became wizards, whereas those who read Twilight
psychologically became vampires. In other words, when they read the narratives,
their self-construals shifted to include the social worlds described within. The
degree to which they assimilated the social world predicted increased life
satisfaction and mood, two primary outcomes of belonging. Thus, narratives lead
to immersion in social worlds and bolster feelings of social connection, suggesting
that narratives may have the power to protect people against the negative effects
of rejection and social isolation.
Reminders of Others Fulfill Belongingness Needs and Protect

against Rejection
In 1977, the phrase “comfort food” first appeared in the American vernacular to
describe foods that satiate not only physical, but also emotional needs (Merriam-
Webster Dictionary, 2010). Although the terminology was new, the idea was
certainly not; for centuries, countless sick children and adults have found comfort
in the unadorned taste of food previously prepared by caregivers. Gabriel and
colleagues examined whether comfort foods are social surrogates that derive their
emotional power from their connections to existing relationships and whether
they are able to diminish the negative effects of social rejection and isolation
(Troisi & Gabriel, 2012). In Experiment 1, participants were brought to the lab
that either strongly identified chicken soup as a comfort food or did not identify
it as a comfort food. Half of the participants ate chicken soup in what they
thought was a taste test and the other half did not. As predicted, only participants
who viewed chicken noodle soup as a comfort food and had just eaten chicken
soup showed greater accessibility of relationship related constructs in a subsequent

word completion task. Experiment 2 directly examined the protective effects of
comfort food on feelings of rejection and isolation. As predicted, participants
who were securely attached (and thus had positive associations with primary
relationship partners) were able to use comfort food to reduce the effects of the
belongingness threat on feelings of loneliness. In summary, reminders of others
can protect against the negative effects of rejection and social isolation.
Possible Negative Effects of Social Surrogates

Although the vast majority of work has suggested that social surrogates have a
generally positive role to play in filling the need to belong and assisting with
defense against feelings of rejection and isolation, there are hints of possible
negative effects in the literature. As previously mentioned, people who have
suffered traumatic events and developed PTSD are drawn to social surrogates but
are not able to feel better when exposed to them, and they may even feel worse
(Gabriel et al., 2014). In addition, even though the risk of direct rejection is
lower from social surrogates than real relationships, social surrogates can also be
lost from our lives. Shows can go off the air. A book series can end. Our favorite
character can be written off our show, and celebrities can fall from grace. Indeed,
there is work to suggest that people fear breakups from fictional characters and
have reactions to those breakups that are similar, although slightly less intense, to
those experienced with real relationship dissolution (Eyal & Cohen, 2006). In
addition, research examining TV watchers during the writers’ strike of 2007–
2008 found that those who had strong parasocial bonds with their favorite shows
suffered emotional and behavioral distress from the lack of contact (Lather &
Moyer-Guse, 2011). Thus, although the risk of rejection from social surrogates is
smaller than that from real relationships, it is not a trivial risk, and it should not
be ignored. Indeed, given how important these bonds are to people most at risk
(e.g., those with low self-esteem), it is important to keep the relatively small risks
of rejection in mind. For example, if a low self-esteem person has a strong bond
with a celebrity such as Bill Cosby and is able to feel better about himself or
herself because of that bond, then the fall from grace of that celebrity might be
incredibly difficult to deal with psychologically. Indeed the dissonance caused by
such a fall from grace may be so tremendous for some people that they may even
deny the fall from grace. This could explain why some people continue to stand
by their favorite celebrities even when logic dictates another course, such as the
many fans traveling from around the world to stand outside Michael Jackson’s
trial for child molestation.
In addition, some research has found important moderators of the effects of
social surrogates. In research on traumatic event exposure and on comfort food
(Gabriel et al., 2014; Troisi & Gabriel, 2012), key variables moderated whether
the social surrogates were successful in negating the negative effects of trauma or
rejection. For traumatic events, some people were able to experience traumatic
events and not develop PTSD. Those people significantly benefited from social
surrogates. However, participants with PTSD symptomology actually felt worse
after exposure to social surrogates. Similarly, with comfort food, only participants
with secure relationships with their parents benefited from consuming comfort
food. Those who had less secure relationships actually trended towards feeling
worse after comfort food exposure. Interestingly, both lines of research suggest
that the individual difference variables did not moderate whether people were
attracted to social surrogates when distressed. Insecure people and people with
PTSD both reported increased interest in social surrogates when lonely; however,
they were not able to find any relief from the social surrogates and may have
experienced negative outcomes due to the exposure. Further research will be
necessary to explore this fascinating relationship, but what is clear now is that not
all social surrogate use is beneficial, even when people are drawn to it.
Conclusion
There’s something deeply comforting about turning on a show you already
know and love and letting hour after hour of its familiar glow wash over
you. Yeah, you already know how the season finale turns out, but that’s
part of the pleasure; like a bedtime story you’ve heard over and over again,
the joy is in the repetition.
(Laura Hudson, writing on Wired.com)
While it is a relatively new area of study within the field of psychology, the
accumulating evidence suggests that social surrogates play an important, growing,
and useful role in fulfilling social needs and combating the negative effects of
rejection and social isolation. Social surrogates in the form of reminders of others,
fictional social worlds into which we can enter at will, and parasocial bonds with
well-known figures can all provide an experience of belonging and help protect
from the very serious and grave effects of rejection and social isolation.
Just as the mechanisms for social surrogate relationship formation and
maintenance mirror those of real relationship formation and maintenance, the
research reviewed in this chapter strongly suggests that the social benefits of social
surrogates mirror the benefits of real relationships. For example, thoughts of
favorite celebrities are as effective as thoughts of family members at alleviating
aggressive impulses (Twenge et al., 2007). The propensity for favorite celebrities
to bring individuals closer to their ideal selves (Derrick et al., 2008) mimics that
of real relational partners (e.g., Drigotas, Rusbult, Wieselquist, & Whitton,
1999). Identifying with characters while reading a narrative leads to a merging of
self with the characters (Sestir & Green, 2010), much like identifying with
relationship partners leads to a merging of self with partner (Aron, Aron, Tudor,
& Nelson, 1991). In summary, there is compelling evidence that social surrogates
have an ability to fulfill belongingness needs similar to that possessed by real

relationship partners.
Although we use the term social surrogate here and in other work, we do so
with a growing sense of discomfort. The term surrogate implies a lesser substitute
for something real. Although that is certainly one way to interpret social
surrogates, accumulating evidence about reminders of others, social worlds, and
parasocial bonds is making it more and more difficult to see them as mere
secondary stand-ins for something more substantial. Neither our research nor
that from other labs suggests that surrogates stand as secondary replacements for
real relationships; rather, surrogates exist alongside real relationships. Because of
such evidence, in my lab we occasionally replace the term social surrogate with
“symbolic bonds,” referencing the fact that these are relationships that exist
purely on a symbolic level (i.e., in the person’s mind). In other words, the
characters in the Harry Potter books or on the show Friends, as well as celebrities
like Ben Affleck and Jennifer Aniston, are not real people in most of our lives,
but instead exist in our minds. The cognitive bond between the symbolic partner
and the self can feel as tangible as ones that come from real relationships.
Although the term symbolic bond comes with its own limitations, we appreciate
that it does not imply secondary or weaker benefits. Indeed, the more we know
about these symbolic relationships, the less they seem like mere surrogates for
something else, and the more they seem like powerful agents on their own. We
continue to call them social surrogates in this chapter and in much of our other
work for lack of a better term and for the sake of consistency. However, we do
so with growing hesitancy, and we feel the need to voice our continuing unease
with the easy phrase.
In addition, although we limit our discussion to social surrogates on which a
sufficient amount of research exists, we by no means wish to imply that these are
the only possible social surrogates. For example, we have begun research into the
parasocial bonds which individuals form by playing video games. Video games
are an intriguing platform because in addition to forming bonds with the
characters in the games, many popular video games are multiplayer where
participants have an opportunity to form bonds with other players whom they are
likely to never meet in person or even know at all outside the context of the
game. Some might wonder whether a relationship like that constitutes a parasocial
bond or a “real” bond. Indeed, in this age of increasing digital interaction, we
suspect that the line between parasocial bond and real bond will become
increasingly grey, providing a ripe area for future research.
In many ways the power of social surrogates to fulfill social needs is surprising.
Obviously, social surrogates cannot help you move or hold you when you cry,
and they cannot respond to your needs directly. Therefore, it is somewhat
unexpected to learn about their strong proclivity to fulfill the need to belong and
to guard against rejection. To us, the strength of social surrogates is solid and
persuasive evidence for the voracity, flexibility and power of the need to belong.
Our need for social connection is so strong that we can feel a sense of belonging
from a TV show, or a book, or a person we have never met, or a food with a
tenuous link to a caregiver. We are so wired for relationships that we can find
them even where real humans don’t exist. We want so badly to feel a part of
something that we can be drawn into worlds which exist only in the imagination.
We are so desirous of care and love that we can be soothed and comforted by a
fragile link to a memory of a caregiver. The lesson we take from work on social
surrogates is the same lesson we take from work on ostracism and rejection: we
humans are social to the very core of our beings, and our social nature brings
great joy, great pain, and heartwarming meaning to our lives.
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11
REJECTION IN ROMANTIC
RELATIONSHIPS
Danu Anthony Stinson, John G. Holmes, and Theresa H. He
Since you’ve abandoned me, my whole life has crashed,

Won’t you pick the pieces up, ’cause it feels just like I’m walking on broken glass.
(A. Lennox, Walking on Broken Glass, 1992)
In her hit song, Walking on Broken Glass (1992), quoted above, Annie Lennox
masterfully captures the emotional essence of romantic rejection. Rejection by a
romantic partner is literally painful (MacDonald & Leary, 2005), interferes with
the ability to think and self-regulate (Baumeister, Brewer, Tice, & Twenge,
2007), and induces a state of cognitive deconstruction akin to the psychological
response to traumatic physical injury (Twenge, Catanese, & Baumeister, 2003).
Thankfully, actual romantic rejection that results in break-up or divorce is a
relatively infrequent experience for most people. Yet the threat of possible
rejection is an unwelcome guest that accompanies many people throughout their
romantic lives. As such, describing and understanding the ways in which people
cope with that ever-present threat within their romantic bonds is a highly
relatable, and consequential, goal for psychologists. Therefore, in this chapter we
explore the many ways in which people attempt to avoid the aversive consequences
of rejection by regulating their thoughts, feelings, and behavior during relationship
initiation and within their ongoing romantic bonds.
The Motivation to Avoid Romantic Rejection

It goes without saying that people are strongly motivated to avoid rejection, and
this is especially true in the context of romantic relationships. Human beings are
social animals, and nearly all of our greatest achievements as a species have been
Rejection in Romantic Relationships 163
accomplished because we developed the ability to form and maintain close social
bonds with one another (Baumeister & Leary, 1995). From an evolutionary
perspective, perhaps the most essential social bond of all is the romantic
relationship. Although people form and maintain romantic bonds for many
reasons—pleasure, companionship, or social norms—the primal importance of
reproduction for the survival of our species has resulted in deeply rooted
psychobiological mechanisms that function to bind romantic partners to one
another. These mechanisms explain why falling in love is literally intoxicating
(Aron et al., 2008), why lovers come to rely on one another as attachment figures
(Mikulincer & Shaver, 2010), and why sex produces a psychological tether that
draws partners together (whether they like it or not; Hazan & Zeifman, 1994).
But as the song lyrics quoted at the beginning of this chapter poignantly illustrate,
these same mechanisms that evolved to bring romantic partners together and
keep them together over time also produce intense pain and suffering when the
bonds of love are broken.
Rejection by a romantic partner is painful, and not just figuratively—rejection
literally causes physical pain (MacDonald & Leary, 2005). Moreover, if couples
fail to maintain a strong and healthy romantic bond, they experience negative
emotional and physical consequences that are highly punishing. For example,
unhappily married individuals exhibit higher blood pressure, higher levels of
overall stress, and higher rates of depression than their happily married counterparts
(Holt-Lunstad, Birmingham, & Jones, 2008). They also experience compromised
immune functioning at the cellular level (Jaremka, Glaser, Malarkey, & Keicolt-
Glaser, 2013), and unhealthy cardiovascular reactivity during conflict–increases in
systolic blood pressure, heart rate, and cardiac output accompanied by decreases
in peripheral resistance (Nealey-Moore, Smith, Uchino, Hawkins, & Olson-
Cerny, 2007). Divorce, which is perhaps the ultimate rejection in romantic
relationships, is associated with even more dire outcomes: people who have been
divorced actually have a higher risk of death than their married counterparts
(Holt-Lunstad, Smith, & Layton, 2010).
To avoid these and other aversive consequences of rejection, people also possess
psychological mechanisms uniquely dedicated to helping them maintain
connections and avoid rejection (or at least minimize its negative consequences)
within their social relationships, including their close romantic bonds. These
social-regulatory mechanisms are located within the self—that unique collection of
self-views, beliefs, and personality traits that define each and every one of us. The
self functions to provide meaning and coherence to people’s experiences, to allow
people to predict future experiences, and to regulate their motivation and behavior
across situations (e.g., Swann & Schroeder, 1995). In this vein, psychologists have
identified a number of social-psychological and personality variables that function
to regulate thinking, feeling, and behaving within close relationships, servicing the
primary goals of achieving belonging and avoiding rejection: self-esteem (e.g.,
Stinson et al., 2010), rejection sensitivity (e.g., Downey & Feldman, 1996), the
164 Danu Anthony Stinson, et al.
attachment system (e.g., Hazan & Shaver, 1987), perceived regard and
responsiveness (Reis, Clark, & Holmes, 2004), and trust (Holmes & Rempel,
1989) are but a few examples. There are important differences between these
psychological constructs, and we encourage interested readers to explore the
source materials that we cite for more information. At the same time, each of these
constructs taps into a common aspect of the self that we call relational security,
which reflects one’s chronic feelings of being valued by relationship partners.
Relational Security and Romantic Rejection

Feelings of relational security develop from experiences within close relationships
with parents, friends, and romantic partners during key developmental periods,
such as childhood and adolescence (e.g., Harter, 2003). Generally speaking, if
these close others view the self positively, treat the self well, and offer warm and
loving support, then such responsive behaviors yield chronic feelings of relational
security. For example, Ethan has enjoyed relationships with many responsive close
others in his life and so has come to be relationally secure. As such, Ethan feels
worthy of love, care, and attention by romantic partners, and trusts that current
and future romantic partners have good intentions and will treat him well. In
other words, Ethan is not particularly concerned about rejection from his romantic
partner. Like everyone, he wants to avoid rejection, but he thinks rejection is
unlikely; if it does happen, he knows he can handle it emotionally and socially.
In contrast, if close others are rejecting, hostile, unavailable, self-involved, and
generally unable to meet one’s needs during childhood and adolescence, then
such unresponsive behaviors foster feelings of relational insecurity. Ethan’s
romantic partner, Ruby, has a developmental history of unresponsive parenting
and rejection by peers and thus has become relationally insecure. As such, Ruby
feels unworthy of love, anxiously anticipates rejection, and is relatively untrusting
of her romantic partners, including Ethan. Put another way, Ruby is quite
concerned about rejection from her romantic partner. She thinks rejection is
quite likely within her close relationships, and she has serious concerns about her
ability to cope emotionally and socially with it.
Although relational security is quite stable over time and is treated like a
personality trait by some psychologists, relational security is also highly context-
dependent (e.g., Baldwin, Keelan, Fehr, Enns, & Koh-Rangarajoo, 1996). The
same individual may feel quite secure with one romantic partner, but feel quite
insecure and fearful of rejection with another romantic partner. So although we
will refer to relationally secure and relationally insecure partners as if they are
distinct groups of individuals, we do so only to facilitate the discussion at hand.
Throughout this chapter, always bear in mind that relational security is essentially
a dyadic process that results not only from stable aspects of the self, but also from
the unique chemistry that happens when two individuals form a romantic bond.
For reasons we will describe shortly, Ruby is more secure in her relationship with
Ethan than she has been in her past romantic relationships. Yet relative to the
entire range of relational security that people may experience, she still falls on the
insecure end of the spectrum.
As will become apparent throughout the rest of this chapter, the contrasting
feelings and beliefs that characterize relational security and insecurity play an
important role in shaping people’s rejection experiences during romantic
relationship initiation and maintenance. Insecure individuals are more attentive to
rejection, more sensitive to rejection, and react more strongly to rejection than
secure individuals (e.g., Hepper & Carnelley, 2012), and such differences are even
evident at the automatic, physiological level. For example, insecure individuals, but
not secure individuals, exhibit a startle eye-blink response when presented with
paintings that depict scenes of rejection (Gyurak & Ayduk, 2007). Moreover, when
rejected by a potential romantic partner in an online dating context, insecure
individuals exhibit greater increases in cortisol—the body’s stress hormone—than
their secure counterparts (Ford & Collins, 2010). Therefore, when insecure partners
weigh the perceived rewards of pursuing increased connection with a potential or
current romantic partner against the perceived costs of rejection, the costs often
outweigh the rewards. Consequently, insecure partners tend to adopt a motivational
style within their romantic relationships that focuses on avoiding rejection. The
same evaluative calculations yield a different result for secure partners, such that
rewards usually outweigh costs. Therefore, secure partners tend to adopt a
motivational style that focuses on pursuing greater connection and intimacy.
For better or for worse, due to these differing motivational styles, relational
security or insecurity can be self-fulfilling, causing partners to behave in ways that
bring about the actual acceptance or rejection they anticipate. Thus, the recurring
theme in the rest of this chapter concerns the ways in which romantic partners
perceive, think, feel, and behave in ways that actively influence their rejection
experiences, both during relationship initiation and during the maintenance of
ongoing relationships.
Relational Insecurity and Rejection During Relationship Initiation

When they met for the first time, Ethan was smitten by Ruby’s feisty personality
and glowing smile. However, these same qualities were attractive to a lot of men,
meaning Ethan could face competition for Ruby’s affections. Furthermore, Ruby
might not have reciprocated his feelings. While contemplating these dismaying
possibilities, Ethan was reminded of an age-old truism of romance: by actively
pursuing the object of his affections, he would make himself vulnerable to the
possibility of rejection. Indeed, overcoming the motivation to avoid rejection in
favor of the desire to pursue connection (e.g., Murray & Holmes, 2011) is a
necessary first step towards successful relationship initiation.
Yet this process is more easily said than done for some people. For example,
experimental evidence reveals that the threat of rejection causes secure individuals
to optimistically over-detect acceptance during relationship initiation, whereas

the same threat of rejection causes insecure individuals to self-protectively under-
detect acceptance (Cameron, Stinson, Gaetz, & Balchen, 2010; Stinson, Cameron
& Robinson, 2015). Under-detecting acceptance from a potential romantic
partner is self-protective because it avoids the possibility of incorrectly detecting
acceptance when none is present, a mistake that increases the chances of being
rejected by one’s love interest. By under-detecting acceptance, insecure suitors
make sure that they will only risk relationship initiation when acceptance is
virtually guaranteed, and rejection is highly unlikely. Such biased under-detection
of acceptance cues may achieve insecure individuals’ goal of avoiding a humiliating
rejection in the short term. But in the long term, this perceptual bias may
contribute to insecure individuals’ rejection concerns by causing them to perceive
their social worlds in a manner consistent with their relational insecurity. Thus,
the biasing influence of relational security or insecurity on perceived acceptance
during relationship initiation is a good example of a self-fulfilling prophecy in
action. Secure individuals expect to be accepted so they perceive lots of acceptance
from potential romantic partners. In contrast, insecure individuals expect to be
rejected, so they perceive less acceptance from potential romantic partners.
The self-fulfilling nature of relational security is also evident in people’s use of
warm and friendly behaviors during relationship initiation (Stinson, Cameron,
Hoplock, & Hole, 2015; Stinson, Cameron, Wood, Gaucher, & Holmes, 2009).
Secure individuals respond to the threat of rejection with heightened warmth and
friendly interpersonal behaviors. In turn, such warmth encourages others to be
accepting, thus affirming secure individuals’ self-views. In contrast, insecure
individuals respond to the threat of rejection by inhibiting their interpersonal
warmth as a self-protective strategy (e.g., “You won’t like me, so I am not going
to let you think I like you!”), remaining aloof from the social interaction to
minimize the hurt they would feel should rejection occur (e.g., Gaucher et al.,
2012). Unfortunately, this social freezing strategy results in the very rejection that
insecure individuals are trying to avoid, thus affirming their self-doubts.
Under-detecting acceptance and social-freezing behavior are perceptual and
behavioral mechanisms, respectively, to explain the self-fulfilling nature of
relational security or insecurity during relationship initiation. But there also exist
cognitive mechanisms to explain the perpetuation of relational security, including
low standards and lack of selectivity. In one field study of relationship initiation,
feelings of loneliness prompted insecure individuals to attend a speed-dating
event (McClure, Lydon, Baccus, & Baldwin, 2010). Unfortunately, the outcomes
of the event probably exacerbated their loneliness: insecure individuals were
relatively unpopular with potential romantic partners. Insecure individuals also
lacked selectivity, meaning that they were romantically interested in more people
than were secure individuals. As it turns out, lack of selectivity is unattractive to
potential dates because it may signal that one has low standards, and by extension,
low mate value (Eastwick, Finkel, Mochon, & Ariely, 2007). This perceived low
mate value may ultimately explain why insecure individuals were more likely to
be rejected by potential dates than their secure counterparts. It is possible that
insecure individuals’ history of rejection is partially responsible for their lack of
selectivity, because rejection by potential romantic partners causes relational
insecurity, which in turn lowers people’s mating aspirations (Kavanagh, Robins,
& Ellis, 2010). Once again, we can see a self-fulfilling prophecy in action:
rejection leads to relational insecurity prompting low mating standards, which in
turn leads to a lack of selectivity and actual rejection.
The preceding discussion paints a rather gloomy picture of relationship
initiation for insecure individuals. However, it is essential to understand that none
of the differences between secure and insecure individuals that we have described
reflect individual differences in social abilities. When the threat of rejection is
experimentally reduced during relationship initiation, insecure and secure
individuals perceive the same level of acceptance from potential romantic partners
(Cameron et al., 2010) and express similar levels of warmth (Stinson et al., 2009;
Stinson, Cameron, Hoplock et al., 2015). Taken together, this research suggests
that insecure individuals are perfectly capable of detecting acceptance and
behaving warmly and directly with potential romantic partners, but their fears of
rejection motivate them to cautiously suppress these abilities. Thus, although we
consistently observe in our research that secure and insecure individuals are just
as likely to successfully form romantic relationships, we suspect that the road to
relationship formation is more fraught with failed attempts, anxiety, and self-
doubts for insecure individuals than secure individuals.
However, it is possible that buffering insecure individuals against the threat of
rejection, and thereby decreasing their use of self-protective behaviors, could
smooth the path to relationship formation for insecure individuals. One promising
intervention that has been identified is called self-affirmation, whereby participants
write about an important personal value they hold (e.g., family) as a means of
buffering the self against threats like rejection (for a review, see McQueen &
Klein, 2006). In one longitudinal experiment, insecure participants who completed
a one-time self-affirmation task in the lab experienced increases in their relational
security and behaved more warmly during a social interaction with a stranger up
to eight weeks later (Stinson, Logel, Shepherd, & Zanna, 2011). This and other
promising experimental research suggests that it is possible to buffer insecure
individuals against the threat of rejection during relationship initiation, and that
such buffering may have important benefits for their social experiences and feelings
of relational value over time (e.g., Jaremka, Bunyan, Collins, & Sherman, 2011).
Relational Insecurity and Rejection in Ongoing Relationships

Relationally insecure partners are less likely to find happiness in their romantic
bonds (e.g., Murray, Holmes, & Griffin, 1996), and are more likely to experience
break-ups than their relationally secure counterparts (e.g., Downey, Freitas,
Michaelis, & Khouri, 1998). Once again, self-fulfilling prophecy may be an

important explanation for these outcomes, whereby relationally insecure partners
cope with the threat of rejection in maladaptive ways that can undermine the
quality of their romantic bonds.
As we described previously, relationally insecure individuals respond to the
threat of rejection with self-protective motives and behaviors aimed at minimizing
the pain of rejection should it occur. Unfortunately, as with relationship initiation,
self-protective responses to the threat of rejection can backfire within ongoing
romantic relationships and actually bring about the very rejection that one is
trying to avoid (Murray, Griffin, Rose, & Bellavia, 2003). Such outcomes are
especially likely to occur when people use self-protective strategies in the absence
of a real threat of rejection. For example, because Ruby is relationally insecure
and prone to aggression and hostility when she is upset (as we will detail shortly),
Ethan’s use of self-protective behaviors like emotional disengagement during
conflict may successfully protect him from the emotional fallout of Ruby’s
negative behavior. However, because Ethan is relationally secure and remains
open and vulnerable when he is upset, Ruby’s use of self-protective behaviors
like guilt-induction during conflict may backfire and push Ethan away (Overall,
Girme, Lemay, & Hammond, 2014).
To illustrate the ways in which feelings of security or insecurity regulate
relationship processes when the threat of rejection is present, consider a common
situation within romantic relationships: Ethan comes home from work in a bad
mood. A secure romantic partner who is confident of Ethan’s love and positive
regard will (correctly) attribute Ethan’s bad mood to his hard day at the office and
will work to build him up and brighten his mood. Such support may even be
offered “invisibly,” so that Ethan benefits from the social support without being
aware the support is being given (e.g., Howland & Simpson, 2010). Such a subtle
approach to social support increases closeness between romantic partners, in part
because it protects Ethan’s feelings of autonomy and competence, two essential
components of relationship quality (Reis, Sheldon, Gable, Roscoe, & Ryan,
2000). In turn, the added closeness would serve to reinforce the support-giver’s
relational security.
In the same situation, a relationally insecure partner like Ruby will assume that
Ethan’s grouchiness is a sign that his affection and commitment are waning
(Murray, Rose, Bellavia, Holmes, & Kusche, 2002). In turn, such perceived
rejection can cause insecure partners to become hostile and aggressive towards
the romantic partner (e.g., Romero-Canyas, Downey, Berenson, Ayduk, &
Kang, 2010), perhaps because rejection causes people to ascribe hostile intentions
to their loved one’s ambiguous behavior (DeWall, Twenge, Gitter, & Baumeister,
2009). So when Ruby perceives that Ethan is being grouchy and sullen, she will
assume that he is trying to hurt her by ignoring her because he knows how much
his sulky silence bothers her. Therefore, she will fight his perceived relational
“fire” with fire of her own, and start criticizing him and rolling her eyes when he
speaks, two hostile behaviors that are particularly damaging to intimacy within
romantic relationships (e.g., Gottman, Coan, Carrere, & Swanson, 1998).
Sometimes, negative behaviors that communicate rejection to one’s spouse can
have a positive influence on relationship processes (e.g., Overall, Fletcher,
Simpson, & Sibley, 2009). Ruby’s anger and criticism may sometimes motivate
Ethan to “shape up” and pick up after himself more often, for example. A victim’s
rejection and a lack of forgiveness towards a chronic perpetrator can also decrease
the prevalence of psychological and physical aggression within romantic
relationships over time (McNulty, 2011). However, Ruby’s hostile response to
the rejection and hostility she (incorrectly) perceives from Ethan reflects an
antagonistic, tit-for-tat style of conflict that is generally negative within relationships
(Gottman et al., 1998). Hostility within marriage undermines marital quality over
time, particularly wives’ hostility and anger (Baron et al., 2007). Wives’ hostility
during conflicts effectively pushes the male partner away and undermines his
commitment to the bond (Ayduk, Downey, Testa, Yen, & Shoda, 1999).
As with relationship initiation, psychologists have identified a number of
promising methods for buffering insecure partners against the threat of rejection
within their romantic bonds by targeting specific maladaptive ways of thinking,
feeling, and behaving. One intervention targets relationally insecure partners’
biased perception of their partner’s love. Relationally insecure partners fail to
appreciate the love and regard that they actually receive from their romantic
partner, a bias that serves to exacerbate insecure partners’ rejection concerns over
time (Murray, Holmes, Griffin, Bellavia, & Rose, 2001). One reason that insecure
partners seem to overlook their partner’s regard is because they fail to generalize
from specific instances of positive regard to a more global perception of their
partner’s love and affection (Marigold, Holmes, & Ross, 2007). For example, if
Ruby complimented Ethan’s cooking, his relational security would cause him to
abstract a broader meaning from the compliment, leading him to perceive the
praise as evidence of Ruby’s love. Insecure partners do not naturally abstract
global regard from specific, concrete compliments. Because insecure partners
often experience and express emotional vulnerabilities within their romantic
relationships, insecure partners come to believe that their romantic partners view
them as insecure and needy (Lemay & Clark, 2008). Therefore, if Ethan is treating
Ruby with kindness and expressing his fondness for her, or complimenting her
appearance, insecure Ruby may conclude that Ethan’s behaviors are not truly
motivated by positive regard and love, but instead are motivated by his perception
that she is delicate and in need of careful handling. In other words, Ethan is “just
being nice.” Unfortunately, such attributions only serve to exacerbate insecure
partners’ relational anxieties, and once again demonstrate the influence of self-
fulfilling prophecy within romantic bonds.
Fortunately, insecure partners can be prompted to think like their secure
counterparts. If insecure partners are subtly guided to reframe a specific compliment
from their partner as reflecting their partner’s global admiration, then insecure
partners experience increases in relational security that are maintained over time
(Marigold, Holmes, & Ross, 2010). Because they feel more secure, insecure
partners actually behave better in their relationships in the weeks following the
reframing task. In turn, their partners are happier and more committed to the
relationship, which further supports the (formerly) insecure partner’s ability to
respond adaptively to rejection threats. Thus, simple psychological interventions
to improve relational security can have “legs” beyond the lab through a recursive
process that snowballs over time (e.g., Sherman & Cohen, 2006).
Fortunately, couples do not have to rely on interventions to enjoy similar
improvements in relational security over time. Being loved by a romantic partner
who has positive illusions about one’s qualities, and thus perceives one’s qualities in
an idealized way, increases one’s relational security over time (Murray et al., 1996),
and also buffers couples against normative declines in satisfaction over time (Murray
et al., 2011). One way that these transformations may occur is via the process of
partner buffering, whereby one partner will subtly regulate the emotions and behavior
of the insecure partner in the relationship (Simpson & Overall, 2014).
Why would this buffering be necessary? Relationally insecure partners become
overwhelmed by their fears and anxieties when the threat of rejection is present
within their romantic bonds. As such, they do not have the regulatory energy to
engage in accommodation, whereby partners replace their self-interested motives
with relationship- and partner-benefiting motives, and suppress hostile reactions
to their partner’s (real or perceived) bad behavior. Accommodation is essential to
optimal relationship functioning, and it increases trust and commitment within
close relationships (Wieselquist, Rusbult, Foster, & Agnew, 1999). Therefore,
insecure partners’ inability to engage in accommodation in the face of rejection
threats may underlie many of the bad behaviors and outcomes we described
previously. For example, Ruby’s hostile reaction to Ethan’s bad mood at the end
of a long work day reflects a failure to accommodate.
However, within the interdependent context of a romantic relationship,
partners often help one another to regulate their emotions and behaviors in
adaptive ways, and this includes helping an insecure partner to calm down when
rejection threats come to the fore (Simpson et al., 2014). For example, when
Ruby is feeling anxious about rejection and behaving in a hostile and critical
manner, Ethan will engage in positive accommodation behaviors to help her cool
down and feel more secure: he might bite back a hostile retort, express high levels
of love and affection, and comply with her wishes and needs. Each of these
accommodation behaviors will soothe Ruby’s rejection anxieties and thus
downregulate (i.e., reduce) her distress and allow her to behave more constructively.
Furthermore, insecure partners may also compensate their partners for the
costs of their over-reactions to rejection. In a daily diary study of newlyweds,
Murray and colleagues (2009) observed that an individual’s feelings of inferiority
to his or her partner (i.e., rejection concerns) on one day predicted increases in
behaviors like cleaning up after one’s partner, packing their lunch, and running
errands on their behalf the next day. This type of dependence-promoting behavior
benefits the partner at the individual’s own expense and also serves to make the
individual more indispensable to the partner. In the daily diary study, such
dependence-promoting acts also increased the partner’s commitment to the
relationship. All partners, regardless of the level of relational insecurity, engage in
dependence-promoting behaviors on days following acute rejection concerns.
However, because insecure partners experience rejection concerns more often
than secure partners, insecure partners are probably more likely to use dependence-
promoting behaviors as a method of buffering their partner against the costs of
their own rejection concerns. In each of these ways—accommodation and the
use of dependence-promoting behaviors—partners can regulate the costs of
relational insecurity within their bond, and maintain their commitment to one
another over time.
Conclusions: Insights from Close Relationships Research for

Coping with Rejection
One of the questions we are asked most often in our undergraduate classes on
close relationships is, “How can I avoid being rejected by a romantic partner?”
Sometimes students are concerned with avoiding infidelity, divorce, or conflict,
but their concerns all reflect the fundamental human drive to avoid the pain of
rejection. This drive is understandable. Rejection by a romantic partner can have
devastating emotional and physical consequences, in both the short and long term.
These consequences are especially worrisome for insecure individuals, whose
history of rejection in their close relationships causes them to anxiously anticipate
rejection and react strongly when rejection occurs. Unfortunately, completely
avoiding rejection in romantic relationships is virtually impossible. The very same
behaviors that open one up to the possibility of rejection—like pursuing a love
interest or being vulnerable with a romantic partner—are also necessary to achieve
the belongingness that is essential for one’s well-being. Thus, as our discussion of
self-fulfilling prophecy in this chapter illustrates, trying too hard to avoid rejection
usually results in missed opportunities for connection, and even rejection.
So if it cannot be avoided completely, how can people cope with romantic
rejection when it does occur? Learning about the science of close relationships by
reading chapters like this one can provide important insight that allows individuals
to understand their experiences of rejection within the broader context of their
intimate bonds, and to learn and grow from those experiences (see Miller, 2012,
for an accessible and engaging overview of the field). Some important insights
from the literature on close relationships deserve special mention here. First, the
statistics concerning the negative health correlates of divorce—perhaps the ultimate
rejection within close relationships—can be quite frightening, especially given the
fact that almost half of the population will experience divorce at one point in their
lives. However, as any student of psychology will remember, even the best
correlational research does not allow us to draw causal conclusions. It is possible

that divorce causes negative health and mortality outcomes because the stress of
martial rejection and loss undermine the functioning of essential cardiovascular,
endocrine, and immune systems (Uchino, Uno, & Holt-Lunstad, 1999). But it is
also possible that the social stigma that accompanies divorce (e.g., Gerstel, 1987),
and not the divorce itself, is responsible for such negative health outcomes.
Research has established that social stigma concerning one’s social identity (e.g.,
race, weight) can severely undermine physical health and well-being (e.g., Major
& O’Brien, 2005), and the same ill effects may result from the stigma of divorce.
We hope that future researchers will consider such mechanisms as they continue
to explore the effects of divorce on long-term health and survival.
Second, it is important to remember that the anticipated hurt of romantic
rejection is usually much greater than the actual hurt people experience following
a break-up (Eastwick, Finkel, Krishnamurti, & Loewenstein, 2008). Humans
possess a remarkably powerful psychological immune system that allows them to
rebound from even the most traumatic experiences, yet people are remarkably
unaware of its existence and function (Gilbert, Pinel, Wilson, Blumberg, &
Wheatley, 1998). For example, avoiding negative rumination following a romantic
rejection and instead seeking to find meaning in the experience can buffer people
against some of the upset they might otherwise experience (e.g., Saffrey &
Ehrenberg, 2007). Finally, research tells us that not all of the outcomes of rejection
are negative. Being rejected can make people more perceptive to social cues
connoting acceptance. For example, rejected individuals are better able to detect
whether a smile is genuine or faked compared to their non-rejected counterparts
(Bernstein, Young, Brown, Sacco, & Claypool, 2010). Rejection may also fuel
creativity by fostering feelings of uniqueness from the rejecting person or group
(Kim, Vincent, & Goncalo, 2013). Indeed, six years after a divorce, the vast majority
of people report that their divorce was a good thing (Hetherington, 2003). Although
rejection is ultimately unavoidable across the whole span of people’s romantic lives,
it can be an important learning experience and opportunity for personal growth. So
when rejection happens—and it will happen in some form or another—most
people are able to pick up the “shattered glass” and keep on walking.
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12
OSTRACISM FROM A
CROSS-CULTURAL PERSPECTIVE
Juliette Schaafsma
The greatest terror a child can have is that he is not loved, and rejection is the
hell of fears. I think everyone in the world to a large or small extent has felt
rejection. And with rejection comes anger, and with anger some kind of
crime in revenge for the rejection, and with crime, guilt—and there is the
story of mankind.
(Steinbeck, 1952, p. 270)
Ostracism is a powerful and pervasive phenomenon that dates back to ancient

times and occurs in most cultures (Gruter & Masters, 1986). There are numerous
examples from around the world in which not only tribes, clans, and small groups,
but also institutions and governments use ostracism in response to those who do
not contribute to the collective or who deviate from social or cultural norms. In
traditional Balinese society, for instance, the most severe sentence that can be
imposed on someone who breaks customary law is kasepekang, which implies that
this person will be ignored by the village community and will also be banned
from the village temples that are central to Hindu spiritual life (e.g., Belford,
2010). In Pakistan, members of the Pathan hill tribes (Pukhtun) are expelled from
their community (kashunda) when they have committed an act that might lead to
reprisal by another clan (Mahdi, 1986). And among the Amish in the United
States, individuals who have violated the rules of the church face Meidung: until
they correct their errant behavior, they are avoided by their neighbors, close
friends, and even family members in all social and business activities (Gruter &
Masters, 1986). As these examples illustrate, the specific reasons why people are
ostracized may differ across cultures; however, there is reason to believe that the
patterns used to ostracize people are similar. By distancing themselves from those
178 Juliette Schaafsma
who pose a burden to the group or who do not comply with its norms, human
groups protect and strengthen the collective—and in turn the survival of the
group may become more likely (e.g., Boehm, 1986; Wesselmann, Wirth, Pryor,
Reeder, & Williams, 2013).
Despite the wealth of research on the causes and consequences of ostracism,
most of what we currently know stems from research conducted with Western
samples. Only recently, researchers have started to consider the possibility that—
even though the patterns of ostracism may be similar across cultures—how people
respond to and cope with it may be culture-specific. For example, cross-cultural
psychologists have argued that there are important cross-cultural differences in the
extent to which people include their relationships with others as a component of
the self. According to Markus and Kitayama (1991) and others (e.g., Singelis,
1994; Triandis, 1989), individuals in collectivistic cultures (e.g., parts of Asia,
Africa, and Central and South America) tend to emphasize an interdependent
construal of self: they stress their relationships with others in their group and value
maintaining harmony, attending to others, and fitting in. In cultures that are more
individualistic (e.g., the United States and Western Europe), however, people
tend to define the self in more independent terms: they derive their self-esteem
from being unique, expressing their autonomy, and promoting their own goals.
This does not mean that they do not want to be connected to others, but they
tend to rely less heavily on their groups and to feel less obligated toward them.
These cross-cultural differences in how people see themselves in relation to
others may imply that individuals across cultures also differ in how concerned
they are with fitting in and with avoiding rejection by others, and in how they
respond to actual threats to their inclusionary status. Nevertheless, research in this
area is still in its infancy, and researchers have made conflicting predictions as to
how people from more collectivistic cultures and those from more individualistic
cultures respond to and cope with the pain of rejection. Whereas some have
suggested that the negative consequences of being ostracized should be more
severe in cultures that value interdependence (e.g., Schug, Yuki, & Maddux,
2010; Way & Lieberman, 2010), others have argued that people in these cultures
may be better protected against the negative psychological effects of ostracism
(e.g., Gardner, Pickett, & Knowles, 2005).
The aim of the present chapter is to offer an overview of recent work that has
tried to unveil how culture shapes people’s responses to ostracism. First, I will discuss
how people’s sensitivity to exclusion or rejection may vary as a function of the extent
to which their cultural environment encourages them to think of themselves as
independent or interdependent. Next, I will describe some recent studies that have
examined the psychological consequences of ostracism across cultures. Because of the
small number of the studies in this area, this overview is necessarily restricted to a
rather limited number of cultures or countries (e.g., the US, Japan, Germany, Hong
Kong). Finally, I will discuss several factors that researchers might want to consider
when examining cross-cultural differences in people’s reactions to being ostracized.
Ostracism from a Cross-Cultural Perspective 179
Throughout this chapter, the terms individualism and collectivism will be

used to distinguish between cultures in which individuals are viewed or view
themselves as relatively independent and autonomous, and those in which people
are relatively interdependent and embedded in social relationships. It is important
to note that this dichotomy is intended for explanatory clarity only. In reality,
there can be great diversity in individual self-definition within cultural settings,
and all cultures have both individualistic and collectivistic aspects. Moreover,
there can be strong similarities across cultures. Thus, the labels that are used here
are best seen as a rough dimension of variation in how people across cultures
construe the self and social reality.
The Importance of Fitting in and Avoiding Rejection

across Cultures
Researchers generally agree that people have a fundamental need to establish and
maintain positive relationships with others and that this need is probably deeply
rooted in our evolutionary past (e.g., Baumeister & Leary, 1995; Williams, 2001).
For our ancestors, it most likely would have been difficult to survive and to thrive
without the protection of the group, and research suggests that people have
developed the ability to quickly detect even the most subtle cues of exclusion. For
example, Wirth, Sacco, Hugenberg, and Williams (2010) found that simple cues
such as not receiving eye contact is painful and can result in feelings of exclusion
or social disconnection (see also Wesselmann, Cardoso, Slater, & Williams, 2012).
Nevertheless, even though people across the world must maintain some
connection with others, the nature of these relationships seems to vary across
cultures. Some cultures, for instance, emphasize dependence and obligation to
one’s immediate social circle and provide individuals with limited opportunities
to leave their group and to form new relationships with others. Other cultures,
however, tend to stress individual autonomy and provide individuals with more
possibilities to terminate old relationships and to voluntarily form new relationships
(e.g., Brewer, 2008; Schug et al., 2010).
Some have argued that these cross-cultural differences can be linked to the
ecological or economic circumstances present in a given setting (e.g., Hashimoto
& Yamagishi, 2013; Uskul, Kitayama, & Nisbett, 2008; Uskul & Over, 2014).
For example, in some settings (e.g., communities that largely rely on subsistence
farming) people live in closely knit groups and have to cooperate on a regular
basis with each other to meet their everyday subsistence needs. In such
environments, people may see themselves as relatively interdependent, and group
norms that encourage mutual obligations and collectivism are likely to prevail
(e.g., Berry, 1967). In other settings (e.g., herding communities, industrial
societies), however, people rely much less on cooperation with those from their
immediate social circle for their everyday subsistence needs, and they have more
freedom to leave the group and to form connections with people from outside it.
In these settings people may see themselves as relatively independent, and norms
that promote assertiveness and stress individualism are likely to prevail (e.g.,
Barry, Child, & Bacon, 1959; Berry, 1967).
The relative degree of interdependence (collectivism) or independence
(individualism) within a cultural setting may have important implications for the
individual’s degree of concern with fitting in and with avoiding rejection. In
cultures that are more collectivistic, avoiding rejection by the group should be
particularly important because people depend strongly on their group and the
normative goal is to connect to others. This does not necessarily mean that they
have a stronger need to belong per se as compared to people from individualistic
cultures (e.g., Bond, 1986), but they are likely to be more concerned about not
being able to occupy a proper place within the group. In more individualistic
cultures, however, social obligations are less likely to guide people’s behavior and
the cost of not fitting in is lower than in collectivistic cultures, also because it is
easier to form new relationships outside the immediate social circle. In these
cultures, then, people may be less concerned with avoiding rejection (e.g.,
Hashimoto & Yamagishi, 2013; Schug et al., 2010).
Various studies have examined whether people from collectivistic cultures are
indeed more concerned with avoiding rejection than people from individualistic
cultures. For example, Hashimoto and Yamagishi (2013) developed two new
scales of interdependent self-construal to examine whether individuals from
individualistic and collectivistic cultures differ in the extent to which they seek
harmony (e.g., “I think it is important not to disturb good relations among one’s
close acquaintances”) and the extent to which they seek to avoid rejection (e.g.,
“I find myself being concerned about what other people think of me”). In a
sample of American and Japanese undergraduates (who generally score high on
individualism and collectivism, respectively), they found that the two groups did
not differ in the degree to which they sought harmony, but that the Japanese
respondents did show higher rejection avoidance than the American respondents.
Similar findings were obtained in studies using different measures of rejection
sensitivity. Yamaguchi, Kuhlman, and Sugimori (1995) found that undergraduates
in Japan and Korea reported greater sensitivity to social rejection (measured by
Mehrabian’s Sensitivity to Rejection Scale; Mehrabian, 1994) than undergraduates
in the United States. More recently, Garris, Obhuchi, Oikawa, and Harris (2011)
found that Japanese students reported more rejection sensitivity (measured with
Downey and Feldman’s Rejection Sensitivity Questionnaire; Downey &
Feldman, 1996) compared to American students, and also reported a greater
history of rejection.
Interestingly, evidence from population genetics also suggests that in
collectivistic cultures there is a higher prevalence of alleles associated with
sensitivity to social rejection (e.g., the 5-HTTLPR polymorphism in the
serotonin transporter gene, the monoamine-oxidase A upstream VNTR, and the
A118G polymorphism in the μ-opioid receptor gene). More specifically, it has
been found that these putative social sensitivity alleles are relatively more frequent
in East Asian populations than in Caucasian populations (e.g., Chiao & Blizinsky,
2010; Way & Lieberman, 2010). Although more research is needed to clarify this
relationship (e.g., Eisenberg & Hayes, 2011), these findings provide additional
support for the idea that people from collectivistic cultures are more concerned
about avoiding rejection than people from individualistic cultures.
Cross-Cultural Differences in the Psychological Consequences of

Being Ostracized
Given the cross-cultural differences in the extent to which people see themselves
as more independent or interdependent, there may also be cross-cultural variation
in how people respond psychologically to actual threats to their inclusionary
status. Conflicting predictions can be made in this regard, however. On the one
hand, one could make the case that ostracism should be particularly aversive for
individuals from collectivistic cultures because they are generally motivated to fit
in and to avoid rejection (e.g., Lykes & Kemmelmeier, 2014; Schug et al., 2010).
Support for this idea comes from a daily diary study by Nezlek and colleagues
(2008), who examined cross-cultural differences in reactions to daily social events.
They asked North American (US and Canada) and Japanese participants to
describe over a period of two weeks the positive and negative events that occurred
each day, and to report their self-esteem and affect. The results of this study show
that—compared to North American students—Japanese students reacted more
negatively to social events that signal rejection (e.g., meeting new people who
did not like them) and more positively to social events that signal inclusion (e.g.,
meeting new people who liked them). Similar findings were obtained by Tafarodi
and Smith (2001) in a study among Malaysian (a collectivistic culture) and British
(an individualistic culture) students in the United Kingdom. They found that
positive social events led to an increase and negative social events to a decrease in
depressive symptoms among Malaysian students, but not among British students.
Other studies also show that in collectivistic cultures people are more affected by
interpersonal stressors than in individualistic cultures. For example, in Japan
people tend to experience more psychological distress following interpersonal
conflict (e.g., being insulted or ridiculed by others) than in the United States
(e.g., Hashimoto, Mojaverian, & Kim, 2012).
On the other hand, one could make the case that people from a collectivistic
cultural background may be better protected against the negative consequences
of being ostracized and should thus respond less negatively to it than people from
individualistic cultures. For example, according to Gardner, Pickett, and Knowles
(2005), people who are more interdependent have more cognitive accessibility to
social resources because they perceive themselves to be inherently connected to
others. These authors propose that the salience of these connections provides
individuals with a more interdependent self with a sense of belonging, which may
in turn restore a kind of connection and serve as a buffer against the stress induced
by ostracism.
There is also some support for the idea that collectivists may be better protected
against the negative effects of being ostracized, although this support comes
primarily from studies that did not explicitly examine cross-cultural differences
but that compared within cultures people who were high or low on a trait-level
measure of interdependent self-construal. For example, Ren, Wesselmann, and
Williams (2013) asked college students in China to report their need satisfaction
levels (i.e., belonging, control, meaningful existence, and self-esteem) after they
had been included or ostracized during a game of Cyberball. Their results suggest
that people’s self-construal does not moderate the immediate aversive effects of
ostracism, but that it does affect how quickly people recover from it: participants
with a stronger interdependent self-construal recovered faster from threats to
their need to belong and their need for a meaningful existence than those with
lower interdependent self-construal. In a study conducted by Gardner, Knowles,
and Jefferis (2004, in Gardner et al., 2005), American students who were high in
interdependence also did not show a reduction in intelligent thought (which has
been found to be one of the negative outcomes of ostracism, e.g., Baumeister,
Twenge, & Nuss, 2002) after they had been left out of a game of Cyberball; those
who were low in interdependence did perform worse on an intelligence test.
The few studies that have examined cross-cultural differences in reactions to
ostracism paint a fuzzier picture of how people from collectivistic and
individualistic cultures respond to threats to their inclusionary status. Garris and
colleagues (2011) led American and Japanese participants to believe that they
were interested in how people form impressions of others, and then told them
that two other alleged participants either did or did not want to get to know them
better. Contrary to their expectations, they found that although Japanese
participants reported on average less positive affect and more depressive affect
than American participants, the two groups did not differ in how they responded
emotionally to being ostracized. Both groups reported less positive affect, more
depressive affect, less belonging and less meaningful existence after they had been
ostracized than after they had been accepted.
Other cross-cultural studies, however, have found some evidence that people
from collectivistic backgrounds respond less negatively to ostracism than
individuals from individualistic backgrounds. Pfundmair and colleagues (2014)
conducted five experiments, with samples from Germany (representing an
individualistic culture), and Turkey, China, and Hong Kong (all representing
collectivistic cultures). In a first study, both German and Turkish participants
reported lower satisfaction of their fundamental needs after describing an
exclusion experience than after describing an inclusion experience, but this
negative reaction was stronger among German participants. In an additional set of
studies, German participants also reported lower need satisfaction levels than
participants from China and Hong Kong when recalling past experiences with
ostracism or when imagining that they were excluded by colleagues. Nevertheless,

no support was found for the idea that participants from collectivistic cultures
respond less negatively to ostracism because they have more access to social
resources. Instead, the results suggest that they may have reacted less negatively
to being ostracized because they perceived it as less threatening than did
participants from an individualistic culture.
Cross-Cultural Differences in Reactions to Ostracism:

Considering the Relationship with Those who Ostracize
Thus far the picture seems to be rather mixed when it comes to cross-cultural
differences in how people respond psychologically to being ostracized. Although
some studies suggest that people from collectivistic backgrounds are more
concerned with avoiding rejection and are more strongly affected by actual
exclusion experiences, other studies have not found such differences or have even
found collectivists to respond less negatively to exclusion than people from
individualistic cultures. How can these conflicting findings be explained?
One possible reason why research examining cross-cultural differences in the
consequences of being ostracized has yielded such inconsistent results is that
researchers have generally not considered the relationship between the rejecting
individual and the target of that rejection. More specifically, in the laboratory
studies that have been described here, people were generally ostracized by
(relative) strangers. This may have had important consequences for how they
interpreted and experienced the rejection episode. For example, in collectivistic
cultures, people seem to be primarily motivated to fit in with and to be connected
to the ingroup (e.g., family members or members from the same lasting group
such as work groups), with whom they share a common fate and on whom they
depend for needed resources (e.g., Markus & Kitayama, 1991). Thus, they may
be relatively indifferent to being ostracized by people that do not belong to the
ingroup or who are strangers to them (e.g., Fiske & Yamamoto, 2005). Being
disconnected from the ingroup, however, may be painful and aversive for
collectivists, particularly when this disconnection is long lasting. In this regard,
Lykes and Kemmelmeier (2014) found in a study comparing different European
countries that the absence of interactions with family was a more important
predictor of loneliness in more collectivistic countries than in countries that are
more individualistic.
In individualistic cultures, however, people tend to rely less on one stable
ingroup and they are—perhaps also because of the absence of such ties—more
likely to form relationships with and to be dependent on relative strangers (e.g.,
Markus & Kitayama, 1991; Schug et al., 2010; Verma, 1985). Research shows that
they are, compared to individuals from collectivistic cultures, more willing to trust
strangers and more able to make friends relatively easily (e.g., Adams & Plaut, 2003;
Fiske & Yamamoto, 2005; Oyserman, Coon, & Kemmelmeier, 2002; Triandis,
Bontempo, Villareal, Asai, & Lucca, 1988). Moreover, the individualistic self-
concept is likely to be more dependent on the extent to which the person is able to
forge new relationships. It has been argued that in individualistic cultures believing
that one has socially valued traits is important, as this will make it easier to pursue
relationships with others (e.g., Falk, Heine, Yuki, & Takemura, 2009). One
possible implication of this belief is that it may be particularly painful for people
from these cultures when they do not find desirable partners or when they are
ostracized by relative strangers, because this could reflect negatively upon the self.
The idea that people with a collectivistic background should respond less
negatively to ostracism by strangers than those with an individualistic background
was the starting point of a study by Fiske and Yamamoto (2005). In this
experiment, Japanese and American college students were led to believe that they
participated in a study on how people form impressions of others. Accordingly,
they received positive or negative social feedback from their interaction partner.
The results indicated that although both groups felt bad following negative social
feedback, Americans responded more negatively by lowering their impression of
their interaction partners on all of the evaluation dimensions (warmth,
competence, and compatibility). Japanese participants lowered only their warmth
impressions while maintaining their impressions of compatibility and competence
at relatively neutral levels.
Nevertheless, Fiske and Yamamoto did not explicitly compare reactions to
ostracism by close others with reactions to ostracism by strangers, so their findings
do not provide direct support for the idea that ostracism by strangers is less
aversive for people from collectivistic cultures. More concrete evidence for this
notion was obtained in a recent study by Uskul and Over (2014) among farming
and herding communities in Turkey. In the farming communities selected for
this study people are relatively interdependent: they rely primarily on their
immediate and extended family and their neighbors (particularly during harvest
season) and are not strongly involved with people outside of their immediate
social circle. In contrast, people in the herding communities are more independent
from the ingroup. Their herding activities do not require much cooperation with
ingroup members, but selling their produce requires regular interaction with
persons from outside their immediate social circle.
Based upon these differences, Uskul and Over expected that, compared to
farmers, herders should value relationships with strangers more, and should also
be more negatively affected by ostracism from them. Their findings largely
confirmed this expectation. Herders and farmers reported a higher threat when
they imagined being ostracized by close others than by strangers, but this
difference was smaller for herders than for farmers. Moreover, when asked how
an individual in a hypothetical scenario should respond to being excluded by
strangers, herders were somewhat more likely than farmers to recommend an
affiliative strategy whereas farmers were more likely to endorse a withdrawal
response. As such, these findings suggest that when examining the effects of
ostracism across cultures, it is important to take into account the relationship that
people have with those who ostracize them.
Cross-Cultural Differences when Ostracism Targets the

Individual Self or Collective Self
The fact that research on cross-cultural differences in reactions to ostracism has
painted such a mixed picture may also have to do with the fact that in most of
these studies participants were not provided with a specific rationale for why they
were ostracized. In everyday life, however, people can be excluded or rejected for
many different reasons. These may vary, among other things, in the extent to
which they challenge the individual (independent) self or the collective
(interdependent) self. For example, in some situations people might be ostracized
because of their personal qualities or skills (e.g., competence, intelligence), whereas
in other situations they might be ostracized because of their membership in a
particular social group (e.g., ethnic group). In the latter case, the ostracism does
not have to target individuals directly, but may also target their group as a collective
(e.g., when the group is being discriminated against or deprived of resources).
Given that individuals from collectivistic backgrounds tend to be relatively
strongly involved with their groups and to see their outcomes as connected to
those of their ingroup members (e.g., Oyserman et al., 2002), it seems plausible
that they would be particularly sensitive to ostracism that is based upon their
group membership. Preliminary evidence for this idea comes from a study by
Shorey, Cowan, and Sullivan (2002) among Hispanics in the United States,
which found that individuals with a more interdependent self-construal were
more likely to perceive personal discrimination. People from collectivistic
cultures may also be relatively sensitive to ostracism that targets their ingroup
without targeting them directly. Some have even argued that collectivists may be
hurt more when the target of ostracism is the ingroup than when they themselves
are the target (e.g., Pfundmair et al., 2014). Although this question has not yet
been explicitly examined, research on cross-cultural differences in reactance does
suggest that individuals from collectivistic backgrounds (e.g., East Asian students
in the UK) are less sensitive to threats to their personal freedom than people from
individualistic cultures (e.g., Western European students in the UK), and that
they are more sensitive to threats to their collective freedom (Jonas et al., 2009).
Furthermore, studies examining determinants of anger across cultures have found
that collectivists are more likely than individualists to describe a situation that
happened to someone else, and less likely to describe a situation in which they
themselves were the victim (e.g., Stipek, Weiner, & Li, 1989).
At the same time, ostracism that explicitly targets the individual self may be
particularly threatening for individuals from individualistic cultures. Research has
shown that in such cultures people are typically motivated to confirm their
internal attributes (e.g., competent, adequate) and try to maintain or enhance
positive self-regard by overelaborating on positive aspects of the self (e.g., Heine,

Lehman, Markus, & Kitayama, 1999; Heine, 2005). So, when they are ostracized
because of an unfavorable evaluation of their personal qualities, this could pose a
threat to the motive to self-enhance and result in considerable feelings of
discomfort. In contrast, in collectivistic cultures people seem to be less motivated
to see themselves in positive terms. Instead, they have been found to be relatively
self-critical and to focus more on their shortcomings and on ways to self-improve,
possibly also to better fit in with their ingroups (e.g., Heine & Hamamura, 2007).
Thus, when they are ostracized because of their personal inadequacies, the
discrepancy between how they see themselves and how they are actually being
evaluated by others is likely to be relatively small, possibly resulting in less stress
and less negative affect (e.g. Heine & Lehman, 1999).
Nevertheless, the extent to which people from individualistic and collectivistic
backgrounds feel threatened by ostracism that targets the individual self may also
depend on which aspect of the individual self is threatened (e.g., competence vs.
cooperativeness). For example, Kurman (2001) found in a study among Israeli
and Singaporean students that individuals with a more independent self-construal
tended to have a stronger need to see themselves in a positive light on agentic
traits such as intelligence, whereas those with a more interdependent self-construal
engaged in more self-enhancement on communal traits such as cooperation or
honesty. Thus, it is possible that being ostracized on the basis of agentic traits is
more threatening for individualists, while being ostracized because of communal
traits is particularly threatening for collectivists. It is important to note, however,
that there has been some debate about whether or not people from individualistic
and collectivistic cultures may self-enhance in different domains (e.g., Heine,
2005; Sedikides, Gaertner, & Toguchi, 2003), and thus future research should
seek to specify whether, when, and for whom ostracism that targets the individual
self may be more threatening.
Cross-Cultural Differences in Types of Reactions

Following Ostracism
In the studies examining how ostracism is experienced across cultures, the focus
has generally been on whether or not rejection is more painful for people with
collectivistic backgrounds or for those with individualistic backgrounds. What
has received much less attention, however, is the possibility that ostracism may
elicit different types of reactions depending upon the cultural setting.
More specifically, it is possible that the emotions that ostracized individuals
experience vary as a function of whether their cultural background is more
collectivistic or individualistic. For example, cross-cultural researchers have argued
that in collectivistic cultures, so-called engaging emotions (e.g., friendly feelings,
shame) should be relatively common and important because such feelings encourage
cooperative social behavior and help to maintain harmony, thus affirming the
interdependent self. In contrast, in cultures that are more individualistic, disengaging

emotions that foster and create independence (e.g., pride, anger) should be more
common because of the focus on personal goals, desires, and achievements (e.g.,
Kitayama, Mesquita, & Karasawa, 2006; Markus & Kitayama, 1991).
This could mean that although members from collectivistic and individualistic
cultures may all feel bad after rejection, they experience different types of emotions.
In collectivistic cultures, ostracized individuals may experience emotions that are
engaging but negative (e.g., shame), whereas in individualistic cultures, they may
more often experience emotions that are disengaging and negative (e.g., anger,
frustration). Although this still is an empirical question, Kitayama and colleagues
(2006) did find in a study in the United States and Japan that across different social
situations the Japanese tended to experience engaging emotions more strongly
than disengaging emotions, whereas the reverse was found for Americans. Here
too, the relationship that people have with those who ostracize them may play an
important role. For example, Matsumoto and colleagues (1988) found that
Japanese experience disengaging emotions such as anger primarily in the presence
of strangers, whereas Americans and Western Europeans more often experience
such emotions in the presence of closely related others.
There may also be cross-cultural differences in people’s motivational tendencies
following ostracism. For instance, in collectivistic cultures the relative prevalence of
engaging emotions and the focus on maintaining interdependence may prompt
ostracized individuals to repair social harmony and to engage in affiliative behaviors,
particularly following ostracism by ingroup members. In individualistic cultures, on
the other hand, ostracized individuals may be more motivated to restore a positive
sense of self and to regain a sense of autonomy or mastery, which in turn may
energize antisocial responses (e.g., a desire to retaliate)—particularly when the
exclusion presents a threat to the individual self. Consistent with this suggestion,
several studies have indeed found among Western samples that people responded to
challenges to the individual self by becoming angry or by derogating other people
(e.g., Bond, Ruaro, & Wingrove, 2006; Gaertner, Sedikides, & Graetz, 1999).
This is not to suggest, however, that individuals from collectivistic backgrounds
will never engage in antisocial responses following ostracism. Whether or not
people display a willingness to affiliate or to retaliate following ostracism may
depend on the cultural norms and display rules in a given setting as well. Although
in many collectivistic cultures (particularly those in Southeast Asia) group
harmony is emphasized and direct confrontation is generally undesirable, there
are also collectivistic cultures (e.g., in the Mediterranean and Latin America) that
value respect and honor. There is reason to believe that in such cultures people
are more willing to resort to retribution when their honor or the honor of their
group is at stake (e.g., Nisbett & Cohen, 1996). Thus, when examining cross-
cultural differences in people’s reactions to ostracism, researchers should not
focus solely on the distinction between individualism and collectivism, but should
also consider the specific values and norms in a cultural setting.
Concluding Remarks
Much of the theorizing on ostracism has assumed, either implicitly or explicitly,
that it is a universal phenomenon that should be negatively experienced across
cultures. Only recently have researchers started to consider the possibility that
there may be cross-cultural differences in how people respond to and cope with
the pain of being ostracized. The present review has provided an overview of
recent work that has been done in this regard. A central question in much of this
research is whether people’s reactions to ostracism vary as a function of whether
their cultural background is more collectivistic or more individualistic.
Researchers have made conflicting predictions in this regard and, as this review
also demonstrates, the research has yielded inconsistent findings. Some studies
have shown that ostracism is more threatening for people from collectivistic
backgrounds, but other studies have shown that it is less threatening for them or
that they do not differ in this regard from people with individualistic backgrounds.
At present, it is difficult to draw firm conclusions about the psychological
consequences of ostracism across cultures. Although the studies described in this
review provide some interesting insights, they also suffer from a number of
shortcomings. One major limitation is that most of the studies that have been
conducted to date were actually cross-national and not cross-cultural per se.
These studies generally presupposed differences in collectivism and individualism
but did not directly assess those differences. This makes it difficult to establish
whether the results are actually due to individualism or collectivism, or whether
they are due to other cultural differences or to some country-specific differences.
Furthermore, most of the cross-cultural studies on ostracism were based on
college student samples and were limited to comparisons of East Asians (e.g.,
Japan, China, Hong Kong) and Westerners (e.g., the US, the UK, Germany).
Consequently, we have very little knowledge of people’s reactions to ostracism
in other cultures (e.g., in Africa, Latin America).
This is not, however, to dismiss the efforts that have been undertaken so far to
address empirically how ostracism is experienced across cultures—these studies
provide an important stepping stone for future research. As it stands, though,
there is an enormous amount of work still to be done before we really know well
how ostracism is experienced across cultures, and how people act in response to
it. Considering such questions of cultural variability is important, as it may place
our knowledge and understanding of the universality of people’s reactions to
ostracism on an even firmer ground.
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13
OSTRACISM IN CHILDREN
AND ADOLESCENTS
Steve A. Nida and Conway F. Saylor
As the existence of this volume demonstrates, the study of ostracism and social
rejection has emerged as a major topic in social psychology over the last two
decades. Work within this domain has generated considerable theory and
research, and it has prompted the development of new areas of related inquiry
such as social pain (MacDonald & Leary, 2005) and ostracism’s neurological
connections with physical pain (Eisenberger, Lieberman, & Williams, 2003).
Ostracism’s relationship to extremism and gullibility has been acknowledged
(Williams & Nida, 2011), and its likely link to violence in the form of school
shootings has been documented (Leary, Kowalski, & Smith, 2003). A
comprehensive examination of this literature reveals that the research has begun
to move in a number of different directions, and these are but a few examples.
Despite the evolution of this area of inquiry, studies of ostracism in children
and adolescents have been relatively sparse—although the evidence does suggest
that this characterization of the literature has become less accurate over the last
half-dozen years. On the other hand, bullying among children and adolescents has
been studied for the last several decades, and from a variety of interdisciplinary
perspectives. This research has included occasional references to ostracism,
generally considered as part of other broader categories such as “indirect” bullying,
relational aggression, or simply social exclusion. Primarily as a consequence of the
emergence of ostracism as an area of significant interest within social psychology,
some researchers have finally begun studying ostracism in children and adolescents
as a separately identifiable social behavior, the impact of which may be even more
severe than that of bullying itself (Williams & Nida, 2009).
Because Williams’s need–threats model of ostracism (Williams, 2001, 2009)
has provided the theoretical framework for a significant portion of the research
on ostracism, the impact of ostracism has frequently been assessed by measuring
Ostracism in Children and Adolescents 193
the extent to which the four needs (belonging, self-esteem, control, and
meaningful existence) have been threatened. Not surprisingly, threats to these
four needs have often been the focus of research on ostracism’s impact on children
and adolescents. In the next section we examine that research as well as that
which has looked at ostracism’s impact on mood state, another focus of Williams’s
earliest theoretical statements about ostracism.
Ostracism, Need–Threat, and Mood

Compared to both adults and younger children, adolescents may be more
affected by peer rejection and by what their peers think of them (Kloep, 1999).
This phenomenon may be due in part to the fact that brain regions associated
with social cognition continue to develop throughout adolescence (Sebastian,
Viding, Williams, & Blakemore, 2010). Sebastian et al. used Cyberball (Williams,
Cheung, & Choi, 2000; Williams & Jarvis, 2006) to manipulate ostracism in a
study of females from three age groups—young adolescents, mid-adolescents,
and adults. They found the anticipated effect of ostracism on their need–threats
measure, but it did not vary across the three age groups; on several measures of
mood, however, adolescents who had been ostracized produced more negative
moods than adolescents who had not been ostracized, but this adverse effect of
ostracism was not as pronounced among adult participants. In a similar study
focusing on need–threats, Pharo, Gross, Richardson, and Hayne (2011) found
that younger participants showed a stronger adverse effect of ostracism. They
used Cyberball to create inclusion or ostracism experiences for adolescents,
“emerging adults,” or young adults. On a measure of overall need–threat (i.e.,
across all four basic needs), greater threat was observed for ostracized participants
than for those who had been included, of course, but need–threat was even
greater for both adolescents and emerging adults as compared to the young
adults. Obviously, more work on the young person’s possibly enhanced
sensitivity to social exclusion is needed, but the likelihood of its connections to
neurocognitive developmental processes suggests that this might turn out to be
a particularly promising area of inquiry.
In possibly the first published study to involve children in a Cyberball-based
experiment, Abrams et al. (2011) involved three separate age groups of
participants—8/9-year-olds, 13/14-year-olds, and adults. These researchers
found evidence of the predicted threat to all four of the primary needs, as well as
the anticipated lowered mood, among ostracized participants. They also found,
however, some variations in how specific need–threats were experienced by the
different age groups; for example, ostracized 8/9-year-olds experienced greater
threat to self-esteem than did the ostracized 13/14-year-olds, but these same
8/9-year-olds experienced less threat within the domain of belonging. With
regard to the first observation, the authors suggested that adolescents and adults
might have had the opportunity to develop buffering mechanisms that protect
194 Steve A. Nida and Conway F. Saylor
against threats to self-esteem, while those same tools have not yet been established
among 8/9-year-old children. As for the second of these findings, it may be that
8/9-year-olds are just less concerned about being included than are adolescents.
Generally similar results have been reported by Ruggieri, Bendixen, Gabriel,
and Alsaker (2013), who used Cyberball to manipulate ostracism with a Swiss
sample of early adolescents. Compared to those who had been included, ostracized
participants (ranging in age from 10 to 14) displayed not only lower levels of
positive mood, but also lower levels of satisfaction for the respective needs in
three of the four domains that are threatened by ostracism according to Williams—
belonging, self-esteem, and meaningful existence.
Other Effects of Ostracism

Given that peer rejection can produce an adverse effect on the academic
performance of children (Wentzel & Caldwell, 1997), and because it has been
demonstrated that ostracism can have a detrimental effect on cognitive functioning
among adults (Baumeister, Twenge, & Nuss, 2002), it is only logical to consider
the possibility that ostracism could negatively impact children’s academic
performance. Hawes et al. (2012) suggest that ostracism’s adverse impact on
cognitive function may be direct; because of its central role in cognitive
processing, they chose to focus on working memory in a study that involved
children of elementary school age. These participants, who were either ostracized
or included using Cyberball, demonstrated the typical effects on the four primary
needs (i.e., ostracized children displayed higher levels of threat) and on mood
(i.e., ostracized children were sadder, angrier, and less happy). On the measures
of cognitive performance, ostracized girls fared more poorly, but this effect was
not observed with boys. In attempting to explain the observed gender difference,
Hawes et al. note several gender differences that have been reported in research
on processes related to ostracism. For example, girls are more likely than boys to
conclude that social exclusion has been fueled by anger (Galen & Underwood,
1997)—which parallels Hawes et al.’s finding that girls were angrier than boys
after they had been ostracized.
Wölfer and Scheithauer (2013) have offered a somewhat unique approach to
understanding the emotional, cognitive, and behavioral effects of ostracism in a
fairly recent article presenting the results of two studies. Their first study used
Cyberball to create exclusion or inclusion experiences for fourth- and eighth-
grade girls and boys. Those who were ostracized displayed more negative
emotions (including mood), and they showed evidence of cognitive impact in
the form of selective social memory (i.e., as compared to the inclusion group on
a measure of memory for events involving either other people or themselves,
they recalled a higher proportion of social events). Whereas this initial study was
intended to provide additional general confirmation of the adverse impact of
ostracism on children and adolescents, their second study was more ambitious. In
that study, children from grades 4–9 were presented with an opportunity to react
to an observed episode of ostracism using a modified Cyberball procedure.
Afterward, participants completed several cognitive and affective measures, and
the researchers explored the relationship between these data and behavioral
responses to the episode (which had been categorized as prosocial, avoidant, or
antisocial). Regression analysis demonstrated that their conceptual model had
considerable predictive value; behavioral reactions to ostracism varied, and there
was considerable evidence that these variations were predicted by several different
psychosocial variables (the tendencies to withdraw socially and to use physical
aggression, the ability to regulate anger, perspective-taking skills, and the need to
belong). Further work along these lines may eventually lead to the development
of interventions that are tailored to specific individuals and/or situations.
Two additional recent studies have focused attention on other behavioral
consequences of being ostracized. Using a repeated-measures design, Barkley,
Salvy, and Roenmich (2012) exposed a group of children (ages 10 to 13) to
inclusion or exclusion via Cyberball. After they had played Cyberball, the children
went to a gymnasium, where they had the opportunity to engage in a number of
different activities over the next 30 minutes; some of these were physical in nature
(e.g., rope-jumping, basketball, soccer), and some were sedentary (e.g., crossword
puzzles, drawing, reading). Following ostracism—as compared to when they had
just experienced inclusion—the participants produced 22 percent less physical
movement (as measured by an accelerometer, a device that records physical
activity) and spent 41 percent more time engaged in sedentary activity.
In light of the accumulating evidence suggesting that being ostracized can
compromise one’s ability to self-regulate (e.g., Baumeister, DeWall, Ciarocco, &
Twenge, 2005), Salvy et al. (2011) wondered whether ostracism might affect the
eating behaviors of overweight young adolescents differently than for those of
normal weight. Cyberball was used to manipulate ostracism/inclusion; afterward,
the participants engaged in a computer task that allowed the researchers to assess
the relative reinforcement value of food (as compared to social interaction).
Following the computer task, all participants had an opportunity to consume
snack food for a designated period of time. As had been predicted—when
ostracized, overweight participants showed a higher level of responding for food
than did participants of normal weight. The overweight adolescents who had
been ostracized also consumed more of the snack food than did ostracized
adolescents of normal weight. These results raise concerns because it is indeed
possible that obese youngsters are more likely to be stigmatized and excluded
because of their weight, which may in turn fuel unhealthy eating behavior that
contributes further to their weight problems. We will revisit this concern later in
this chapter when we consider some data suggesting that children with special
needs are especially likely to be targets of ostracism.
It is important to note, however, that all of the studies cited thus far in this
section of our chapter have examined the impact of short-term episodes of
ostracism. Long-term or “chronic” ostracism is likely a very different matter—

with distinctive consequences for the targeted person. Williams (2009) proposed
that there is a third stage of ostracism beyond the reflexive and reflective stages,
that of resignation, in which the individual is no longer able to restore threatened
psychological needs and feels worthless, alienated, helpless, and depressed.
Although research on the resignation stage remains scarce as of this writing, Riva
et al. (2016) have recently provided strong empirical evidence to support
Williams’s characterization of it. As for children, research suggests that chronic
peer rejection may harm academic performance in several different indirect ways,
such as by discouraging relationships with peers outside of the classroom (e.g.,
Buhs, Ladel, & Herald, 2006) and by providing a reason to disengage in the
context of classroom activities (e.g., Baumeister & Leary, 1995). We anticipate
and hope that the resignation stage and the consequences of chronic social
exclusion—as they affect both children and adults—will become a thriving area
of research in the near future.
Clinical Implications of Ostracism in Children and Adolescents

Our own research on ostracism—which has become a broad-based collaboration
involving social psychologists, pediatric psychologists, and pediatricians—actually
began as the second author was about to begin a major study of bullying in a
pediatric population. The first author persuaded her to include a brief ostracism
measure among the several instruments she was planning to use, with the general
intent of examining ostracism’s possible connections with bullying. Given that
ostracism and bullying often occur together (Raskauskas & Stoltz, 2007), it was
logical to make this adjustment in the plan.
This program of research (Nida, Twyman, Saylor, & Williams, 2009; Saylor
et al., 2012, 2013; Twyman et al., 2010) originated with a group of researchers
generally interested in preventing, assessing, and intervening with adjustment
problems among children. Not surprisingly, the connections between bullying
and such problems are well established—for bullies, victims, and bully-victims
(i.e., those that are both bully and are themselves bullied).
Data from 312 participants (ranging in age from 8–17, with a mean age of 12)
were collected in public and private pediatric clinics; the sample intentionally
included children with special needs in addition to those without diagnoses.
Parents of these children completed the Child Behavior Checklist (CBCL;
Achenbach & Rescorla, 2001); scores from the Internalizing, Externalizing, and
Total Behavior Problem scales, along with a total Social Competence score, were
used as one assessment of the child’s level of adjustment. The participants
themselves completed the Bullying–Victimization Scale (BVS; Reynolds, 2003)
and the short form of the Children’s Depression Inventory (CDI; Kovacs,
1992)—to assess bullying involvement (as both bully and victim) and depressive
symptomatology, respectively.
Participants also completed a 15-item ostracism scale, on which they responded

to items using a 5-point continuous rating of frequency ranging from “almost
never” to “almost all the time.” Twelve of the items were slightly modified
versions of items comprising the need–threats scale frequently used by Williams
and others in studies of ostracism in adults; three additional items were created to
capture experiences of being ostracized. The ostracism scale thus yields scores for
threat to self-esteem, threat to belonging, threat to control, threat to meaningful
existence, and frequency of ostracism experiences, as well as an overall “total
ostracism” score.
The general pattern of results indicated convincingly that higher levels of
ostracism are correlated with poorer adjustment. Children who were ostracized
had more parent-reported behavior problems; there were significant positive
correlations (ranging from .23 to .31) between Total Ostracism and CBCL
Internalizing, Externalizing, and Total Problem scores. Children who were
ostracized were described by their parents as being less socially competent, as
indicated by the significant correlation (−.29) between Total Ostracism and
CBCL Social Competence scores. Most striking, however, was the strong
correlation (.53) between Total Ostracism and CDI scores, with ostracized
children reporting more depressive symptomatology. In fact, of the 30 different
correlations involved between the six ostracism scores (four need–threats,
Ostracism Experiences, and Total Ostracism) and the five adjustment scores (four
different CBCL scores and the CDI score), 28 of them were statistically significant.
Only the correlations between Control and both CBCL Externalizing and CBCL
Total Social Competence failed to reach significance.
Whereas this research also produced some significant findings associated with
bullying, ostracism generally accounted for more of the observed variance than
did any of the bullying measures. In a regression analyses, for example, ostracism
was the strongest single predictor of self-reported depressive symptoms and the
strongest single predictor of CBCL Internalizing scores. These results are curiously
reminiscent of some of the findings in the research on ostracism in the workplace
(see Robinson & Schabram, this volume), where it is more common than bullying
and less likely to be punished.
In the earliest presentations of his model of ostracism, Williams (e.g., 2001)
noted that the long-term effect of chronic ostracism would be to induce a state
of resignation likely to involve depression; in addition to the empirical evidence
cited in the foregoing (Riva et al., 2016), there is ample anecdotal evidence that
this is indeed the case. There is also research suggesting that social isolation can
play a key role in depression (Allen & Badcock, 2003). In other words, it may not
be terribly surprising to identify a clear connection between ostracism and
depression, but the sheer strength of the relationship is noteworthy, if not
disturbing. This research is not only some of the first ostracism research with
children, but also it appears to be the first time that ostracism research has moved
directly into the clinical domain.
Ostracism in Children and Adolescents with Special Needs

As noted, the research described in the preceding section purposely included
children and adolescents with special needs (CSN). The researchers’ interest here
stemmed initially from data generated as part of the 2006 National Survey of
Children’s Health, which found evidence that this special population, as compared
to a non-CSN control group, is more likely to bully, to be bullied, and to be
bully-victims (Van Cleave & Davis, 2006).
More recent research has generally confirmed that pattern. For example, a
review of 59 studies (Sentenac et al., 2012) revealed higher levels of peer
victimization for a number of different categories of special needs (relative to
children without special needs), and more commonly when children with
developmental disabilities or emotional–behavioral issues are involved. Similarly,
Forrest, Bevans, Riley, Crespo, and Lewis (2011) found in a study of 1,457
children in grades 4–6 that those with special needs were more likely to be bullied.
Other major reviews of the literature (McLaughlin, Byers, & Peppin-Vaughn,
2010; Rose, Monda-Amaya, & Espelage, 2011) have reached the same conclusion.
Because ostracism and bullying tend to co-occur, children with special needs
would also seem to be at greater risk for being ostracized. The research described
in the preceding section (Twyman et al., 2010), which involved the sample of
312 children and adolescents, included several subgroups of participants with
special needs: learning disabilities, ADHD, emotional–behavioral disorders,
autism, and cystic fibrosis. On the ostracism measure, all of these groups displayed
significantly higher need–threat scores than the control group (i.e., those without
special needs), and the participants with ADHD or autism produced significantly
higher scores on the specific measure of ostracism experiences.
In a similar study of 109 children and adolescents with special needs, McKenna
et al. (2011) investigated the clinical implications of bullying and ostracism. They
found (consistent with Twyman et al.) that experiences with ostracism and being
bullied were strong predictors of both depressive symptomatology and
internalizing conditions. Saylor et al. (2013) note that it is remarkable in this
particular study that ostracism was the strongest predictor of internalizing
problems (both parent-reported and self-reported) given that these participants
brought with them so many different factors that might contribute to poor
adjustment. It may be, as they acknowledge, that children or adolescents with
depressive tendencies may tend to isolate themselves, thus resulting in more
experiences with being ostracized—but the connection is nonetheless striking.
At least two other published studies have generated data bearing on the
question of how ostracism impacts special populations. Sebastian, Blakemore, and
Charman (2009) exposed adolescent males, some of whom had been diagnosed
with autism spectrum disorders, to either an exclusion or an inclusion
manipulation. Exposed to ostracism, both groups showed elevated levels of need–
threat relative to those in the inclusion group, but those with autism spectrum
disorders showed significantly greater need–threat in the domain of meaningful

existence. A similarly designed study by Zadro, Boland, and Richardson (2006)
found that while ostracism had an adverse impact on all of their participants,
those high in social anxiety recovered more slowly than did those low in social
anxiety. Although the Zadro et al. study did not involve children, its results—
consistent with those of the other studies cited in this section—serve to remind
us that the impact of ostracism is most likely moderated by a variety of factors.
Finally, nearly 200 middle- and high-school teachers surveyed about their
experiences in observing ostracism in schools have indicated that a student’s
disability frequently serves to trigger ostracism (Walker, Nida, & Warren, 2011).
One item on the survey asked the teachers to write a narrative describing in detail
the worst case of ostracism they had ever observed; in the resulting descriptions,
special education students were the victims of ostracism well over half the time.
One especially heartbreaking example involving such a student was a case in
which a handful of middle-school students had orchestrated a plan that involved
virtually every one of the hundred or so students who ate lunch at a particular
time. When the targeted individual entered the lunchroom (which was large
enough to accommodate many more students than were present), every other
student rose and moved to the opposite side of the room at the very moment the
victim took a seat. Perhaps not surprisingly, adolescents diagnosed with mental
disorders commonly report that they feel ostracized (Kranke & Floersch, 2009).
Assessment of Ostracism and Bullying in Children and Adolescents

The studies from our own research program that have been discussed here (e.g.,
McKenna et al., 2011; Twyman et al., 2010) stand as some of the very first
examples of ostracism research involving children and adolescents. As noted, the
strong connections that have been found between ostracism and measures of
psychosocial adjustment make it also some of the first work in the area to have
direct clinical implications. Some of the first professional presentations of this
research were to developmental pediatricians who were previously unaware of the
social psychological research on ostracism. This medical audience was unusually
receptive to our work, and one of this group’s initial reactions was to suggest that
pediatricians and other practitioners would find it useful to have available a quick
screening measure that might be administered to young patients who were
suspected of having issues that might involve ostracism or bullying. Although solid
measures for the assessment of bullying do exist, they tend to be impractical
because they take too long or are not particularly suitable for use with individuals;
furthermore, there is a lack of instruments for assessing cyberbullying or ostracism.
In light of this state of affairs, an important foundational component of our
research program has been the creation of the Bullying and Ostracism Screening
Scale, known as the BOSS (Saylor et al., 2012), which was developed using some
1,500 respondents. The administration of the BOSS begins with an explanation
of four different types of bullying—physical, verbal/social, cyberbullying, and

ostracism. The definition of each of the four types of bullying is accompanied by
an illustration that helps to reinforce the distinction between ostracism and the
other three forms of bullying (see Figure 13.1).
The first part of the scale itself, then, consists of 16 core items on which the
respondent rates the perceived frequency of these four types of bullying (i.e., there are
four items for each bullying type, one of which is ostracism). These ratings are offered
using a 5-point continuous scale ranging from “almost never” to “almost always.”
The second portion of the BOSS is the 15-item ostracism scale described briefly in
the foregoing; it uses an identical continuous scale to assess threat to the four needs
that are the basis of Williams’s (2001, 2009) model of ostracism. A fifth component
of the scale assesses the extent to which the respondent has experienced ostracism and
includes such items as “other people ignore me” and “I feel invisible.” These two
instruments (i.e., the bullying measure and the ostracism measure) comprise the most
basic version of the BOSS—i.e., the BOSS Experiences and Ostracism “short form”
(BOSS-EO). Middle-school students who read at their appropriate age level
ordinarily can complete this version of the BOSS independently within 6–9 minutes.
Bullying can take many forms:

Verbal/Social Bullying Physical Bullying
Bullies can hurt people verbally/socially by Bullies can hurt people physically by hitting,
teasing them, saying mean things, calling them pinching, biting, spitting, or throwing things
names, spreading lies or cussing them out. at them.
Online/Cyberbullying Ostracism
Bullies can hurt people online by saying cruel, Bullies and even friends can hurt people by
embarrassing, or untrue things about them in completely ignoring them or excluding them
emails or website postings or by sending mean from a group. This is also called ostracism.
text messages. This is also called cyberbullying.
FIGURE 13.1 Illustrations of forms of bullying presented within instructions for the
BOSS (from Saylor et al., 2012).
Alternate versions of the BOSS, used for different purposes, are available. The BOSS
Experience and School Climate form (BOSS-E) makes possible a quick assessment
of the extent to which children perceive bullying and ostracism to be problems
within their school, and this form could be adapted to gather parallel input from
teachers, administrators, staff, or parents. The BOSS-B adds to the basic instrument
(BOSS-EO) a set of “bystander” items that assess the respondent’s propensity to
intervene when he or she observes occurrences of bullying and ostracism.
Additionally, respondents can be guided through the process of completing the
longer BOSS-B using a DVD that has been developed for this purpose. This
administration DVD includes introductory and concluding comments and complete
instructions, and it provides item-by-item reading of the content as well as associated
prompts. The respondent using the DVD completes the scale in just under 18
minutes. As intended, all of the versions of the BOSS have proven themselves to be
quite accessible to children, who ordinarily complete the scales without difficulty.
It is important to remember that the BOSS scales are intended as screening
devices and should not be used in an attempt to determine whether and to what
extent bullying and ostracism have actually occurred. As such, their purpose is to
signal practitioners, school personnel, and other adults of potential problems that
merit further exploration and discussion.
Ostracism vs. Bullying

At this point there is little question that ostracism is aversive and carries with it
the potential to do harm to the targeted individual, but is it more harmful to
children and adolescents than bullying? Williams and Nida (2009) have suggested
that it may be, but their position was based largely on the ostracism research
involving adults. Although the research on ostracism as it affects children and
adolescents has only recently begun to emerge, that research certainly does at least
suggest indirectly that ostracism may generally be more of a concern in this
population given the vulnerability of young people and their propensity to use
ostracism as an intentionally hurtful social device.
The results of one recent large-scale study attest to the power of ostracism and
shed at least some light on the question of whether it is more harmful than bullying.
In a survey conducted in the United Kingdom involving some 35,000 students
between the ages of 11 and 18, Benton (2011) asked participants a number of
questions about the different types of bullying they had experienced and their
relative frequency of occurrence, and for the respondents’ ideas about why they
had been bullied. Nearly half of those surveyed reported having been bullied, and
there were some differences between the typical experiences of girls and boys.
One of the survey’s most interesting findings, however, was evidence that the type
of “bullying” that produces the greatest emotional harm is “being left out.”
At least one other study has taken a direct approach to the question by pitting
ostracism and bullying against one another in an effort to determine which of the
two has the greater negative impact. Carpenter, Nida, Saylor, and Taylor (2012)
administered the BOSS to 1,076 children (mean age was 12.6 years) from whom
four subgroups were identified: those who had experienced significant bullying,
those who had been ostracized, those who had experienced significant amounts of
both bullying and ostracism, and those who had experienced neither. Scores from
the participants who had been ostracized reflected significantly greater need–
threat—on each of the four need–threat dimensions—than did the scores generated
by children who had been bullied. As anticipated, children who had been neither
bullied nor ostracized consistently showed the lowest level of need–threat, while
those who had experienced both bullying and ostracism consistently produced the
highest need–threat scores. This pattern of results should be interpreted with some
degree of caution because the dependent measure was, of course, a scale that had
been developed specifically to assess the impact of ostracism; nevertheless, the results
still suggest that the combined effects of bullying and ostracism may well be additive.
Dealing with Ostracism in Children and Adolescents

Although the research on ostracism in children and adolescents is far less extensive
as compared to the now-sizable body of work addressing ostracism in adults, it is
still sufficient to allow us to conclude with reasonable certainty that ostracism and
rejection are harmful for children and adolescents—and conceivably even more
so. The adverse impact of ostracism occurs reliably and in several different domains.
Consistent with the pattern that is well documented with adults, children who are
ostracized display threats to the four basic needs and lowered mood. Ostracism
may have a negative impact on academic performance and may impair cognitive
functioning. It may discourage physical activity and encourage unhealthy eating
by compromising the ability to self-regulate. In terms of possible clinical
implications, there appears to be a strong connection between ostracism and
symptoms of depression, as well as a link with psychosocial adjustment problems.
Furthermore, children who have special needs appear to be especially common
targets of ostracism, leading to the unfortunate realization that those who are the
most vulnerable are the ones who most frequently experience social rejection.
We believe that this research is sufficient to warrant concern about ostracism
among children and adolescents—and that it may be time to start talking about
appropriate interventions. Unlike bullying, however, ostracism is not an overt,
clearly identifiable behavior. Even when ostracism is suspected, the person
engaging in the ostracism can rightly claim—at least in the literal sense—that he
or she is doing nothing. Furthermore, it may not make sense to force the
perpetrator of the ostracism to include or interact with the target person, especially
with adults. Because of these and other challenges, Williams and Nida (2014)
have suggested that in designing interventions it might be more beneficial to
focus on the target, trying to weaken ostracism’s effect on the target, rather than
to attempt to modify the behavior of the perpetrator.
If they are to be as effective as possible, any intervention efforts should be

conceptualized with regard to the larger context in which ostracism occurs with
children and adolescents. Adopting that perspective, Williams and Nida (2014)
offer a set of recommendations to inform the development of public policy
designed to address ostracism.
Their first suggestion is to piggyback efforts to combat ostracism onto existing
efforts to prevent bullying. Anti-bullying programs seem to be everywhere, and
resources to assist in the fight against bullying are plentiful. In 49 states there are
anti-bullying laws, and there is anti-bullying policy in 42 states. As we have noted
in this chapter, bullying and ostracism tend to occur together, and—like
bullying—ostracism tends to occur at school (Walker, Nida, & Warren, 2011).
Because both are devices used to hurt another person, it should be relatively
simple to integrate ostracism into strategies designed to combat bullying. In
recent years anti-bullying programs have evolved to incorporate cyberbullying as
part of their focus; similarly, such programs should be able to accommodate an
anti-ostracism component.
The second recommendation offered by Williams and Nida (2014) is that
efforts to counter bullying and ostracism should be empirically grounded through
the use of appropriate assessment mechanisms. Using a measure such as any
version of the BOSS can serve not only to identify and evaluate problems, but
also to document the success of anti-bullying/anti-ostracism strategies. Given
that anti-bullying programs typically have associated assessment mechanisms,
making ostracism part of the assessment process should not be difficult.
Finally, Williams and Nida (2014) suggest that we should not stop with
programs designed specifically to counter bullying and ostracism; instead, such
programs should be integrated with broader efforts to encourage desirable
behavior. The first step toward this end is to make certain that teachers,
administrators, staff, and parents fully understand ostracism’s potential to cause
harm to children and adolescents. As we have noted, ostracism in a sense involves
“doing nothing,” and as a consequence teachers and other adults may easily
overlook it. Because it is perceived as a “non-behavior,” special efforts may be
necessary to insure that people comprehend the power of ostracism. Most schools
use some sort of system to foster positive behaviors, acknowledging rule-following
actions rather than focusing only on violations and the resulting punishments—
why not make certain that behaviors that intentionally include others are among
those behaviors that are praised and rewarded? It is important, of course, for
teachers, administrators, and school staff to model inclusive behavior, and for
school and community programs to be as inclusive whenever feasible (e.g.,
including children with special needs wherever possible). Williams and Nida also
suggest that there is considerable value in teaching children and adolescents that
when it comes to ostracism, a single person who reaches out to be supportive of
an ostracized peer can make a huge difference in mitigating the negative impact
of being rejected.
Although there remains much to be learned about how ostracism affects

children and adolescents, we believe that the research to date already provides a
solid foundation for the development of strategies to challenge and prevent it.
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14
NORMATIVE EXCLUSION AND
ATTRACTION TO EXTREME GROUPS
Resolving Identity-Uncertainty
Michael A. Hogg and Joseph A. Wagoner
It can be disconcerting to discover that your attitudes and practices are out of step
with a collective that you are part of or feel you belong to—that is, discovering
you are normatively marginal or excluded. People derive a sense of self and
identity from the various social categories and smaller groups they belong to in
society. This collectively grounded identity and knowledge of self informs
people’s behavior and their expectations of others’ behavior. Normative
divergence, marginalization or exclusion, whether idiosyncratic or shared with
others and whether privately or publicly recognized, can make one feel uncertain
about the group, one’s membership status in the group, and ultimately about
one’s identity.
In this chapter we present uncertainty-identity theory (e.g., Hogg, 2012) as
an account of how feelings of uncertainty related to one’s self-concept and
identity can be both a product of and resolved by social identity and group
membership dynamics. Inclusion in and identification with a distinctive and
clearly defined group is a very effective way to resolve self-uncertainty. In
particular we focus on whether the perception of poor normative fit and
normative exclusion (i.e., that one does not embody the group’s norms and is
thus largely excluded by the group) produce identity-uncertainty about oneself
as an isolated individual or on oneself as a member of a subgroup within the
larger collective. These conditions may spawn zealotry and support for extremism
among both individuals and group members that constitute a subgroup.
Moreover, in the latter case, the subgroup may either attempt to influence the
larger collective, or split off from it and thus create a schism. Overall, this chapter
seeks to show that uncertainty resulting from normative exclusion can be
resolved by identifying with extreme groups.
208 Michael A. Hogg and Joseph A. Wagoner
Uncertainty-Identity Theory
Uncertainty-identity theory (Hogg, 2000, 2007, 2012) describes how uncertainty
related to one’s self-concept motivates people to identify with social groups,
ranging from small interactive task-oriented groups (e.g., teams and organizations)
to large social categories (e.g., ethnic groups, sexual orientation, political parties,
and religions). The core tenets of the theory are: (a) feelings of uncertainty,
particularly about who one is and how one should behave, motivate people to
behave in ways aimed at reducing self-uncertainty; (b) the process of categorizing
oneself and others as group members effectively reduces self-uncertainty by
providing a consensually validated social identity and associated group prototype
that describes and prescribes who one is and how one should behave; and (c)
highly entitative groups with clear, distinctive, and consensual prototypes are
better equipped to reduce self-uncertainty.
A concrete illustration of this process is being a sojourner in a foreign land. You
find that social interactions are always bumpy because you and others are, essentially,
not sure who you are in this novel context. To resolve this identity-related
uncertainty you find yourself drawn to the local football team’s supporters club—
there are numerous club events organized around matches, club members wear
distinctive scarves and club logos, and the club is known to have and presents itself
as having very different social attitudes and preferences to other teams’ supporters
clubs. You find that behaving in terms of this identity makes social interaction
more predictable and thus reduces your feelings of self-related uncertainty.
Self-Uncertainty Motivates Behavior

Feeling uncertain about what one should think, feel and do, along with how
others will behave, can be disconcerting. Uncertainty about one’s self and other
people makes it difficult to predict and plan behavior in such a way that achieves
desired outcomes and avoids undesirable outcomes. Not surprisingly people try
to reduce uncertainty about their perceptions, attitudes, feelings, and behaviors.
The philosopher John Dewey captures the motivational prominence of
uncertainty-reduction rather nicely: “… in the absence of actual certainty in the
midst of a precarious and hazardous world, men cultivate all sorts of things that
would give them the feeling of certainty” (Dewey, 1929/2005, p. 33).
Uncertainty can be experienced in different ways: as an exciting challenge that
one feels one has the resources to resolve (e.g., someone who is well-traveled
visiting a foreign land), or as a stressful threat that one feels one does not have the
resources to resolve (e.g., someone who has never traveled far from home visiting
a foreign land) (cf. Blascovich & Tomaka, 1996). Because resolving uncertainty can
be cognitively demanding, we only expend cognitive energy on those uncertainties
that matter to us in a particular context (cf. cognitive miser or motivated tactician
models of social cognition—Fiske & Taylor, 1991). Moreover, we reduce
uncertainty until we are “sufficiently” certain (Pollock, 2003)—obtaining enough

closure to allow us to move on to dedicate cognitive energy to other things.
A significant determinant of whether uncertainty is a motivational drive is the
extent to which self is involved (e.g., Arkin, Oleson, & Carroll, 2013). We are
particularly motivated to reduce uncertainty if we feel uncertain about things that
reflect on or are relevant to self, or if we are uncertain about self per se; specifically,
we are uncertain about our identity, our self-concept, how we relate to others,
and our place in society. Ultimately, people need to know who they are, how to
behave and what to think, and what other people might think, feel and do, in
order to navigate through this social word.
Group Identification Reduces Self-Uncertainty

The ideas that people are motivated to reduce uncertainty (e.g., Festinger, 1954;
Fromm, 1947; Kahneman, Slovic, & Tversky, 1982) and that people may differ in
the extent to which they work to reduce feelings of uncertainty or simply avoid
uncertainty altogether (e.g., Sorrentino, Hodson & Huber, 2001; Sorrentino &
Roney, 1999) are not new. What is new is the uncertainty-identity theory proposal
that a specific form of uncertainty, self- or identity-related uncertainty, is very
effectively reduced and managed by identifying with a group, and thus impacts
group and intergroup behaviors. This proposal rests on social identity theory’s
account of how social categorization of oneself and others underpins group
identification and generates group and intergroup behaviors (Turner, Hogg,
Oakes, Reicher, & Wetherell, 1987; also see Abrams & Hogg, 2010).
People cognitively represent a social category (i.e., a group) as a fuzzy set of
attributes (e.g., attitudes, behaviors, feelings) that defines the group and
differentiates it from other groups. These group prototypes identify and accentuate
similarities among people within a group and differences between groups, and
prescribe how one should behave as a group member. Moreover, group
prototypes tend to be shared by members of the same group. For example, in a
US political context Democrats might largely agree about the values, attitudes
and behaviors that represent Democrats (“us”), and those quite different attributes
that represent “them,” the Republicans.
The process of categorizing someone as a group member transforms how we
view them, bringing our perceptions and expectations in line with our prototype
of the group. This process when applied to oneself (i.e., self-categorization) has
the same effect; however, it is now our own identity that is transformed so that
we identify with our group, and now our feelings and behaviors conform to our
ingroup prototype. Because group prototypes are largely shared, this process
attracts consensual validation of who we are and of our attitudes, feelings and
behaviors from fellow ingroup members. In this way group identification reduces
uncertainty about who we are, how we should act, and about how others will
view and act towards us.
Uncertainty-identity theory’s most basic prediction, that it is people who are

experiencing most uncertainty who will identify most strongly with a self-inclusive
social category, has been confirmed across numerous studies of relatively minimally
defined ad hoc laboratory groups (e.g., Grieve & Hogg, 1999; Mullin & Hogg,
1998). In these studies people identified with and discriminated in favor of their
own group only when they were categorized under uncertainty. Uncertainty was
manipulated in a variety of ways. For example, participants described what they
thought was happening in ambiguous or unambiguous pictures, or they estimated
the number of objects displayed in pictures in which there were very few objects
or so many objects that they could only make a wild guess.
Other studies find that group identification is stronger if participants are
uncertain about something self-relevant, and if the group’s prototypical properties
are relevant to the focus of uncertainty (cf. Mullin & Hogg, 1998). More recent
studies measure or manipulate self and identity-uncertainty directly, to repeatedly
confirm their role in strengthening group identification (e.g., Grant & Hogg,
2012; Hogg, Sherman, Dierselhuis, Maitner, & Moffitt, 2007; Hohman & Hogg,
2015). Uncertainty also motivates people to overcome their natural inclination to
dis-identify from low status groups—people placed in relatively low status non-
interactive laboratory groups were found to identify strongly under uncertainty
(Reid & Hogg, 2005).
Entitative Groups with Clear Prototypes

Of course, not all groups and identities are equally effective at reducing self-
uncertainty. Some have generic qualities that make them more effective at
clarifying one’s self-concept and identity than others. Groups that are most
effective are associated with distinctive, unambiguous, clearly defined and tightly
shared prototypes. These prototypes are provided by highly entitative groups that
are well-structured with clear boundaries, and where members interact and share
group attributes, as well as having common goals and common fates (Campbell,
1958; Hamilton & Sherman, 1996). Thus, highly entitative groups are likely to be
most effective at reducing self-uncertainty through self-categorization, and people
experiencing self-uncertainty will strive to identify with such groups or strive to
accentuate the entitativity of groups with which they already identify. Entitativity
moderates the relationship between self-uncertainty and group identification.
Laboratory and field studies have been conducted that manipulate or measure
self-uncertainty directly (e.g., priming people to think about their own self-
uncertainty, or measuring self-uncertainty on a multi-item scale) and measure or
manipulate the perceived entitativity of laboratory or real groups they belong to.
These studies confirm that people identify significantly more strongly with a
group when they are experiencing self-uncertainty and their group is: (a) highly
entitative (e.g., Hogg et al., 2007); or (b) psychologically prominent relative to
other groups because of its distinctiveness or the fact that they have few other
social identities (Grant & Hogg, 2012). Furthermore, self-uncertainty has been
found to lead group members to accentuate the entitativity of their group by
polarizing its prototype away from that of a relevant outgroup (e.g., Sherman,
Hogg, & Maitner, 2009).
Beyond Entitativity
Entitativity is a structural property of categories; however, if the category is a
human group then entitativity is associated with group prototypical attributes that
prescribe a wider set of feelings and behaviors. Under self-uncertainty people
identify more strongly with entitative groups because, as described above, such
groups provide a more clearly defined and directive sense of self.
Uncertainty-identity theory takes this argument further. It proposes that this
process lays the groundwork for extremism (e.g., Hogg, 2014; Hogg & Adelman,
2013)—a constellation of behaviors that includes some combination of: strong,
possibly zealous, identification with and attachment to highly distinctive groups
that are intolerant of dissent, rigidly structured with strong directive leadership,
have all-encompassing exclusionary ideologies that are ethnocentric, and promote
radical and extreme intergroup behaviors.
Such groups are not merely group-centric (Kruglanski, Pierro, Mannetti, &
De Grada, 2006) but perhaps more accurately characterized as “totalist” (Baron,
Crawley, & Paulina, 2003), insofar as they totally dictate one’s self and identity,
how one behaves and perceives the world, and how one is in turn perceived and
treated by others. Members of such groups tend to view their group’s attitudes
and practices as reflecting “sacred values” that are imbued with an absolute
morality (Skitka & Morgan, 2014), and reflect an immutable “essence” of the
group (cf. Haslam, Bastian, Bain, & Kashima, 2006). This transformation of
group attributes into sacred and essentialized values provides an unerring compass
for determining right and wrong and for evaluating self and others.
The uncertainty-identity theory analysis of extremism (see Hogg, 2014), part
of a wider interest among social psychologists in the relationship between
uncertainty and societal extremism (Hogg & Blaylock, 2012; Hogg, Kruglanski,
& Van den Bos, 2013), has focused on leadership (e.g., Haller & Hogg, 2014;
Hogg, 2005a) and gangs (Goldman, Giles, & Hogg, 2014), as well as religious,
national, political, and other ideological groups (e.g., Hogg, 2005b; Hogg, 2015;
Hogg, Adelman, & Blagg, 2010).
Controlled experiments support these analyses. For example, students
experiencing self-uncertainty identified more strongly with an extremist student
group and support more radical and extreme protest actions by the group (Hogg,
Meehan, & Farquharson, 2010), and self-uncertainty among Palestinian Muslims
and Israeli Jews was more strongly associated with support for suicide bombing
(Palestinians) or aggressive military action (Israelis) when national identity was
central to self-definition (Hogg & Adelman, 2013). Another study found that
people who were focused on their own death and were uncertain about the
afterlife identified more strongly with their nation (Hohman & Hogg, 2011).
Sources of Self-Uncertainty
Feelings of uncertainty about one’s self and identity can be created by a wide array
of circumstances, including novel situations, immigration, change or loss of
employment, retirement, relationship change, divorce, bereavement, technological
change, civil conflict, economic crises, natural disasters and so forth. However, a
key factor is feeling that one has lost one’s normative compass and sense of
grounding in a social group that validates one’s beliefs, attitudes, and actions.
Feeling socially excluded from one’s collective and being unable to effectively
decide how to act, or to predict how one will be treated by others.
Concretely, group members experience disagreement over the group’s norm
with others who they would expect to agree with because they share a social
identity—unexpected normative disagreement is highly disconcerting and a
powerful force for conformity or alternatively disengagement (e.g., Abrams,
Wetherell, Cochrane, Hogg, & Turner, 1990; McGarty, Turner, Oakes, &
Haslam, 1993). Another situation which raises identity-uncertainty is being
treated by others, particularly fellow ingroup members, as a non-prototypical,
marginal member of an ingroup that you value and consider to be a central part
of who you are—this marginalization can create an enormous yearning for group
membership and identity validation (e.g., Hogg, 2005c; Hogg, Fielding, &
Darley, 2005; Marques, Abrams, Páez, & Hogg, 2001; Pinto, Marques, Levine,
& Abrams, 2010).
One can experience this feeling of normative exclusion and thus identity-
uncertainty as an individual within the group or as a member of a subgroup
within the (larger) group. Depending on which, the phenomenology may be
different. It is this that we explore for the remainder of this chapter—individual
normative exclusion, then subgroup normative exclusion.
Individual Normative Exclusion

Group norms, cognitively represented as prototypes, identify the attributes that
define a group and its associated social identity, and differentiate it from other
groups. They describe and prescribe one’s group membership-based self-concept
and thus how one should behave as a bona fide group member. This also builds
fellow group members’ expectations about how one should behave. Clearly, as
described by uncertainty-identity theory (e.g., Hogg, 2012), any behavior that
violates the consensual validity of the group’s norms can raise uncertainty about
such norms, about the group’s social identity, and about oneself as a group
member. When norm violation can be traced, as is often the case, to the actions
of an individual ingroup member, an individual whose attitudes and actions are
at odds to varying degree with the group prototype, the rest of the group will
react. How the group reacts will be influenced by a number of factors (see Hogg,
2005c; Marques et al., 2001; Pinto et al., 2010).
The first factor is simply how strongly members identify with the group and
how central the group is to their overall identity—there will be little reaction at
all if the group is not subjectively important to self-definition. Assuming that the
group is self-definitionally important the default option is socialization; an attempt
to re-socialize the deviant member and bring them onto the normative straight
and narrow and into line with consensual group norms and social identity
consistent behavior (cf. Levine & Moreland, 1994; Schachter, 1951; Wesselmann
et al., 2014). This will be a particularly prominent strategy if it is important to the
group not to lose members (Hogg et al., 2005).
If resocialization fails, retention of members is not a critical consideration, or
the normative violation is particularly extreme or morally egregious and status
threatening, then how members react may be influenced by the type of normative
deviance that is displayed. According to the theory of subjective group dynamics
(e.g., Marques et al., 2001; Pinto et al., 2010) normatively deviant behavior can
deviate from the group norm in a direction that polarizes the group norm away
from a salient outgroup (pronorm deviance) or depolarizes the norm in a
direction towards the outgroup (antinorm deviance). Since pronorm deviance
effectively accentuates intergroup differentiation, whereas antinorm deviance
blurs intergroup distinctiveness, pronorm deviants are treated less harshly than
antinorm deviants.
A special case of this phenomenon is the black sheep effect (Marques & Páez,
1994; also see Marques et al., 2001), which focuses on antinorm deviants. Because
such deviants threaten the ingroup’s normative integrity by blurring intergroup
boundaries they are treated as black sheep and are evaluated very harshly and
often rejected from the group. The reaction is enhanced when the group is
otherwise highly entitative, because the deviant member is violating a particularly
clear and distinct ingroup prototype (Lewis & Sherman, 2010). However, the
black sheep effect is also about how groups react to undesirable/unlikable human
beings; such a person is evaluated more harshly if an ingroup rather than an
outgroup member. The rationale is based on social identity theory’s self-esteem
hypothesis (Tajfel & Turner, 1979)—people strive for their own group to have
an evaluatively positive social identity relative to a salient outgroup. A dislikable
person makes a group seem less desirable, which makes it better for such a person
to belong to an outgroup.
So how do individuals react to being perceived and treated by their group as
fringe or marginal group members? The experience, particularly if the group is
central to one’s self concept, can be painful; in many different ways (cf. Williams,
2009), but not least because it creates uncertainty about one’s identity and about
one’s membership status in a subjectively important self-defining collective
(Hogg, 2005c). Feeling normatively marginalized within a group can make one
question one’s self-concept and wonder what attitudes, behaviors, and feelings
led one to be excluded in this way.
One response to this identity-uncertainty is to simply exit the group and
identify with a different group that is more accepting and has a more clearly and
consensually defined prototype that is easier to internalize and conform to. Such
groups are typically highly entitative, but, as we saw above, they can also
sometimes be normatively rigid and intolerant of dissent, and have clear
boundaries that distinguish “us” and “them.” Such groups can certainly resolve
uncertainty, but it can be hard to gain full membership and acceptance—thus
recreating the original marginalization problem. Nevertheless, a sense of
exclusion from the normative mainstream of society can produce identity-
uncertainty that is readily resolved by identifying with a religion (Hogg et al.,
2010), joining a gang (Goldman, Giles, & Hogg, 2014), or in the case of
adolescents, identifying with adolescent groups that engage in risky behaviors
(Hogg, Siegel, & Hohman, 2011).
However, not all social identities can simply or easily be shrugged off if one feels
excluded—it can be difficult to “leave” a cult or gang, or dis-identify from an
ethnic, racial or sexual-orientation identity. In addition some groups are so central
to self-definition that people will do almost whatever it takes to remain in the
group and be fully accepted. Fraternities and sororities are quite possibly such
groups; which lead Goldman and Hogg (2016) to use them as the empirical focus
for a study of the dynamics of going to intergroup extremes to secure acceptance
by the group. Goldman and Hogg primed fraternity and sorority members to think
they were central or peripheral group members (this variable was a proxy for
identity-uncertainty), and that group acceptance was easy or hard to secure.
Participants were then given a list of extreme intergroup behaviors they could
consider engaging in. The study found, as predicted, that peripheral members who
believed acceptance through engaging in extreme intergroup behaviors was easy
were the most likely to engage in these behaviors on behalf of their group.
Identity-uncertainty based on marginal membership status, or lack of clarity
about how to behave to embody the group’s prototype, can create a need for
leadership, and encourage support for directive and even authoritarian leadership.
Group members typically support group prototypical leaders more than less
prototypical leaders (Hogg, 2001; Hogg, Van Knippenberg, & Rast, 2012). This
is because prototypical leaders provide the most reliable information about the
group prototype, but also because such leaders can be trusted to be acting in the
best interests of the group and its members and thus to treat members fairly and
with respect (cf. Tyler & Lind, 1992). However, because uncertainty generates a
need for leadership per se this preference for prototypical leaders can weaken,
leading uncertain members to support both prototypical and non-prototypical
leaders (Rast, Gaffney, Hogg, & Crisp, 2012), and even support authoritarian
leaders, who have totalistic and rigid views, more than moderate leaders (Rast,
Hogg, & Giessner, 2013).
Collective Normative Exclusion

Marginalization processes in groups can, as discussed above, target individuals or
be experienced by individuals as individuals. However, as we shall discuss in this
section, groups frequently marginalize subgroups and people can experience and
react to marginalization collectively as a subgroup.
Although groups typically have clear boundaries, unique histories, and distinct
normative practices, they are nonetheless usually nested within larger groups;
specifically, within each superordinate or parent group exist smaller factions or
subgroups that compose the larger entity (Gaertner & Dovidio, 2000; Hogg &
Hornsey, 2006). For example—the United States of America is composed of 50
distinct states; Islam consists of Shiites, Sunnis, and Sufis; and ideological groups,
such as the Republican Party, consist of various smaller factions (e.g., fiscal
conservatives, social conservatives, Tea Party).
But while subgroups are distinct entities, each subgroup hopes to nonetheless
be prototypical of their larger superordinate category. Research on the ingroup
projection model (Wenzel, Mummendey, & Waldzus, 2007) describes how
people project their subgroup traits onto their larger superordinate group when
identifying strongly with both groups. However, while each subgroup desires to
be prototypical of their superordinate category, the reality is that superordinate
groups are not normatively static—they change, to varying degree, across time
and comparative context. Consequently, subgroups will fluctuate in how
prototypical they feel they are of their superordinate group.
Building on our argument about individuals within groups, subgroups that
feel non-prototypical of the superordinate group will feel they occupy a
normatively marginal position within the superordinate group. This will elicit
uncertainty about their relationship to the superordinate group and thus about
their social identity at both the superordinate and subgroup level. Subgroups may
to some extent address this uncertainty like individual members. However,
because they are groups they have other group-based options. Two such options
are: (a) actively attempt to change the superordinate group’s normative attributes
to bring the superordinate group in line with the subgroup; or (b) seek greater
identity distinctiveness, autonomy and independence for the subgroup, which
may ultimately lead to schism and fragmentation of the superordinate group.
Identity-Uncertainty and Minority Influence

Prototypically marginal (sub)groups within a larger (superordinate) collective
effectively occupy a minority position; a minority positon that is particularly
disturbing for both minority and majority because we expect those with whom we
share group membership to hold similar ideas and beliefs to our own (cf. Turner et
al., 1987). Like social minorities in general, subgroup minorities can exercise minority
influence to try to change the superordinate majority and bring the majority (back)
into line with the minority (e.g., Crano & Seyranian, 2009; Martin & Hewstone,
2008; Moscovici, 1980; Wood, Lundgren, Ouellete, Busceme, & Blackstone, 1994).
Minority influence research has shown that active minorities can be remarkably
effective in changing majority attitudes in line with their own when repeatedly
over time they act as a consensual group in promulgating their central message.
However, to avoid the appearance of being inflexible and dogmatic the minority
should show some flexibility in its position regarding peripheral aspects of their
position and message—this concession makes the minority appear more
reasonable. Minorities should also try to avoid being viewed as self-interested,
and if possible find ways to make the majority view them not as an alien outgroup
but as a non-threatening ingroup—this encourages the majority to be more
lenient towards them and their positon and thus more receptive to their message.
Active minorities are effectively criticizing the majority’s position and practices.
In so doing they need to be very careful to be viewed as ingroup not outgroup
critics. Research on the intergroup sensitively effect shows that outgroup critics
are strongly rejected and thus have little influence; whereas ingroup critics are
viewed less negatively and can be viewed as working constructively in the group’s
best interest (e.g., Hornsey, 2005)—thus they are better positioned to be influential.
From the perspective of our uncertainty-identity theory analysis subgroups
can collectively experience identity-uncertainty when they discover that their
identity and associated normative practices are out of line with the superordinate
group. Irrespective of whether the source of discrepancy is viewed as being the
majority, the minority or both; minority influence strategies are well suited to
reducing identity-uncertainty. They (re)construct a distinctive and consensual set
of normative practices that validate and promote the subgroup and provide a clear
sense of who we are as members of the subgroup.
Relatedly, persuading a majority group to adopt a minority, subgroup position
will change what is prototypical of the superordinate group. When a subgroup’s
norm becomes representative of the majority group, the subgroup will become
more prototypical of the superordinate group. Consequently, any identity-
uncertainty experienced due to being marginal or non-prototypical within the
superordinate group will be alleviated. Thus, subgroups can mitigate their
identity-uncertainty by influencing their superordinate group and attempting to
reaffirm a prototypical position.
However, as discussed above, uncertainty can drive groups towards
“extremism”—causing them to become normatively polarized and ideologically
radical in the promotion of their identity (e.g., Hogg, 2014). Minorities may
sometimes be driven to such extremism in hopes of influencing their superordinate
group. Indeed, marginalized subgroups in society often engage in increasingly
extreme collective action and protests to voice their opinion and influence their
larger superordinate group. Research on collective action shows that it is partially
driven by identification with the marginalized subgroup (for meta-analysis, see
Van Zomeren, Postmes, & Spears, 2008).
Although not previously measured, it is plausible that uncertainty may drive

identification with these collective movements. Identity-uncertainty that
weakens superordinate identification is often compensated by strengthened
subgroup identification (Hohman, Hogg, & Bligh, 2010; Jung, Hogg, & Choi,
2016). Hence, if a subgroup’s norms and values prescribe collective action,
identity-uncertainty will drive people to protest and voice dissent against the
superordinate group. Overall, collective action is partially motivated by the
desire to relieve identity-uncertainty, and establish a prototypical position within
the superordinate group.
Identity-Uncertainty and Subgroup Exit

Minority influence and collective protest may well be successful in changing the
superordinate group’s identity—it can decrease the identity gulf between minority
and majority groups, and make the subgroup once again feel prototypical of the
larger entity. However, if the gulf continues to widen, the subgroup may no longer
work towards integration with the superordinate group; it instead pursues greater
identity independence and autonomy within the larger collective, or in extreme
cases entirely exits the larger group to embark on an independent existence. There
is thus a schism associated with fragmentation of the superordinate group.
Social psychological research on schisms (see Sani, 2005) argues that a schism
occurs when a subgroup exits its larger superordinate group to affiliate with an
alternative preexisting superordinate group, or to exist as a distinct and
autonomous entity. For example: Scotland’s recent bid for independence from
the United Kingdom (Shapiro, 2014), a split within the Church of England (Sani
& Reicher, 1998), and the fragmentation and creation of various cartels in
Mexico (Guerrero, 2013) are all processes of schism.
According to Sani (2005; Sani & Todman, 2002), the process of schism rests
on a perception that there is rising dissensus within the superordinate group over
what it essentially stands for, what its identity is. The values and norms that are
central to the identity are perceived to be lost. This reduces the perceived
entitativity of the superordinate group, which consequently weakens identification
and strengthens schism intentions. Schism intention can however be weakened if
the subgroup feels it has effective voice in the superordinate group’s identity and
destiny—the subgroup may still feel less strongly identified but it is less likely to
actually exit the superordinate group.
The language of “schism” evokes images of disintegration, where it might be
more nuanced to talk about subgroups striving for varying degrees of identity
distinctiveness and autonomy within a superordinate entity—with schism and
exit at one extreme of the continuum. Drawing on this idea, Wagoner and Hogg
(in press) have invoked uncertainty-identity theory to suggest that a key motive
for a subgroup to consider becoming more autonomous and distinctive within a
larger collective is identity-uncertainty—uncertainty about the attributes of the
superordinate group and the subgroup, and about the prototypicality of the
subgroup within the superordinate group.
Because groups are central aspects of people’s self-concept, a lack of consensus
about group norms and values can make one feel uncertain about one’s self-
concept and how one fits into society. Subgroup voice plays a key role, because
lack of voice undermines group-based autonomy in defining social identity and
thus self-conception. Where there is superordinate dissensus and lack of voice in
the larger collective, people will cling to smaller factions within the collective,
especially if the factions are entitative groups that have autonomy in defining
themselves in the larger collective. This process lays the foundation for exit—or
at the very least, the desire for looser ties and greater autonomy.
To test these general predictions, an initial study was conducted to confirm that
disagreement at a superordinate level increased feelings of identity-uncertainty. After
confirming these predictions, we tested the consequences of this identity-uncertainty
on schism intentions in the state of Texas. Results showed that perceiving low
consensus among American values, along with the perception that one’s state has
high entitativity but low voice, increased support for governmental and economic
independence from the United States. More importantly, this was fully mediated by
strengthening their subgroup identification (Wagoner & Hogg, in press).
Overall, it seems that along with influencing the superordinate group (i.e.,
minority influence), supporting subgroup autonomy and independence is an
effective method of diminishing self-related and identity-uncertainty.
Summary and Closing Comments

People, as individuals or as subgroups within a larger group, can respond to
marginalization in many different ways. In this chapter, we invoke uncertainty-
identity theory (e.g., Hogg, 2012) to argue that marginalization can create feelings
of uncertainty about oneself and one’s identity, and that this creates a motivational
state that engages social psychological processes aimed at relieving self-related
uncertainty and clarifying self-conception. One such process is to identify with or
join an entitative group, as these groups prescribe a clear and distinct identity and
associated self-defining prototype.
However, people in entitative groups can be driven to extreme behaviors.
Highly entitative groups certainly provide members with a clear prototype; but
they can also suppress dissent, require ultra-conformity, and expect extreme
intergroup behaviors associated with ethnocentrism, discrimination and
aggression. Overall, these groups provide marginalized individuals with a clear
identity and feeling of acceptance, but they can also produce social harm.
A similar dynamic can arise where a group of individuals in a larger collective
feel marginalized, not as individuals but as a distinct subgroup. Subgroups can
experience uncertainty about their attributes and also their position within the
larger superordinate entity. Like group members on the periphery, marginalized
subgroups who find that they are out of step with the superordinate group can
experience uncertainty about their superordinate group’s identity, their own
subgroup’s identity, and even the superordinate–subgroup relationship.
Subgroups, however, may respond in slightly different ways to isolated individuals.
They can: (a) attempt to gain voice and influence the superordinate group; or (b)
seek autonomy or even absolute separation from the superordinate group.
We report research associated with this line of reasoning that provides some
evidence for how individuals and subgroups lash out after experiencing
marginalization—from teenagers engaging in delinquent behaviors to subgroups
splintering off to form new groups. The take away message is that the underlying
process is a motivation to relieve uncertainty about one’s self and identity, and
establish a grounded place in this world.
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15
WORKPLACE OSTRACISM
Sandra Robinson and Kira Schabram
This chapter addresses ostracism in the workplace. Although a rich body of research has
addressed ostracism more broadly, we contend that more research is needed specifically
on workplace ostracism. Given the proportion of individuals’ lives spent at work, it
behooves us to develop a stronger understanding of ostracism in work contexts.
Workplace ostracism occurs when an individual or group omits to take actions
that engage another organizational member when it is socially appropriate to do
so (Robinson, O’Reilly, & Wang, 2013). Thus it captures the common element
to a wide range of behaviors among organizational members and groups, including
social exclusion, rejection, avoiding, ignoring, not inviting, leaving out, and
treating another as invisible at work.
As we seek to demonstrate in this chapter, ostracism at work is a common,
distinct and impactful experience. In a recent study, O’Reilly, Robinson, Banki
and Berdahl (2015) found that 73 percent of employees experienced some form
of ostracism on the job in the prior six months and that this experience was more
common than bullying or harassment. Moreover, ostracism can take several
unique forms in a work context, and these forms of ostracism are likely caused by
a number of organizationally relevant factors. Experiencing ostracism on the job
has not only consequences for the employee’s psychological well-being, but also
their ability to function at work. We hope this chapter will introduce new
organizationally relevant issues to those studying ostracism more broadly, as well
as encourage specific future research on ostracism in work contexts.
Past Research on Workplace Ostracism

Ostracism has been tangentially studied in the organizational literature since the
1970s, when social exclusion was described as a form of retaliatory behavior used
Workplace Ostracism 225
against strike-breakers and underperforming employees (Francis, 1985; Gordon,

1975). Similarly, early work on workplace bullying and responses to whistleblowers
identified ostracism as a means of retaliation against certain organizational
members (Faulkner, 1998; Keashly, 1997).
Distinctiveness
More recently, renewed interest in ostracism within organizational scholarship
joins an already large set of topics addressing “negative” workplace behaviors,
such as interpersonal deviance, social undermining, and incivility (Andersson &
Pearson, 1999; Duffy, Ganster, & Pagon, 2002; Robinson & Bennett, 1995).
Like the work on ostracism, these lines of research address the experience of
mistreatment by coworkers from the target’s perspective. The measures used to
capture these negative workplace constructs often share a number of behaviors in
common, and many measures include at least one item reflecting ostracism.
Although ostracism appears to overlap with these other constructs of mistreatment,
it is important to clarify how it is distinct. In terms of empirical evidence, ostracism
emerges as a distinct construct when examined concurrently with other forms of
mistreatment and it has been found to have a unique and stronger impact than other
forms of mistreatment (Ferris, Brown, Berry, & Lian, 2008; O’Reilly et al., 2015).
In terms of conceptual differences, there are a number of ways by which
ostracism is distinct from other negative behaviors in the workplace. First,
ostracism is more ambiguous than these other constructs. Because it involves the
omission—rather than commission—of behavior, it is difficult to observe,
interpret and respond to; targets may be uncertain as to whether it actually
happened, as well as to the reasons why it happened. Given its ambiguous nature,
someone experiencing ostracism is more likely to ruminate about it, trying to
discern whether it has really happened and why.
Second, unlike constructs such as bullying or social undermining, ostracism
does not necessarily occur intentionally or with the desire to cause harm to the
target. As Williams (2002) has effectively articulated, the motives behind ostracism
are many, and ostracism may occur due to obliviousness or oversight, with the
actor being inattentive, neglectful, or lost in thought.
Ostracism is also distinct from these other constructs in that it can clearly play
a functional role, such as enabling organizational members to avoid conflict or
difficult feelings, calm down tensions, protect the group from the target, or reign
in the target’s undesirable behavior (O’Reilly, Robinson, & Schabram, 2012).
Consistent with this logic, a recent study found that ostracism is perceived by
managers as more socially acceptable, less harmful, and less likely to be punished
than overt bullying or harassment (O’Reilly et al., 2015). Another study also
found that employees who recalled ostracizing others suggested that it had been a
useful interpersonal tactic, leading to conflict resolution by terminating undesirable
relationships or helping employees escape criticism (Sommer et al., 2001).
226 Sandra Robinson and Kira Schabram
Antecedents
Individual differences, rather than functional goals, have been identified as
predictors of ostracism at work. Members of minority groups, such as those with
any form of disability or illness (Wynne & McAnaney, 2009), women
(Cottingham, Erickson, Diefendorff, & Bromley, 2013), African-Americans
(Deitch et al., 2003) or those speaking a different language (Hitlan, Kelly,
Schepman, Schneider, & Zárate, 2006) report more social exclusion at work. In
addition, ostracism is more likely to be experienced by those with low self-
esteem (Sommer et al., 2001) or personality traits such as high neuroticism, low
agreeableness, and low extraversion (Wu et al., 2011). Behaviors, such as
demonstrating paranoia and searching for relationship-threatening information,
tend to provoke rejection from group members (Marr et al., 2012). These studies,
because they focus on attributes of the target, implicitly suggest the target is
responsible for the ostracism. Consistent with this line of reasoning, other studies
have found that employees may reduce the likelihood of ostracism by engaging
in proactive behavior such as helping beyond one’s required duties, engaging in
guanxi towards superiors (Liu & Wang, 2011), or using savvy ingratiation
behavior (Wu, Yim, Kwan, & Zhang, 2012).
Consequences
Most research has focused on the consequences of workplace ostracism. Ostracism
at work has been found to create, at least initially, aversive emotions for the
target, including anger, embarrassment and concern (Williams, Bernieri, Faulkner,
Gada-Jain, & Grahe, 2000). Future interaction with the perpetrator can lead to
further anger, sadness and humiliation (Xu, 2012).
Workplace ostracism has been found to be negatively related to both
psychological well-being and physical well-being (Hitlan et al., 2006, O’Reilly et
al., 2015). The experience has been associated with increased feelings of anxiety
(Ferris et al., 2008; Williams et al., 2000; Xu, 2012), emotional exhaustion (Wu,
Yim, Kwan, & Zhang, 2012), paranoia and general fragility of spirit (Williams et
al., 2000). Ostracism at work appears to also undermine self-esteem (Sommer et
al., 2001), a sense of meaningfulness, and feelings of belonging (O’Reilly et al.,
2015). The stress of ostracism on the job can take a toll after work as well,
increasing both sleep disturbances (Pereira, Meier, & Elfering, 2013) and work–
family conflict (Liu, Kwan, Lee, & Hui, 2013).
Ostracism also has negative implications for work-related attitudes. Targets of
ostracism report higher job tension (Wu et al., 2012), lower satisfaction with their
coworkers and supervisors (Hitlan et al., 2006), and lower organizational
commitment (Ferris et al., 2008; O’Reilly et al., 2015). Moreover, employees
who experience ostracism report higher levels of withdrawal (Sommer et al.,
2001), job search behavior (Ferris et al., 2008) and intentions to leave (Cottingham
et al., 2013; Ferris et al., 2008), as well as actual turnover several years after the
ostracism (O’Reilly et al., 2015; Renn et al., 2013).
Employees’ behaviors are also negatively impacted by the experience of
ostracism. Nurses who feel ostracized by their managers engage in lower quality
care for their patients (Cottingham et al., 2013) and hotel employees ostracized
by coworkers receive lower service performance ratings (Leung, Wu, Chen, &
Young, 2011). Ostracism has also been linked to increased deviant or
counterproductive behavior (Ferris et al., 2008; Hitlan & Noel, 2009), reduced
work performance (O’Reilly et al., 2015), and decreased citizenship behavior at
work (Ferris et al., 2008; Scott, 2007).
Despite the preponderance of negative behavioral consequences of being
ostracized at work, some research has found positive behavioral outcomes. For
example, workplace ostracism has been found to be positively related to prosocial
behavior and working harder for one’s group (Balliet & Ferris, 2013; Williams &
Sommer, 1997; Xu, 2012). It has also been found to decrease social loafing and
counterproductive behavior, but only when the employee has a strong sense of
identification with the team (Xu, 2012).
Mechanisms
At least two explanations have been put forth to explain the consequences of
ostracism at work. The first, consistent with conservation of resources theory
(Hobfoll, 1989), suggests that ostracism depletes resources that are fundamentally
important to the target (Leung et al., 2011), such as an employee’s need to
belong (O’Reilly et al., 2015; Thau, Aquino, & Poortvliet, 2007) or self-esteem
(Wu et al., 2011). When these resources are threatened, it negatively impacts
employees work behavior in several ways. It may be that employees are simply
unable to perform without these resources (Wu et al., 2011). Alternatively, they
may divest their efforts on task performance in order to put more effort into
restoring these lost resources. Finally, they may enter a deconstructed state in
which they engage in self-defeating behaviors like procrastination and inability
to delay gratification (Renn et al., 2013).
A number of moderators have been identified that highlight this resource
perspective. Ostracism provokes a stronger negative reaction when it threatens a
highly valued resource, such as when targets derive their self-esteem from their
workplace performance (Hitlan et al., 2006) or when the target is high in extraversion
(Hitlan & Noel, 2009) or neuroticism (Hitlan et al., 2006; Hitlan & Noel, 2009;
Leung, Wu, Chen, & Young, 2011). Consistent with this logic, employees can
mitigate ostracism’s impact by reducing the relative importance of threatened
resources, such as by creating a clear work/home segmentation (Liu et al., 2013) or
having a satisfying support system outside of work (Sommer et al., 2001).
Another perspective on the effects of workplace ostracism suggests that
employees’ reactions to ostracism reflect a more calculated and solution focused
approach, often in accordance with social exchange theory (Scott, 2007). For
example, employees may reduce their workplace effort following ostracism in
order to avoid further poor performance and loss of self-esteem (Wu et al., 2012).
In cases where employees identify with and value their team, they may respond
to ostracism by reducing their negative behaviors and increasing their helping
behaviors (Xu, 2012) so as to gain re-inclusion. Similarly, for those with a future
orientation, they may resist retaliating in response to ostracism and instead
increase their citizenship behavior (Balliet & Ferris, 2013) to get back into
coworkers’ good graces.
In summary, although ostracism is a relatively new phenomenon within
organizational scholarship, the small but growing body of research thus far has
demonstrated that it is unique and impactful. Although this is a good start, we
clearly need more research in this domain. In the sections below we explore
several avenues for future work in this area.
Conceptualization of Workplace Ostracism

As previously noted, we define workplace ostracism as failure to socially engage
another when it is socially appropriate to do so (Robinson et al., 2013). This
definition captures the various conceptualizations and operationalizations of
ostracism to date, all of which have focused exclusively on failures of social
engagement. For example, experiences of one’s greetings going unanswered,
eating alone in the lunchroom, or not being invited to social events.
Considering ostracism in a work context, however, it may be necessary to
consider failure of different forms of engagement. Disparate streams of research
addressing social relationships and dynamics in work organizations have repeatedly
identified two general categories of engagement between organizational members:
personal and task. Scholars of social networks, for example, have argued for two
general relationship distinctions in the workplace: expressive or personal
relationships between members (Ibarra & Andrews, 1993; Lincoln & Miller,
1979), which develop on the basis of friendship and liking and involve exchanges
of a personal and social nature; and instrumental ones, which arise through the
course of work-role performance and reflect task-related interactions and the
exchange of work resources such as information and advice. Similarly, the research
on social support in organizations has drawn a distinction between emotional
support, characterized by socio-emotional aid that comes from actions such as
caring, empathy, or listening (Blau, 1981; Kaufmann & Beehr, 1986; Thoits,
1995) and instrumental support, characterized by tangible or practical aid in the
form of advice or knowledge necessary to complete a task. In addition, those
studying conflict between organizational members (Jehn, 1995; Pinkley, 1990)
have argued for two major categories of conflict: relationship conflict, reflecting
interpersonal incompatibilities among members; and task conflict, reflecting
disagreements among members about the content of tasks being performed.
Given the well-recognized dichotomy of interactions among organizational

members at work, it may be useful to consider a parallel dichotomy of workplace
ostracism: personal ostracism and task ostracism. Organizational members may
experience personal ostracism when others fail to include them in interactions of
a personal or purely social nature. Examples of personal ostracism at work would
include not being invited to join others for lunch, being left out of social events,
or being excluded from conversations about non-task-related events.
Organizational members may also experience task ostracism when others fail to
include the individual in task-related interactions, such as not being copied on
emails, considered for key projects, or invited to meetings.
We suggest three ways in which these two forms of ostracism in the workplace
may differ. First, personal ostracism may display more variability and occur more
frequently than task ostracism because task ostracism is more constrained. A
number of organizational factors may constrain task ostracism. For example, the
nature of work between employees may require them to depend upon one
another to meet their work goals, and so it precludes them from ignoring or
avoiding one another. As another example, the hierarchical or reporting structure
of the workplace may dictate interactions between organizational members and
thus limit their ability to ostracize one another.
Second, these two forms of ostracism at work may have different antecedents.
To illustrate, personal ostracism may be more likely to happen to those who are
perceived by the actors to be dissimilar, a source of conflict, disliked, or engaging
in behavior that is deemed questionable. Task ostracism, in contrast, may be
more likely to happen to those who are perceived to be poor contributors, or
even hindrances, to the accomplishment of work goals, or difficult to work with
due to geographical location, language, political, or functional role.
Finally, we suggest that these two forms of ostracism at work may have
different consequences, mediated by different variables. For example, personal
ostracism may more strongly threaten the fundamental psychological needs of
control, esteem, meaningfulness and belonging (Williams, 1997), resulting in
consequences similar to those previously identified in ostracism outside the
workplace. In contrast, task ostracism may be more threatening to non-
psychological factors such as political connection, information flow, and practical
resources—which in turn create consequences of a more organizational nature,
such as reduced performance effectiveness, poor performance appraisals, failure to
advance within the organization, and increased job withdrawal and turnover.
Organizationally Relevant Factors

A focus on ostracism within work contexts enables us to consider a variety of
organizationally relevant factors that play a role in its occurrence. Below we discuss
some of these factors, dividing them into macro variables, which are features of the
organization, and micro variables, which reflect features of organizational members.
Macro Organizational Variables

Organizational Structure
Organizational structure—how tasks and roles are divided up, organized and
coordinated—likely has significant implications for both the execution of
workplace ostracism and how it impacts targets. First, ostracism may be influenced
by the physical location of employees within an organization. The degree of
dispersion among work units, and the number of telecommuting and virtual
employees may impact the likelihood of ostracism. To date, we already know
that employees’ ability to work from remote locations increases their feelings of
isolation and lack of belonging at work (Harpaz, 2002). Given the ambiguous,
subjective nature of ostracism, it may be that such employees also perceive that
they are more ostracized. Alternatively, perhaps employees who are already
geographically disconnected will have few cues to determine that they are being
ostracized if it actually happens. Moreover, such employees may attribute
ostracizing actions to the nature of their job or geography, rather than attributing
it to themselves and hence it may have less impact upon them if it occurs.
Second, the occurrence of ostracism may be impacted by the degree of task
interdependence among organizational members (Guzzo & Shea, 1992). If
employees require little interaction for task completion, unintentional ostracism
may be more common. Low interdependent workplaces also make it easier for
organizational members to avoid colleagues intentionally or give them the silent
treatment without having to invest much time or energy. Task interdependence
may also influence the impact of ostracism upon targets. To the extent that one
is ostracized by those with whom interdependence is low, both the psychological
impact and the functional implications should be less. In contrast, to the extent
that one is dependent upon those that ostracize, one is much more likely to
experience many more problems in adequately performing one’s duties at work.
Organizational Culture
Organizational culture reflects the shared norms and values that shape and direct
perceptions, attitudes, and behaviors in an organization. As such, culture may
impact ostracism in several ways. Although many dimensions of culture have
been identified, one common dimension is whether organizations reflect a
competitive or cooperative orientation (Deutsch, 1968). In competitive
interdependencies such as commission-based stores, a strict division of labor and
rewards fosters closed-mindedness and oppositional interactions (Tjosvold,
1998). By focusing the employees’ entire attention on their own outcomes, such
workplaces can promote unintentional ostracism. The most sinister scenario is
one in which such environments encourage individuals to exclude their
competition from valuable resources (Lancaster, 1986). In contrast, in cooperative
contexts individuals know that they benefit when their coworkers succeed. As a
consequence, such environments foster supportive interactions, openness to

influence, and stronger personal ties (Tjosvold, 1998). In these contexts,
ostracism is avoided as it would harm the actors’ best interests; furthermore,
because of closer relationships, punitive ostracism is also less likely to occur. As
a caveat, however, if ostracism does occur in such an environment, it is likely to
be far more detrimental to the individual because of its unexpected nature
(Kelley, 1967).
Second, we know that certain social actions are transmitted through the
organization’s culture. We know from various studies, for example, that social
mistreatment can be socially contagious. As others in the culture witness
mistreatment in the social environment, they copy it, and it evolves to become
more normative or socially acceptable, and therefore more common. For
example, to the extent that acts of social undermining, aggression or antisocial
behavior occur among peers, individuals become more likely to engage in those
behaviors with others (Duffy, Ganster, Shaw, Johnson, & Pagon, 2006; Glomb &
Liao, 2003; Robinson & O’Leary-Kelly, 1998). We would anticipate a similar
effect for ostracism: when working in environments where ostracism occurs,
individuals come to view that behavior as normative and acceptable, and thus are
more likely to engage in it as well.
Another way in which organizational culture may have implications for
ostracism is by influencing how acts of ostracism are interpreted and experienced
by targets. Given that ostracism is defined in terms of a lack of social engagement
where it would be expected, in cultures where the norms are such that members
routinely ignore one another, many behaviors may not be perceived as ostracism.
Conversely, those same behaviors might be interpreted as ostracism in cultures
where inclusion and socially acknowledging one another are normative and
valued. Prior research on other negative social interactions at work have found a
similar effect whereby the normative behavior in the work culture influences
how much someone is impacted by being the target of that behavior; for example,
being the target of social undermining or bullying has been found to be less
impactful when such acts are common occurrences in the culture (Duffy et al.,
2006; Houshmand, O’Reilly, Robinson, & Wolff, 2012).
Organizational Diversity
A work organization is diverse to the extent that it consists of individuals and
groups that vary on different dimensions—such as race, cultural background,
language, age, gender, or educational background—and diversity has several
implications for ostracism at work. Individual members come to the organization
with different expectations about social interactions, which are based on their
past cultural experiences inside and outside of organizations; when there are
discrepancies in those expectations, individuals can experience ostracism when
none was intended by the actor. While one member is socially engaging another
in line with certain behavioral norms, the other is anticipating different levels of
engagement based on an alternative set of expectations. For example, employees
from collectivist cultures such as China or Mexico can find themselves feeling
ostracized by colleagues from individualistic cultures who would, if asked, insist
they were not ostracizing anyone.
Cultural differences found in diverse organizations can also contribute to
ostracism because individuals tend to gravitate toward similar others and away
from those who are different. As a consequence, dissimilar coworkers may feel
left out simply because they are different, even though ostracism was not intended
by the actors (e.g. Jackson, Barth, Powell, & Lochman, 2006; Kistner, Metzler,
Gatlin, & Risi, 1993).
Finally, cultural differences may impose practical constraints that lead to
perceptions of ostracism at work. For example, employees may suffer from
feelings of ostracism when their colleagues choose to communicate in a language
that they do not speak (Dotan-Eliaz, Sommer, & Rubin, 2009). These mechanisms
support findings by O’Reilly and Robinson (2009) that employees cite race and
age differences as factors contributing to why they feel excluded at work.
Micro Organizational Variables

Power
Power is the ability to wield social influence (French & Raven, 1959). Power
originates in social situations in which one actor, by virtue of having access to
scarce and critical resources, possesses the ability to bring about something that
another wants (Salancik & Pfeffer, 1977). In an organizational context, power can
emanate from one’s formal position in the organizational hierarchy or through the
accumulation and control of resources. For example, the department administrative
assistant who is central to the information flow in an office may not have formal
authority by position, but may be powerful because she controls information.
We contend that power and ostracism may go hand in hand. The ability to
ostracize without repercussion, as with any other ability to hurt or control others,
may belong to those with formal or informal power over the target. We also posit
that ostracism may be used by organizational members to shift existing power
dynamics and potentially increase the power of the ostracizer(s), while
compromising the power of those who are targeted. Ostracism can reduce power
by undermining social relationships and restricting information and other
resources that are inherent in acquiring and sustaining power.
Work Significance
Organizational members vary in the amount of time they spend at work and the
degree of importance they place upon their work. Temporary workers or
part-time employees are likely to feel less of a sting from ostracism compared to
those who spend 40-plus hours in the workplace. Alternatively, those employees
who invest themselves deeply in their work will suffer more from ostracism than
their counterparts who see work as just a paycheck. Those whose self-esteem is
intertwined with advances in their career (Wrzesniewski, McCauley, Rozin, &
Schwartz, 1997), those who identify strongly with their profession (Pratt,
Rockmann, & Kaufmann, 2006) and those who see working itself as a moral
mandate (Furnham, 1990) are all more likely to see ostracism as a personal failing.
Finally, those employees who have strong loyalty to their current organizations
(Gouldner, 1960) may be more impacted by ostracism than those who have “one
foot out the door” or see their employment as only a means to an end and
therefore devalue their experience in the workplace.
Performance
We contend that organizational members’ work performance is likely both an
antecedent and consequence of ostracism. It may be that those who are perceived
by coworkers as underperforming at work are more likely to experience ostracism,
perhaps due to the coworkers’ frustration with having to depend upon an
underperformer, or to an attempt by coworkers to change the behavior of the
focal employee by way of punishment. Alternatively, it may be practical for actors
to exclude underperformers: employees may find that it is simply more efficient
and effective to leave out those who are not contributing to a project.
Ostracism may also impact performance. As previously noted, its effect on
performance may be positive as a result of attempts by those who feel ostracized
to gain re-inclusion or to avoid future ostracism by working extra hard. On the
other hand, ostracism may also harm performance because of its negative
psychological effects. When employees experience the pain of ostracism, they
may withdraw in order to avoid additional discomfort, or they may feel unable to
contribute because of diminished self-esteem and sense of control.
Moreover, the ostracized organizational member loses out on task-related
resources, relationships, and information that come solely from being connected
to others. Targets may sustain important negative work-related outcomes if they
are excluded, not invited, ignored, or left out of the informational and resource
loop at work (Jones, Carter-Sowell, Kelly, & Williams, 2009). Furthermore, as
previously noted, research has also shown that power derives in part from the
resources one controls (Pfeffer, 1981), and more specifically from one’s social
connections (Brass, 1984; Pettigrew, 1973), access to information (Kotter, 1985),
and influence (Pfeffer, 1981). The lack of power reduces one’s ability to contribute
to the organization. To note a related point, conservation of resources theory
(Hobfoll, 1989) suggests that losing resources can create a cascade of subsequent
resource loss. Ostracism may impact individuals within organizations because
missed information and advice, the opportunity to have influence, or the loss of
work relationships and functional support tend to perpetuate a negative spiral that
prevents people from getting their jobs done. These functional effects are
independent of the target’s awareness of ostracism and separate from its
psychological effect, which has been the focus of almost all previous research on
the topic to date.
Conclusion
In this chapter we have sought to draw attention to the phenomenon of workplace
ostracism. Given the prevalence of ostracism at work and the amount of time
spent there, it is paramount that we understand it better. To date, empirical
studies have identified a number of antecedents and consequences of workplace
ostracism, but further study is needed. We have identified two forms of ostracism
in the workplace—personal and task—that may have unique antecedents and
consequences. Moreover, there are a number of important variables—operating
at both the organizational level and the employee level—that may play an
important role in the occurrence, interpretation, and impact of ostracism at work.
We hope this chapter will encourage additional research on workplace ostracism,
which will also serve to advance our understanding of ostracism in general.
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16
SOCIAL MEDIA AND OSTRACISM
Peter Vorderer and Frank M. Schneider
With 1.23 billion active users every month, the social networking site (SNS)
Facebook celebrated its tenth anniversary in February, 2014. Its founder and
CEO Mark Zuckerberg stated enthusiastically: “we’re looking forward to our
next decade and to helping connect the rest of the world” (Facebook Inc., 2014).
One step toward this goal was obviously the $19 billion take-over of WhatsApp,
a growing mobile-messaging startup. The sheer amount of money involved in
this deal seems to indicate that connecting people via new technology is or at
least is seen as a most profitable business. Given the number of people using
Facebook, Twitter, and other online communities today, the dominant motive
for social media use seems to be a strong drive to be socially connected with each
other, a motivation that is reflected in psychological concepts such as the need for
affiliation (Hill, 1987), the need for self-relatedness (Ryan & Deci, 2000), or the
need to belong (Baumeister & Leary, 1995).
From a motivational perspective, these needs imply two dimensions: approach
and avoidance. Seeking connectedness to others reflects the approach dimension;
preventing oneself from being socially isolated reflects the avoidance dimension
(Ahn & Shin, 2013). Thus, using social media to stay (almost) permanently
connected to the (online) world satisfies the need to belong and simultaneously
prevents oneself from being ignored or excluded (Vorderer & Kohring, 2013).
The feeling of being ignored or excluded over the Internet has been labeled cyber-
ostracism (Williams, Cheung, & Choi, 2000). Meanwhile, a growing body of
literature documents the detrimental effects of ostracism, its different phases and
conditions from detection to long-term consequences, as well as its contextual
and dispositional moderators in the offline and in the online world. The temporal
need–threat model (Williams, 2009; see also this volume) has provided the most
common frame of reference for this research. In addition, a variety of computerized
Social Media and Ostracism 241
manipulations of ostracism, which have been derived from this model, are also
available and widely used (Hartgerink, van Beest, Wicherts, & Williams, 2015;
Wesselmann & Williams, 2011; Wolf et al., 2014).
However, although a great number of social media studies have investigated
the motives for and the effects of SNS use, surprisingly only a few of them have
explicitly included the concept of cyber-ostracism. Thus, we try to fruitfully
connect the two research areas of social media and ostracism.
Social Media
What are Social Network Sites?
Although the term “social media” comprises lots of online services, SNS such as
Facebook, Google+, or Instagram are the most typical and widespread social
media applications. According to Ellison and Boyd (2013):
A social network site is a networked communication platform in which participants

1) have uniquely identifiable profiles that consist of user-supplied content,
content provided by other users, and/or system-level data; 2) can publicly
articulate connections that can be viewed and traversed by others; and 3) can
consume, produce, and/or interact with streams of user-generated content
provided by their connections on the site.
(p. 158, emphasis in original)
Most research on SNS has been done on the uses and effects of Facebook (see
Wilson, Gosling, & Graham, 2012).
Why and how do people use Facebook?

Searching scientific databases such as PsycINFO, Communication & Mass Media
Complete, and EconLit yields approximately 1,000 hits for the Boolean operator
“Facebook,” for the year 2013 alone. This research has applied three major
approaches to explain Facebook usage: (a) the uses and gratifications perspective
explores Facebook-specific uses; (b) the needs-perspective draws on basic human
and overarching needs (e.g., the need to belong) to explain Facebook behavior;
and (c) the dispositional perspective derives the proactive Facebook usage from
corresponding personality traits (e.g., narcissism or extraversion). However, these
categories overlap more than they are distinct and, thus, can be arranged on a
continuum ranging from media-specific and situational to cross-situationally
consistent and enduring.
Studies in the uses and gratifications tradition (for an overview, see Krcmar &
Strizhakova, 2009) explore the dimensions of why people use Facebook and to
what ends by factor analyzing data gathered from convenience samples via
242 Peter Vorderer and Frank M. Schneider
self-developed items. Using Facebook is described by users’ motivations for

information sharing, and for maintaining old or forming new friendships (e.g.,
Baek, Holton, Harp, & Yaschur, 2011; Tosun, 2012).
Several previously established needs have been considered as driving mechanisms
to explain Facebook use. One of the most important need constructs when it
comes to explaining mechanisms of social connectedness is the need to belong: a
pervasive drive of human beings “to form and maintain at least a minimum
quantity of lasting, positive, and significant interpersonal relationships” (Baumeister
& Leary, 1995, p. 497). Studies show that the need to belong is a relevant predictor
for Facebook use (Reich & Vorderer, 2013) and that need satisfaction can be
achieved by using online networks to participate in society and being socially
included (Notley, 2009) and also by subtle reminders only (Knausenberger,
Hellmann, & Echterhoff, 2015). Priming affiliation motivations makes SNS
concepts accessible, which in turn fulfills affiliation needs (Lee & Chiou, 2013).
However, not every Facebook feature use is related to belongingness (e.g., the
number of friends or the number of status updates, Winter et al., 2014).
Furthermore, recent research has shown that the fear of missing out (Przybylski,
Murayama, DeHaan, & Gladwell, 2013) and excessive reassurance seeking
(Clerkin, Smith, & Hames, 2013) are two psychological constructs that reflect a
more deficiency-oriented need approach to SNS use. A possible area for future
research would be to delineate the interplay between needs of affiliation and
belonging, the fear of missing out, and the need to excessively seek reassurance.
From a dispositional perspective, many researchers have assumed that broad
personality traits help to explain Facebook use. Based on a review of this literature,
Nadkarni and Hofmann (2012) conclude that Facebook use is associated with higher
levels of extraversion, neuroticism, and belonging, but lower levels of self-esteem,
self-worth, and academic performance. Based on their review, which combines the
need and the dispositional perspectives, they propose a dual-factor model of
Facebook use that relies on the need to belong and the need for self-presentation.
Taken together, all three perspectives can be integrated into one framework.
The hierarchical structure of personality traits (Goldberg, 1993) allows for
integrating both needs (e.g., Costa & McCrae, 1988) and gratifications sought
(Palmgreen, Wenner, & Rosengren, 1985). With regard to social exclusion, the
need to belong is of special interest: it is substantially related to broad personality
traits (Leary, Kelly, Cottrell, & Schreindorfer, 2013; Seidman, 2013), but also can
be seen as a determinant of the motives and uses of SNS (Reich & Vorderer,
2013). However, it would be premature to assume that the need to belong explains
all behaviors on Facebook equally well. One important caveat is that many studies
have measured only general SNS or Facebook use, yet it seems reasonable to think
of different underlying motivations determining the use of specific Facebook
features. There is some recent support for this assumption (e.g., Aladwani, 2014;
Seidman, 2013). Thus, when studying ostracism in the online world, it is necessary
to look at the fine-grained differences in motives and usage, or in other words,
“who is using what tool to what end” (Smock et al., 2011, p. 2328). For example,
a dimension like companionship was found to be conceptually and empirically
different from social interaction. Whereas social interaction positively predicted
general Facebook use and the feature-specific use of comments, wall posts, private
messages, chat, and negatively predicted Facebook groups usage, companionship
was negatively associated with the use of comments only (Smock et al., 2011).
Therefore, if one is interested in whether lonely people use Facebook to
compensate for their loneliness, the feature-specific use of Facebook comments as
an indicator might be preferred to general Facebook use.
The whys and hows of Facebook use give us insights into the need structure
and potential coping strategies, but understanding the effects of Facebook fosters
our knowledge about whether using it satisfies these needs and makes coping
efforts effective, or instead leads to undesired side effects.
What are the effects of using Facebook?

Most relevant research has studied not only the antecedents of SNS usage, but
also its consequences. These consequences have been described as either: (a) goal-
attaining effects (i.e., when users satisfy existing needs by using Facebook); or (b)
goal-preventing, such as iDisorders (see below) or addictions (e.g., Kittinger,
Correia, & Irons, 2012; Rosen, Whaling, Rab, Carrier, & Cheever, 2013).
Goal-attaining effects
If maintaining an existing friendship is challenged and hampered (e.g., students
moving from high school to college), social media can provide a valuable way to
keep up with already existing social relationships (Cummings, Lee, & Kraut,
2006). Some researchers have found that Facebook use helps users to form and
maintain social capital, thereby providing benefits for the well-being of users with
low self-esteem and low-life satisfaction (Ellison, Steinfield, & Lampe, 2007; but
see Trepte, Dienlin, & Reinecke, 2014). However, the tone of the feedback on
one’s SNS profile is more important than just using it: positive feedback enhances
self-esteem and well-being, whereas negative feedback does the opposite
(Valkenburg, Peter, & Schouten, 2006). Self-esteem also moderates the effects of
Facebook use on bridging social capital (Steinfield, Ellison, & Lampe, 2008).
In line with the research on using specific Facebook features (e.g., Smock et al.,
2011), the use of some of these features is more helpful in maintaining social
interactions or companionship. For example, große Deters and Mehl (2013)
showed in an experimental setting that Facebook status updates reduce loneliness,
and this effect was mediated by the feeling of being connected daily with friends.
These results were found both with and without social responses to the status
updates (e.g., likes or comments). This may be explained by “social snacking”—
activities that enhance the feeling of belongingness by reminding one of existing
connections (Gardner, Pickett, & Knowles, 2005). Facebook use also fosters
online social connectedness, and this type of connectedness is correlated with
higher subjective well-being and lower depression and anxiety (Grieve, Indian,
Witteveen, Tolan, & Marrington, 2013).
Facebook offers an easy way of interacting with people and fulfills needs for
connectedness. People who lack social relationships might use Facebook more. Thus,
Facebook use can be seen as a strategy to cope with disconnection. Consequently,
the results of Facebook use are rewarding, leading people to feel connected. At the
same time, however, it does not help to establish or replace offline relationships
(Sheldon, Abad, & Hinsch, 2011). Thus, Facebook use is driven by relatedness
dissatisfaction, which is temporarily satisfied by an ostensible feeling of being
connected, but that use still may not foster relatedness satisfaction in the long run.
Goal-preventing effects
Facebook use does not only lead to positive outcomes such as fulfilling basic needs,
but sometimes is undermined by unintended (and mostly negative and detrimental)
side effects. For example, in a study applying experience-sampling, Facebook use
decreased subjective well-being (Kross et al., 2013). Facebook use might often be
a necessary but not necessarily sufficient condition for negative effects on users.
The valence of Facebook contents or of specific features is important to consider.
For example, the Like button has a positive valence, whereas removing a
connection to a former friend has a negative valence. Research has shown, for
instance, that unfriending on Facebook leads to negative emotional and cognitive
responses (Bevan, Pfyl, & Barclay, 2012). Other researchers have found that
specific types of Facebook use (e.g., the number of Facebook friends, and Facebook
impression management) were correlated with “iDisorders”—that is, “the negative
relationship between technology usage and psychological health” (Rosen et al.,
2013, p. 1243)—and that maladaptive Facebook use (e.g., excessive social
comparison and negative self-evaluation in comments) predicted increases in body
dissatisfaction and bulimic symptoms (Smith, Hames, & Joiner, 2013).
What can we learn from research on the uses and effects of Facebook use with
regard to ostracism? First, broad personality traits and more specific needs can
help to explain general Facebook use. One of the most important motives is the
need to belong. Thus, connecting with others via Facebook helps to satisfy this
need. However, very often it is more helpful to look at the use of specific features
including their function and valence. Not every feature serves the need to belong
equally. Second, using Facebook can have both goal-attaining (positive) effects
and goal-preventing (negative) effects: on the one hand, it can fulfill or fortify
basic human needs like belongingness or self-esteem and enhance well-being; on
the other hand, it can thwart these needs and even harm psychological health in
the long run. Again, specific content or feature use may allow more exact
predictions about effects. For example, positive profile feedback can enhance
self-esteem, whereas negative feedback can reduce it (Valkenburg et al., 2006).

Finally, we have to interpret all of these findings cautiously. Important limitations
to most of this research include the predominance of correlational designs that do
not allow one to draw causal inferences from the results and the (sometimes)
questionable psychometric properties of the measures applied in this research area
(especially with regard to self-reports of motivations and usage).
Because of the fact that research on social media encompasses numerous
constructs that are important for understanding how ostracism works, in the next
section we describe methodological approaches and findings related to
examinations of ostracism in a social media context.
Ostracism and Social Media

Being ostracized—being ignored or excluded by individuals or groups—threatens
four basic human needs (Williams, 2007, 2009): belonging, self-esteem, control,
and meaningful existence. Whereas SNS might appeal to users as a means to
permanently secure social connections, can SNS also easily trigger the feeling of
being ostracized? To address this question, we will organize the empirical findings
related to ostracism in social media according to the three stages of the temporal
need–threat model and then we provide a brief overview of the manipulations
used in examining cyber-ostracism.
Studying Cyber-Ostracism in a Social Media Context

Cyberball
Cyberball (Williams et al., 2000; Williams & Jarvis, 2006) is the predominant
experimental paradigm for inducing inclusion or exclusion in a computerized setting
(Hartgerink et al., 2015). It involves asking participants to practice their mental
visualization skills through the use of an online virtual ball-tossing game. Participants
believe they are playing with other participants, and they see animation on screen
that shows them, the other players, and a ball. If the ball is thrown to them, they are
to throw it to one of the other players. If they are assigned to the inclusion condition,
they receive the ball the same amount of throws as the other players. If they are
assigned to the ostracism condition, they may be thrown the ball once or twice at
the beginning of the game, but for the remainder of the game they receive no
throws. During the entire game, it is emphasized that the experimenter does not
care who gets the ball and who throws it, but rather, that participants visualize
aspects of the game, the others, and the environment. In a meta-analysis of 120
studies, Cyberball consistently and strongly (d > 1.4) threatened fundamental needs
of belonging, self-esteem, control, and meaningful existence (Hartgerink et al.,
2015). Whereas this involves an online manipulation, it was not intended to be an
ecologically valid representation of typical online ostracism.
There are a few other types of manipulations that merit examination because
they are ecologically more valid relative to social media: immersive virtual
environments, text-based forms of manipulations, and the tool Ostracism Online.
Immersive virtual environments (IVE)

Because of the fact that Cyberball was developed as a minimal world paradigm, it
lacks the mundane realism and presence of social cues that social media users often
encounter. Recently, Kassner, Wesselmann, Law, and Williams (2012), as well as
Segovia and Bailenson (2012) remedied this drawback by transferring the ball-
tossing game into an IVE that resembles virtual online worlds. These environments
can be found in massively multiplayer online role-playing game settings (e.g., World
of Warcraft) or real-world simulations (e.g., Second Life). This enables researchers to
manipulate social cues in a more ecologically valid setting and investigate, for
instance, the impact of eye contact (Wesselmann, Cardoso, Slater, & Williams,
2012), identity effects on antisocial behavior (Segovia & Bailenson, 2012), gender
differences in coping strategies (Benenson, Markovits, Thompson, & Wrangham,
2011), and the effects of ostracism on users who use such online environments “as
their last bastion of social inclusion” (Kassner et al., 2012, p. 402).
Text-based online-communication
Whereas Cyberball in an IVE seems to be a useful tool for online role-playing
games, other social media types include fewer social cues (e.g., online chat, short
text messages, or messenger communication) and therefore have to be investigated
with different tools. Williams et al. (2002) applied chat-room manipulations to
induce ostracism, and Filipkowski and Smyth (2012) used a similar manipulation
to compare ostracism in person and in chat-room settings. They manipulated
ostracism by providing participants with specific descriptions of an ostracizing
event in an online chat-room or in a face-to-face situation, and asked the
participants how they would feel if they imagined the same thing happening to
them. Comparing the results of the two experiments, they concluded that
ostracism in both the hypothetical and the actual situations led to similar results
independent from online or face-to-face condition.
Another form of text-based manipulation employs cell phones. For example,
Smith and Williams (2004) used text messaging on cell phones to effectively
include or exclude their study participants. Although the participants could
neither see the communication partners (confederates) and their interaction, nor
rule out technical problems with the phone as causes for being ostracized, the
effects were similar to those routinely produced by Cyberball. However, it would
be premature to conclude that attributing the non-response to technical problems
does not play a role in text messaging-induced ostracism, because this factor has
not been systematically manipulated.
Ostracism Online
Ostracism Online, a novel social media-based paradigm developed by Wolf et al.
(2015), seems to be especially useful for research on SNSs. Built similarly to
Twitter or Facebook (or blogs and forums), Ostracism Online emulates the liking
of content. Participants write a short self-descriptive summary and choose a
profile picture from a wide selection of avatars. Afterwards, they are informed
that they are connected to 11 other participants (which are in actuality computer
scripts) who can read the summaries and like them or not within three minutes.
Participants are told to do likewise. In the inclusion condition, the participant’s
summary is liked as often as the other profiles and is indicated by pop-ups and a
personalized counter. In the exclusion condition, the participant’s summary
receives only a few likes in the beginning, but the other participants’ profiles
continue receiving more and more likes (for a demonstration see: http://smpo.
github.io/socialmedia/). Wolf et al. found that Ostracism Online is as effective as
the Cyberball paradigm in manipulating inclusion versus exclusion. Similar results
were recently reported in two further studies (Schneider, Zwillich, Bindl, Hopp,
& Vorderer, 2015).
The use of computer-based manipulations of ostracism is also highly effective.
Kassner et al. (2012) report meta-analytic findings that indicate higher effect
sizes for the IVE, the Cyberball, and the online chat-room paradigms as
compared to the face-to-face ball-tossing game. However, the reasons for these
differences have not been systematically investigated yet. Ostracism Online
provides researchers with new opportunities for examining several possible
influences. First, the number of group members can easily be manipulated.
Second, the content of the summaries (e.g., personal information or opinion
about an issue) as well as the social cues that are presented can be altered. Third,
the “like” button can be changed into a “read” or a “dislike” button. Thus,
Ostracism Online offers more options than the classic Cyberball method. Tools
such as Ostracism Online or ostracism in an IVE may help us to gain important
insights into different conditions under which people experience and cope with
ostracism. Furthermore, the rather rigid setting of the Cyberball method raises
some concerns about its appropriateness for studying experiences with SNSs and
behavior in social media environments. For example, changing the position of
the Cyberball participant on the screen (i.e., placing the Cyberball participant
below the two Cyberball players) changes the responses to the exclusion
condition (Schoel, Eck, & Greifeneder, 2014). Consequently, we advocate the
use of more flexible tools (such as those described above) or more elaborate,
general ones such as Social Lab (Garaizar & Reips, 2014)—as alternatives or in
addition to Cyberball. Nevertheless, Cyberball-based research has provided the
foundation for understanding ostracism in social media settings, and has
encouraged the development of other paradigms that are particularly appropriate
to social media settings.
Empirical Findings Related to Ostracism and Social Media

Our aim is to highlight the theoretical importance of research on ostracism on
SNS with components of the temporal need–threat model. Therefore, we focus
here only on studies that are somehow related to social media motives, uses, or
effects. Consequently, studies employing the Cyberball paradigm are included
only if they are embedded in a social media environment, are compared to other
methods of manipulating ostracism, or examine effects on social media-related
dependent variables.
Immediate reactions at the reflexive stage

The temporal need–threat model states that detected ostracism leads to social
pain, threatened needs, and negative affect. These findings have been replicated
in the context of social media, applying different manipulations and measures
(e.g., Filipkowski & Smyth, 2012; Kassner et al., 2012; Nezlek, Wesselmann,
Wheeler, & Williams, 2012; Wolf et al., 2015). In addition, a study on cognitive
and emotional experiences related to being unfriended on Facebook showed
similar results (Bevan et al., 2012). Besides affective reactions to cyber-ostracism
at the reflexive stage, the four basic human needs are thwarted (Filipkowski &
Smyth, 2012; Godwin et al., 2013; Goodacre & Zadro, 2010; Kassner et al.,
2012; Wolf et al., 2015). As Wesselmann and Williams (2011) point out, reactions
to ostracism in a social media environment could be more severe with those
people who use social media as the main tool to get in touch with others because
it is a secure—or the only—way to be socially connected. In light of the finding
that the need to belong or to be socially included (Notley, 2009) is a dominant
factor for social media use, this possibility seems quite reasonable.
Coping strategies and need fortification at the reflective stage

What kind of coping strategies do social media users apply when they are
ostracized? Although this question has not yet been studied in detail, when
comparing responses to ostracism in the chat-room or cell phone paradigms to
face-to-face ostracism, Williams et al. (2002) found that participants used more
bold and inflammatory language—a phenomenon they called virtual bravado (see
also Wesselmann & Williams, 2011). This seems to be a fundamental difference
between online and face-to-face ostracism and, according to Wesselmann and
Williams (2011), may be traced back to disinhibited behavior resulting from the
anonymity of electronic communication. The authors argue that
it is possible this bravado was an attempt by participants to fortify their

threatened control and meaningful existence in the situation. It is also possible
that, under conditions of anonymity, needs such as control or meaningful
existence become easier to fortify, whereas under face-to-face conditions

where social norms and accountability are more salient, needs such as
belonging or self-esteem become easier (or more socially acceptable) to fortify.
(p. 137)
This assumption is based on the reduced social cues approach (Kiesler, Siegel, &
McGuire, 1984), which states that anonymity and the lack of nonverbal social
contextual cues lead to deindividuation and to normless and disinhibited behavior.
Such behavior can lead to openness and participation or egalitarianism in a
positive environment; in a negative context (e.g., feeling ostracized), on the other
hand, deviant and antisocial behaviors such as flaming, spamming, cyber-bullying
or cyber-stalking are likely (Döring, 2003). Although this explanation may apply
in the context of specific experimental settings, social media environments like
Facebook neither lack social cues nor provide an anonymous context for
communication. What kind of coping strategies would we expect in such an
environment, and what determines these strategies?
With regard to self-esteem, self-promoting (e.g., “seek social support,” “seek
more social support than provide”) and antisocial (e.g., “get angry at lack of status
comments,” “retaliate against mean comments”) Facebook behaviors can be
explained by pronounced narcissism and low trait self-esteem (Carpenter, 2012).
Furthermore, editing one’s Facebook profile has been found to foster self-esteem
(Gonzales & Hancock, 2011). These findings are in line with Walther’s (1996)
hyperpersonal model, which states that message senders can selectively edit and
optimize their self-presentations in a text-based, asynchronous media environment.
In light of the temporal need–threat model, it might be interesting to investigate
whether thwarting self-esteem leads to self-editing as a fortifying strategy
following ostracism by paying attention to potential moderators like narcissism
and trait self-esteem at the same time.
Seeking affiliation and connectedness in an online environment seems to be a
common strategy used to fortify the need to belong. However, seeking affiliation
online has seldom been examined as a dependent variable in ostracism experiments.
One rare exception is a study by Zwolinski (2012), who found that even though
participants reported threats to their needs after playing Cyberball in an exclusion
condition, they did not display increased interest in becoming affiliated with a
face-to-face or online social network.
Another strategy for re-fortifying belonging is to comply and conform with
group norms (Williams, 2009; Williams et al., 2000). However, besides Williams
et al. (2000), we are aware of only one study that has measured conformity
without finding a difference between inclusion and exclusion (Wolf et al., 2015).
It might be interesting, then, to look at another concept in communication
studies in which the fear of isolation serves as the basic drive for compliance, the
spiral of silence (Noelle-Neumann, 1991). One central assumption of the spiral of
silence theory is that people do not voice their opinion if it diverges from that of
the public majority—because they are afraid of being isolated. Although this idea
has not yet been investigated in the context of social media, the discussion
activities of ostracized people in online forums could provide an interesting way
of measuring conformity, or remaining silent might be assessed as a coping
strategy to fortify belonging.
How control or meaningful existence can be regained in a media environment
that is rich in social and nonverbal cues remain rather open questions. One
problem that arises in this context is that it is often hard to thwart one need
without also thwarting the others. The focus on self-esteem and belonging as
motivations for using social media provide useful ideas for how to study ostracism
in this environment. At the same time, however, control and meaningful
existence have been badly neglected in this research area. Regaining or exerting
control could perhaps be established by regulating online self-disclosure and
privacy settings (Trepte & Reinecke, 2011). This is a double-edged sword,
however: on the one hand, users might feel powerful again after checking their
SNS settings, unfriending ostracizing people, etc.; on the other hand, such a
coping strategy would make it more difficult to get in touch with others, thereby
leaving the need to belong thwarted (cf. Williams, 2009).
Long-term effects at the resignation stage

Williams (2009) describes alienation, helplessness, depression, and unworthiness as
long-term consequences of ostracism when resources are too severely depleted to
fortify the threatened needs. Until methodologically convincing longitudinal
studies are conducted to enable us to differentiate between ostracism in the offline
and the online world, the question of how ostracism in the social media environment
affects reactions in the resignation stage remains unanswered. Some attempts (Kross
et al., 2013; Rosen et al., 2013), however, hint to pernicious long-term consequences
of Facebook use, which might be related to experiencing ostracism.
Conclusion and Outlook

In September 2013, 73 percent of US online adults used SNSs (71 percent used
Facebook), and 40 percent of all US cell phone owners used SNSs on their phone
(Pew Research Center, 2013). The Pew Internet Project’s research (Pew
Research Center, 2014) also found that
67 percent of cell owners find themselves checking their phone for

messages, alerts, or calls—even when they don’t notice their phone ringing
or vibrating; 44 percent of cell owners have slept with their phone next to
their bed because they wanted to make sure they didn’t miss any calls, text
messages, or other updates during the night; 29 percent of cell owners
describe their cell phone as “something they can’t imagine living without.”
Taken together, these data strongly support the assumption that everyone wishes to
be permanently connected to others or fears being disconnected from them
(Vorderer & Kohring, 2013; Vorderer, Krömer, & Schneider, 2016). Whereas
researchers drew on specific gratifications, needs, and traits to describe and explain
the use of SNSs at the advent of Facebook, approaching others and avoiding being
isolated from them in the online world have become daily habits—just as they have
always been in the offline world. The need to belong and the fear of being ostracized
(or perhaps a related construct such as the fear of missing out, Przybylski et al., 2013)
seem to be fundamental human needs that are reflected in our (mobile) online
behavior. Thus, on the one hand, soft forms of ostracism are ubiquitous: for example,
waiting for answers after the “seen” function in Facebook or WhatsApp indicated
that the messages has been read (Mai, Freudenthaler, Schneider, & Vorderer, 2015),
expecting the first “like” of a newly posted message, or holding on for the delayed
response to a “friend” request puts one in a permanently standby mode that might
trigger the feeling of being ostracized if the responses do not occur immediately.
Consequently, we assume that future diary studies on ostracism in everyday life
would find much higher portions of online ostracism (compared to previous ones
like Nezlek et al., 2012), especially in SNS and mobile messenger communication.
On the other hand, low-cost communication like e-mailing, texting, chatting as
well as posting and sending messages on Facebook helps to easily establish a sense of
belonging and meaningful existence: I am instant-messaging, therefore I am. In line
with the findings of Sheldon et al. (2011), feeling disconnected or ostracized
encourages the effortless attempts to connect to others via Facebook, while the
positive experience of successful connections rewards this behavior. Thus, Facebook
could serve as a social compensation for a lack of offline connections (Lee, Moore,
Park, & Park, 2012; Tazghini & Siedlecki, 2013) or, especially for the Net Generation,
even as a deeply rooted, primary way to satisfy the need to belong (Lee & Chiou,
2013). This need satisfaction might be rather illusionary, however: even though the
use of social media seems to be helpful for achieving social connectedness, it seems
that only face-to-face communication can facilitate actually avoiding social isolation
and, therefore, enhance well-being (Ahn & Shin, 2013; Sheldon et al., 2011).
Furthermore, first attempts have been made to look at online (re)connection as a
coping strategy after being ostracized, but findings have been inconsistent (Zwolinski,
2012). However, this research is still in its fledgling stage. Perhaps one interesting
approach lies in the distinction among different need–threats and corresponding
coping strategies. This can be informed by theories of computer-mediated
communication (CMC, Walther, 2011). For example, the hyperpersonal model
(Walther, 1996) proposes that, given a text-based and asynchronous communication
environment, message senders might edit and optimize their self-presentation.
Under the condition of thwarted self-esteem, specific Facebook behaviors such as
status updates might be indicators of how people fortify this need on a SNS.
Moreover, perceiving ostracism in CMC environments could be different
from face-to-face situations. However, CMC environments can differ, too.
Although the terms cyber-ostracism or ostracism in electronic-based interaction

(Wesselmann & Williams, 2011) summarize a wide range of online phenomena,
they also suggest that all online media are created equal. We recommend
refraining from such terms, because—although catchy—they cloud the issues that
are of particular interest. Besides mass media communication channels,
communication in our daily private and work life is more and more determined
by mediated interpersonal communication. From this perspective, relevant issues
lie in the characteristics of the media (e.g., synchronicity, reduced or filtered-out
nonverbal and social cues, feedback-channel, etc.) and of the users (e.g., motives,
selection preferences, anonymity or familiarity, norms and beliefs of how to
behave in a particular online environment etc.). For example, Schechtman (2008)
proposes that perceived ostracism is a function of characteristics of the message
(e.g., frequency), the medium (e.g., transmission speed), the interpersonal
relationship (e.g., length of relationship), and the individual (e.g., trust)—elements
he borrows from media synchronicity theory (Dennis, Fuller, & Valacich, 2008).
Different media tap into different aspects. For example, whereas in a Skype
conference communication partners interact synchronously, e-mails or text
messages are asynchronous. It is an interesting question, for example, whether the
perception of ostracism or its immediate effects in an asynchronous communication
mode are dependent on individual differences in expected response-time thresholds.
With respect to the users’ characteristics, the different uses and gratifications
when dealing with Facebook features (Smock et al., 2011) make clear that feature
preferences might play an important role when studying ostracism in social media.
Thus, not every study that induces ostracism via Cyberball investigates ostracism in
the online world. Cyberball is a convincing way to manipulate ostracism, but the
variety of useful manipulation methods at hand (e.g., Ostracism Online) provides
interesting alternatives and might be more appropriate for scrutinizing ostracism in
a social media environment. Manipulating media richness, synchronicity, the
number of senses involved, the number of possible backchannels for feedback, the
absence or presence of nonverbal and social cues, technical problems—all of these
factors that might influence the perception of ostracism in a CMC environment
invite deeper examination and might help to explain why the effect sizes in
computer-based ostracism paradigms are higher than in face-to-face paradigms.
Whereas technology companies like Facebook, Inc. are interested in
connecting people for the sake of revenue, profit, and share price, as social
scientists we should carefully study the motivations and effects of online
connectedness and their implications for individuals, groups, and society.
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17
ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASPECTS
OF OSTRACISM
Patrik Söderberg and Douglas P. Fry
Short of fighting, all the !Kung can do to control the actions of individuals is
to criticize. But this is apparently enough. A man, expelled from his band,
might be able to survive alone in the desert / … / But freshly gone, he would
be an outlaw and, in time, become a stranger to his people. This would be an
unthinkable horror to a !Kung! The worst dream might be to see the fires
flickering in the werf [camp] at midnight and be unable to go to them.
(Marshall, 1961, pp. 80–81)
Introduction
There is a predominant tendency within anthropology to view ostracism and
exclusion as forms of social control (Black, 1993; Boehm, 1999; Brown, 1991;
Silberbauer, 1981). Black (1993) points out that across different types of society
most social control is of an informal nature, expressed, for instance, through
criticism, scolding, humiliation, depravation, ridicule, destruction of property,
looks of disapproval, violence, and ostracism. Boehm (1999) proposes that social
control mechanisms can be viewed along a continuum ranging from moderate
(e.g., criticism, ridicule, gossip) through strong (e.g., desertion, expulsion, and
ostracism) to ultimate (i.e., execution of an offender). In some environmental or
social circumstances, ostracism may be equivalent to execution if the socially
expelled individual is thus deprived of the capacity to sustain himself or herself.
In this chapter we will present ethnographic findings of two kinds. With an eye
on evolutionary considerations, we will focus on Nomadic Forager Band Societies
(NFBS) as the oldest form of human society. For nearly all of the approximately
two million years that the genus Homo has existed on Earth, nomadic foraging has
constituted the socioeconomic adaptation. As Bicchieri (1972, pp. iv–v) expresses:
Anthropological Aspects of Ostracism 259
“Questions concerning territorialism, the handling of aggression, social control,

property, leadership, the use of space, and many other dimensions are particularly
significant in these [nomadic forager] contexts.” If certain mechanisms of social
control including ostracism recur among extant nomadic forager societies from
around the world, then such social and behavioral characteristics may reflect long-
term features of human sociality (Boehm, 1999; Fry, 2006; Marlowe 2010).
In addition, we will consider some of the cross-cultural variations and
similarities in the practice of ostracism that exist across a variety of social types.
But first, we will start with a review of the literature regarding evolutionary and
shorter-term perspectives on ostracism and social exclusion. Key questions
include: What is the function of ostracism in human societies? What are the
mechanisms by which people are excluded? How do people react to exclusion in
everyday life?
The Evolution of Exclusion

In social species from wolves to humans, survival is linked to maintaining
relationships within the group (Spoor & Williams, 2007). For instance, Bekoff
(2011) reports that coyotes that do not adjust to group living and strike off on
their own have a higher mortality rate than their peers who remain within the
coyote community. In the ancestral human line, group living would have been
crucial for reproduction and survival as it conferred benefits such as access to
meat-sharing networks, protection against predation, and cooperative child-
rearing (Axelrod 2006; Boehm, 1999; Fry, 2006; Hart & Sussman, 2009; Hrdy,
2009). In other words, the adaptive value of living in groups would have
outweighed the benefits of solitary life (Spoor & Williams, 2007).
Group living is not without challenges of its own, however, as shared
responsibility for producing and distributing public goods may invite free-riders
who seek to take advantage of the benefits of collective efforts. In the long run,
a few or even just one highly uncooperative group member may be enough to
threaten cooperativeness in the whole group (Ouwerkerk, Kerr, Gallucci, & Van
Lange, 2005). This phenomenon, known as the bad apple effect, might be
particularly detrimental to the kind of small, highly interdependent groups within
which human ancestors lived for most of prehistory.
Phenomena such as the bad apple effect may be prevented by emphasis on
prosocial values and practices, or deterred by punishing free-riders and non-
conformists. From a social dilemmas perspective, the punishment of a defector
constitutes a second-order public goods problem because there may be
individual costs associated with carrying out the punishment, and each individual
would thus be better off by letting someone else take care of the matter
(Ouwerkerk et al., 2005). For example, this could be the case if the person to
be punished for non-cooperation were to act aggressively or possess more
resources for retaliation than other individuals in the group.
260 Patrik Söderberg and Douglas P. Fry
Enter exclusion. Compared to physical revenge or direct reciprocal non-

cooperation, ostracism constitutes a safer method of punishment. It carries less
risk of injury for the remaining group members (Ouwerkerk et al., 2005; Spoor
& Williams, 2007). Experimental studies confirm that group members readily
exchange reputational information about each other and ostracize those who do
not conform to normative levels of cooperation (Feinberg, Willer, & Schultz,
2014). More generally, anthropological accounts show that people around the
world apply social control measures against individuals who violate the social
norms (Black, 1993; Boehm, 1999; Fry, 2006).
For the individuals in question, being ostracized is likely to have negative
consequences in terms of loss of group inclusion and social status, which from an
evolutionary perspective could be disadvantageous to reproductive fitness. For
tribal and ancestral humans dependent on cooperative social relationships for
survival, ostracism may even be experienced as exclusion from humanity (Bastian
& Haslam, 2010) and can aptly be described as social death (Patterson, 1982).
Spoor and Williams (2007) suggest that over time selection pressures would
favor organisms that are able to identify cues of rejection from others and respond
in appropriate ways, in effect creating an ostracism detection system. The system
would require an alarm signal that is sensitive toward whether ostracism is
occurring or not and that could direct resources toward coping with the threat,
and pain has been nominated as a suitable candidate for serving as the mechanism
by way of which the alarm system operates (Spoor & Williams, 2007; Wesselmann,
Nairne, & Williams, 2012). Defining social pain as “the distressing experience
arising from actual or potential psychological distance from close others or from
the social group,” Eisenberg and Lieberman (2005, p. 112) suggest that the social
attachment system, which has evolved in mammals as a support function for early
nurturance and care, may have piggybacked onto the pre-existing pain system
and borrowed the pain signal to alert to the danger of social separation. The pain
overlap theory is further supported by similarities in phenomenological reports of
social and physical pain (MacDonald & Leary, 2005).
According to Spoor and Williams (2007), an effective ostracism detection
system would be expected to be selectively biased to produce false alarms over
misses, as the consequences of mistakenly perceiving threats of rejection where
none exist would be less severe than not detecting actual threats. Support for the
notion of a sensitive, indiscriminate detection system can be taken from studies
showing that people will experience social pain at the mere possibility of social
distancing (Eisenberg & Lieberman, 2005), or even by just observing others being
ostracized (Wesselmann, Bagg, & Williams, 2009).
If humans are acutely attuned to threats of rejection, even mild forms of social
sanctions, such as gossip or public expression of opinions, may be enough to
promote cooperation and reduce the temptation to behave in a self-serving
manner (Beersma & Van Keef, 2011; Dunbar, 2004). Ouwerkerk et al. (2005) go
so far as to suggest that social exclusion represents one of the most important
mechanisms for the evolution of cooperation among humans. This does not
imply, however, that exclusion must occur frequently in a society in order to be
effective: in Athens, in the fifth and fourth centuries bc, ostrakismos constituted a
democratic safeguard by which citizens could collectively banish a person who
had tried to become too powerful. During this period, however, there are only
12 known cases of formal ostracism (Lang, 1990).
Responding to Rejection
Due to the survival-related benefits of belonging to a group, it could be predicted
that individuals would respond to episodes of ostracism in ways that facilitate
re-acceptance (Feinberg et al., 2014). But even though prosocial behavior following
ostracism should have long-term benefits for both the individual and the group,
experimental and field studies have produced mixed findings (Balliet & Ferris, 2013).
Within social psychology, different theoretical frameworks have been
proposed to explain variation in reactions to ostracism. According to the need–
threat model, ostracism threatens four fundamental needs: belonging, self-esteem,
control and meaningful existence (Williams, 2007; Williams & Nida, 2011).
When belonging or self-esteem are threatened, individuals will strive to behave
in a prosocial manner so as to regain acceptance. However, when the need of
control or meaningful existence is threatened, individuals may turn to antisocial
behavior and aggression for need fortification. The multimotive model (Richman
& Leary, 2009), on the other hand, emphasizes the need to belong as the
psychological core of ostracism, and argues that the response motive—prosocial,
avoidant or antisocial—is predicted primarily by the individual’s interpretation of
the rejection event. More specifically, Richman and Leary propose six main
factors that collectively influence the individual’s response motive: perceived cost
of rejection, possibility of alternative relationships, expectations of relational
repair, value of relationship, pervasiveness of rejection, and perceived unfairness.
In contrast to the need–threat framework and the multimotive model, the theory
of impaired self-regulation (Baumeister, DeWall, Ciarocco & Twenge, 2006)
depicts ostracism primarily as a blunt instrument producing helplessness and
depression rather than active prosocial or antisocial behaviors. As shown by
Blackhart, Nelson, Knowles and Baumeister (2009), the different outcomes of
experimental studies might in part be explained with reference to different
experimental paradigms and operationalization of ostracism.
While the individual’s experiences and responses are common themes in the
social psychological theories of ostracism, Richman and Leary (2009) call for more
research on how exclusion affects the perpetrators of ostracism. A recent study by
Legate, DeHaan, Weinstein and Ryan (2013) indicates that there are robust
psychological costs associated with ostracizing others. There may also be a substantial
cost associated with ostracism for the group, as fewer individuals are able to
contribute to the public good once someone is excluded (Feinberg et al., 2014).
While social psychological experiments tend to focus on exclusion and

rejection from strangers, a large proportion of everyday social interaction for
humans in the evolutionary past would have been with familiar peers and family.
Focusing on maladaptive developmental outcomes after repeated rejection by
familiar peers, Juvonen and Gross (2005) conceptualize reasons for ostracism in
terms of person–group dissimilarities and label the ostracized individual as a group
misfit. Similarly, Wright, Giammarino, and Parad (1986) note that both aggressive
and withdrawn children are more likely to be group outcasts the more their
behavior is non-normative in relation to the group.
A Working Model of Socialization and Social Control

A survey of the anthropological literature related to social control mechanisms
(including ostracism) suggests a straightforward model with cross-cultural
applicability. The assurance of conformity to social norms and customs can be seen
as consisting of both prescriptions for correct behavior and proscriptions against
deviant practices across the lifespan (Boehm 1999; Brown 1991). The socialization
process is geared toward instilling in the youngest members of a community the
norms, values, and beliefs of the society so that by adulthood individuals will
generally adhere to shared practices and follow the ethos favored in their particular
culture. As the Yahgan of Tierra del Fuego maintain, the goal during childhood
socialization is to create “a good and useful human being” (Gusinde 1937, p. 531).
However, despite the efforts of socialization to instill socially appreciated
norms and values, sooner or later non-conformist and outright deviant behavior
may emerge in any group. Community members exert various kinds of social
control efforts either to nip misbehavior and non-conformity in the bud or, if a
serious transgression has already been committed, to reform the social deviant. In
this model, both the threat of ostracism and ostracism itself are types of social
control, the former intended to reform non-conformists and to correct deviants,
and the latter intended to rid the group of incorrigible repeat offenders or those
who commit the most serious violations.
Nomadic Forager Band Societies (NFBS)

To gain insights about how ostracism, exclusion, and other forms of social control
may have operated over the evolutionary past, we derived a sample of 21 NFBS
from the existing Standard Cross-Cultural Sample (White, 1989) using as inclusion
criteria that a society must be nomadic or semi-nomadic, lack domesticated
animals, and rely for subsistence almost exclusively (95 percent or more) on
gathering, fishing, and hunting (Murdock, 1967, 1981). For each society in the
sample, we extracted information on ostracism and social control using only the
ethnographic sources with the highest quality ratings (White, 1989). Methodological
details are provided in Fry (2006) and Fry and Söderberg (2013).
Nomadic forager bands are typically small, egalitarian and interdependent

(Boehm, 1999; Leacock, 1978). Social networks tend to be egocentric with
group composition fluctuating over time and networks cutting across group lines
(Ingold, 1999; Turnbull, 1983), whereas between-group boundaries, to the
extent that they exist, are controlled through use-request and permission-granting
(Steward, 1968). At the same time, independent living outside the band structure
does not exist for individuals (Marshall, 1961, p. 231). Commenting on the
Mbuti camps of Central Africa, Turnbull (1983, p. 14) notes that it is virtually
impossible to survive alone in the forest as food is accessible only through
intensive cooperation and division of labor.
The majority of social interaction in NFBS involves doing and reciprocating
good deeds (Boehm, 1999; Fry, 2006; Hrdy, 2009). An extensive review of the
forager literature led Boehm (1999) to conclude that individuals in such
communities are expected to be generous, cooperative, and neither bossy nor
arrogant. Children are raised to adopt such values and behaviors. For instance,
among the Ju/’hoansi of the African Kalahari, the ideal son-in-law “should be a
good hunter, he should not have a reputation as a fighter, and he should come
from a congenial family of people who like to do hxaro, the Ju/’hoan form of
traditional exchange” (Lee, 1993, p. 81, italics in original). Correspondingly,
Tonkinson (1974) explains that the ideal personality characteristics among
Australian Aborigines of the Western Desert region include unselfishness, kinship
solidarity, amicability, willingness to share and peacefulness. A consistent feature
of NFBS is “an ethic of sharing that selectively extends to the entire group the
cooperation and altruism found within the family” (Boehm 1999, p. 67).
Simultaneously, mechanisms of social control operate much like a rubber band
to ensure that those stepping too much out of line are brought back into the
realm of acceptable behavior. For example, in the Montagnais-Naskapi society,
social stability was maintained through encouraging and rewarding desired,
prosocial behaviors as well as through voicing ridicule and scorn toward antisocial
behaviors (Reid, 1991; Speck, 1935).
Table 17.1 lists the social control mechanisms identified in the 21 NFBS. It is
worth noticing that the data is reliant on the interpretive techniques of the
ethnographers. Some forms of social control, such as disapproving looks, gossip,
or expression of public opinion, may be taken as self-evident and not mentioned
in ethnographic descriptions. Categories in the table might also be partially
overlapping, since a situation that one ethnographer identifies as criticism may be
seen as ridicule by another. Even if we acknowledge these limitations, there still
seems to be room for a few general observations.
First, as illustrated in Table 17.1, some form of social control is reported for each
society. Physical social control is reported for almost all of the NFBS (18 out of 21),
and verbal means are even more common (19 out of 21). In addition, fear of divine
retribution discourages people to stray from the “straight-and-narrow” in three-
quarters of the societies (16 out of 21). Withdrawal of support and ostracism are
TABLE 17.1 Mechanisms for social control within 21 Nomadic Forager Band Societies
Super-
Physical Verbal Indirect
natural
Physical attack or revenge
Fear of divine retribution
Withdrawal of support
Physical punishment
Fear of sorcery
Execution
Ostracism
Criticism
Ridicule
Shaming
Gossip
!Kung X X X X X X X X X
Hadza X X
Mbuti X X X X X X X
Semang X X X
Andaman X X X X
Veddas X X X X
Tiwi X X X X X X X
Aranda X X X X X X
Gilyak X X X X
Yukaghir X X X X
Ingalik X X X X X X X
Copper Inuit X X X X X X
Montagnais X X X X X X X X X X
Micmac X X X X
Northern Saulteaux X X X X X
Slave X X X X
Kaska X X X X X X X X X
Paiute X X X X X X X
Botocudos X
Aweikoma X X
Yahgan X X X X X X X X X
Total 10 6 9 15 15 10 11 12 10 6 10
NB: The category “criticism” also includes reported cases of scold, reprimand, and harangue;
“ridicule” also includes mockery and teasing; “withdrawal of support” also includes shunning.
In addition to the listed control mechanisms, the following were reported only once: fear of
misfortune, appeal to conscience, destruction of property, fear of envy, fear of sorcery accusation.
reported for just over half of the NFBS (11 out of 21). Milder forms of non-physical
and non-verbal social control such as looks and facial expressions probably exist in
most NFBS even though they were not recorded by the ethnographers. Taken
together, these observations indicate great variation in the methods used to reform
the social deviant or to protect the group from further misbehavior. NFBS clearly
exhibit cases of moderate, strong and ultimate forms of social control (Boehm, 1999).
The case of Cephu, a Mbuti hunter who stole game during a communal hunt,
illustrates the various ways that members of Mbuti society exert social control
(Turnbull, 1961). Turnbull describes how the members of the Mbuti band, when
they discovered Cephu’s deception, started to ridicule, insult, criticize, lecture, and
laugh at him. Instead of being offered a seat by a younger man, Cephu was told
“Animals lie on the ground” (Turnbull, 1961, p. 105). When Cephu protested that
he was an important man, like a big chief, others responded with a threat of ostracism;
they told Cephu that since the Mbuti do not have chiefs, he and his family could go
and live elsewhere. When faced with criticism, ridicule, and the threat of ostracism,
“Cephu knew he was defeated and humiliated” (Turnbull, 1961, p. 107), at which
point he apologized profusely and gave back all the meat he had stolen.
Second, as nobody in NFBS explicitly enjoys the formal power to impose
punishment on behalf of the community, people individually and cooperatively
apply these control measures. In small, homogeneous NFBS, public opinion is
“more forceful than any expression of public opinion could possibly be in our
modern world” (Reid, 1991, p. 296). Furthermore, because the judgment of the
public is considered reliable and decisive, “anyone whom it concerns must yield
to it absolutely and immediately” in order to save himself from being ostracized
(Gusinde, 1937, pp. 937–938).
Third, three-quarters of the NFBS (15 out of 21) exhibit either ostracism or
execution, but notably only four of these societies make use of both. This supports
the notion that ostracism fills a role similar to that of a death sentence for ancestral
foragers. An example of this is the case of Amechichi, a Montagnais-Naskapi man
expelled from his community for continuously poaching on the hunting ground
of others. Following exclusion, he also was denied membership in several other
bands and finally withdrew into the woods where he and his family died of
starvation (Lips, 1947). Similarly, in Mbuti society the act of ostracism is
sometimes referred to as “leaving matters to the forest” with the implication that
a person being left alone in the forest will not be able to survive (Turnbull, 1965).
In our model of socialization and social control, the means of social control are
taken as reactions to an individual’s non-conformist or deviant behavior. Within
NFBS, deviant behaviors are those that are likely to cause conflict within the
group and degrade the overall quality of life (Boehm, 2000). Focusing on the
societies reporting ostracism or withdrawal of social support, Table 17.2 lists
reasons for ostracism in 11 NFBS. The table cannot be said to cover every reason
for social exclusion, but may still provide insight into the kinds of situations that
provoke the most severe group reactions.
TABLE 17.2 Reasons for ostracism and withdrawal of support in NFBS
!Kung Going too far in criticizing another person*; Hiding meat from the
hunt; A dying old childless woman*
Mbuti Being selfish and uncooperative during the hunt*; Committing incest;
Stealing from an old woman*; A young man not knowing his place*;
Not sharing food; Being an incorrigible thief; Selfishness; Being
suspected of sorcery; Offending the group; Trying to assert authority in
the forest
Tiwi A young man “stealing” a bestowed wife from an elder*
Gilyak A man living with his stepmother*; A man marrying a woman from a
forbidden clan*; Murdering someone
Ingalik Behaving in an inappropriate manner
Montagnais Disturbing the peace of the community (e.g., being a habitual peace-
breaker, an incorrigible thief, or a chronic quarreler); Taking one’s sister
as a wife*; A neglecting mother starving her child*; An unwed woman
giving birth to a child*
Kaska Being too aggressive and causing too much trouble
Paiute Being a sorcerer
Yahgan Murdering someone; Consciously and habitually deviating from the

ideal of the good person; Deviating in the field of sexual morality;
Being an evil-doer and forgetting one’s duty
NB: Reasons marked with an asterisk (*) refer to individual cases. Although the ethnographic data
also report cases of ostracism or withdrawal of support in Hadza and Northern Saulteaux, there are
no explicitly reported reasons for ostracism within these societies.
We suggest that there are at least three categories of reasons for ostracism in
NFBS in Table 17.2. One category includes theft, selfishness, and not sharing
food, each of which could be seen as cases of free-riding or non-cooperation. For
example, in Ju/’hoansi (!Kung) society, a man hiding his meat from the hunt
would be “treated like a lion” and inevitably excluded from any form of food-
sharing (Marshall, 1961). Another category includes cases pertaining to forbidden
sexual relations, such as incest. Among the Gilyak a man living with his stepmother
and a man married to a woman from a clan ineligible for marriage were “forced
into voluntary exit” from the village (Shternberg, 1933, p. 67). Finally, a third
category might be termed non-conformist or disrespectful behavior, which
includes cases of peace-breaking, chronic quarreling, and even murder, and in
general young men not knowing their place. The latter is well illustrated by the
case of Teapot, a young Tiwi man who had “stolen” a bestowed wife from an
elder and later was shunned by the whole group (Hart & Pilling, 1960).
The targets of ostracism are often described as “aggressive” (Honigmann, 1954,

p. 40), “selfish” (Gusinde, 1937, pp. 911–912) or “unusually dominating”
(Turnbull, 1965, p. 391). Explaining life in Kaska society, an informant noted that
an aggressive person, someone who is “too much mean, swear, cranky,” will be
avoided (Honigmann, 1954, p. 40). With an eye on the model of group–individual
dissimilarities (Juvonen & Gross, 2005), we observe that the characteristics of the
group misfit seem to be the opposite of the ideals to be learned during childhood
socialization; only someone “who has lost all sense of shame” will ignore the signs
that he is about to be isolated (Gusinde, 1937, p. 938).
For the great majority of nomadic foragers the threat of ostracism is more than
enough to make them conform to unspoken social norms or to yield to group
opinion and reform their ways (Marshall, 1961). This is clearly illustrated in
Yahgan society, where anyone threatened with ostracism or even with earning a
bad reputation “promptly hastens back to the path of virtue” and with “exaggerated
zeal” tries to change any bad opinions about himself (Gusinde, 1937, p. 938).
Given the small group size of NFBS, it is not only in the individual’s interest
not to be excluded but also in the group’s interest to keep members within the
social network. As Turnbull (1965, p. 114) notes, since “hunters cannot afford to
ignore a fellow hunter,” shunning and ignoring someone is difficult to uphold for
long. Values of peace, solidarity and unselfishness grant that there may even be
forgiveness for the excluded. A remarkable example of this is the case of Kelemoke
of the Mbuti, a man who had committed incest with his first cousin. The discovery
of this transgression prompted a great uproar, and the whole band set about chasing
him, eventually losing track of him and “leaving matters to the forest.” The youths
of the camp were, however, secretly bringing food to him in the forest, and three
days later Kelemoke came wandering into the camp. Although he was ignored at
first, his social connections with the others gradually returned to normal. Five
years later he was one of the most respected hunters of the camp (Turnbull, 1965).
Back to the Future

Expanding the focus to include other societies than NFBS, free-riding, forbidden
sexual relations and disrespectful/non-conformist behavior remain as three
common reasons for ostracism. Among the Kapakus of New Guinea, generosity
is the highest value of the culture, and rich men who fail to comply with this ideal
are ostracized or killed (Gratton & Skoggard, 1998). Among the Santal of India,
a man breaking the rule of tribal endogamy will be exiled (Kochar, 1970). Among
the Saami in northern Scandinavia, a student who began dating a Swedish girl
was ostracized to the extent that he had to leave the school (Beach, 1981). Among
the Akan traders in western Africa, non-cooperators were ostracized and could
not long survive financially in the market (Arhin, 1983).
While modern societies have written laws and formal means of social control
ranging from parking tickets to imprisonment, most social control is still of the
informal kind. Even when there are formal sanctions available, people seem to
prefer to deal with things in less official ways. In the Scottish Highlands, if a man
drives his car off the road when intoxicated, local men will immediately render
assistance to remove all evidence of an accident to prevent investigation by the
police. Still, within the community the offending individual is likely to be
simultaneously subjected to gossip and ostracism by other villagers (Coleman,
1984). In Taiwan, ostracism from the family is one of the harshest sanctions to be
imposed on an errant youth (Wolf, 1972). In North Korea, the regime effectively
encouraged villagers to ostracize landlords who opposed land reform (Lee, 1976),
an example lying somewhere between the formal and informal.
Ostracism and the threat of ostracism, formally sanctioned or not, is still
particularly dangerous in a setting such as NFBS, where groups are small and
individuals are dependent on each other for survival. For nomadic foragers,
exclusion from the social network is exclusion from humanity (Bastian &
Haslam, 2010). In this kind of environment, there is clear adaptive value for the
individual to be able to detect early signs of ostracism (Spoor & Williams,
2007). However, whereas functionally specific psychological mechanisms will
be effective in the context in which they evolved, the same may not be true in
contemporary environments (Maner & Menzel, 2012). Anthropological studies
of NFBS suggest that ostracism and an ostracism detection system would have
been highly functional in the context of prehistoric forager bands and their
small, tightly knit social networks; ostracism and milder forms of social control
promoted cooperation, and being able to detect the threat of ostracism
prompted the individual to maintain survival-enhancing affiliation (Spoor &
Williams, 2007). In the age of supermarkets and social media, on the other
hand, people spend significantly more of their time with distant acquaintances
and complete strangers. In this new context, the indiscriminate detection of
ostracism may well produce anxiety (Maner & Kenrick, 2010). As the neural
regions involved in social cognition are expected to develop during adolescence,
young people may be particularly vulnerable to rejection experiences (Sebastian,
Viding, Williams & Blakemore, 2010).
To the extent that NFBS can be taken to reflect the evolutionary past,
responses to ostracism and threats of ostracism among ancestral human social
organization seems to have been mainly prosocial, aimed at regaining inclusionary
status. Within the need–threat framework, this would imply that although needs
of control and meaningful existence certainly are threatened by ostracism in
nomadic forager bands, it is primarily the needs of belonging and self-esteem that
require fortification (Williams, 2007). Following the multimotive model, the
prosocial responses will be motivated by perceived high individual costs of
exclusion, lack of alternative relations, high value on the original relationship,
and high expectations of relational repair (Richman & Leary, 2009). In cases of
pervasive ostracism and low expectations that the relationship can be repaired,
individual foragers may try to find alternative groups for themselves and their
families; however, as the groups are highly linked by overlapping social networks,
this strategy may not succeed (Lips, 1947; Turnbull, 1965).
According to Juvonen and Gross (2005), an initial rejection event will be
primed by individual–group dissimilarities, with the social outcast typically
exhibiting non-normative levels of aggression or shyness. Drawing from our
review of social life in NFBS, we would like to add that the costs to other
members of the group or to the group as a whole may influence both the
frequency of, and responses to, ostracism. Among nomadic foragers, permanent
exclusion would carry heavy costs not only for the target, but also for other
members of the group. In other settings, such as twenty-first-century office
environments, anonymous Internet forums, or even high school classrooms, the
costs of exclusion for other group members may be much lower—which in turn
might predict higher prevalence of ostracism and fewer attempts at re-inclusion.
Within these larger networks, microsystems of close friends and family may also
buffer against the maladaptive outcomes of ostracism.
In this chapter we have considered evolutionary and more proximate perspectives
on ostracism. In accordance with a strong anthropological tradition, we conceptualized
ostracism and threat of exclusion as forms of social control and proposed that
socialization and social control mechanisms provide prescriptions for correct behavior
and proscriptions against deviant practices, with both of these mechanisms promoting
conformity to social norms and customs. Using a representative sample of nomadic
forager band societies, we then examined means, reasons and outcomes of ostracism
in the kind of social organization most closely resembling that of human prehistory
in the Pleistocene. The findings suggest that ostracism in NFBS provides an ultimate
form of social control, and that early detection of threats of rejection would have had
an adaptive function in the evolutionary past.
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18
SOCIAL EXCLUSION, OSTRACISM,
AND REJECTION RESEARCH
Where Do we Go from Here?
Eric D. Wesselmann, Kipling D. Williams, and

Steve A. Nida
Ostracism, an experience that broadly involves being separated or disengaged

from others physically or emotionally, is a ubiquitous social phenomenon
(Robinson, O’Reilly, & Wang, 2013; Williams, 2007). During the last few
decades there has been a preponderance of research on this topic and its various
forms (e.g., rejection and ostracism) from a diverse range of scientific disciplines.1
This volume provides review chapters on the cutting edge of theories and
research on social exclusion from prominent researchers in these various domains
of study. It is our goal to end this volume by providing ideas for future research;
we will first organize our ideas within Williams’ (2009; Williams, Ren, & Hales,
this volume) temporal model of reactions to ostracism and then discuss broader
theoretical issues that this research area needs to address.
Stage 1: Reflexive Reactions

Williams (2009) argues that because humans evolved to rely on social relationships
for survival, they should be sensitive to the slightest hint that they may be socially
excluded or ostracized indefinitely by others (see also Kerr & Levine, 2008;
Lieberman, 2013). Cues of exclusion should immediately elicit pain, both at the
phenomenological and neurological level (Eisenberger, Lieberman, & Williams,
2003; Kross, Berman, Mischel, Smith, & Wager, 2011; Tchalova & Eisenberger,
this volume), as a way to warn individuals that their social survival is in danger
(MacDonald & Leary, 2005). Additionally, these individuals experience increased
negative mood (i.e., anger and sadness) and basic psychological need–threat (i.e.,
belonging, control, self-esteem, and meaningful existence; Williams, 2009).
Considerable research has been conducted on the physiological effects of
exclusion, as well as biological methods of reducing its negative impact, and this
274 Eric D. Wesselmann, et al.
research largely assumes sensitivity to exclusionary cues is an adaptation that

facilitated survival in humans’ ancestral past (Wesselmann, Nairne, & Williams,
2012). However, an adaptation argument can be difficult to make and requires
converging evidence across various academic disciplines (Schmitt & Pilcher,
2004), and the strongest evidence for an adaptation argument demonstrates that
the phenomenon in question directly relates to differential survival or reproduction
(Nairne, 2010). Future research should adapt paradigms and measures from
evolutionary psychology and examine if social exclusion directly influences
survival-related cognition and behaviors (Wesselmann et al., 2012). Additionally,
few studies have examined the effects of social exclusion on reproductive-related
behavior, and studies that have examined exclusion within romantic relationships
have assessed its effects on interdependence and attachment-based relationship
outcomes but not reproductive-focused outcomes (e.g., Arriaga, Capezza, Reed,
Wesselmann, & Williams, 2014; Zadro, Arriaga, & Williams, 2008). As such,
future research should also investigate if social exclusion has adaptation-relevant
effects on reproductive goals as well.
Social exclusion research should also employ more diverse experimental
manipulations. Most research involving in vivo manipulations of exclusion either
tell participants that one or more individuals do not want to work with them
(Maner, DeWall, Baumeister, & Schaller, 2007; Twenge, Baumeister, Tice, &
Stucke, 2001) or utilize Cyberball, an online game in which computer-controlled
confederates do not include participants in a ball-tossing game (Williams, Cheung,
& Choi, 2000). These types of paradigms are useful but there may also be effects
that are idiosyncratic to these paradigms that do not exist in other contexts—this
common method variance may hinder future theorizing and hypothesis
generation. There are other methods that should be used in tandem with the
more common paradigms to achieve a multi-method approach to understanding
social exclusion (Campbell & Fiske, 1959). For example, social exclusion has
been manipulated using face-to-face interactions (Warburton, Williams, &
Cairns, 2006; Williams & Sommer, 1997), video chats (Godwin et al., 2014),
text-based chats (Williams et al., 2002), cell phone texts (Smith & Williams,
2004), virtual reality interactions (Kassner, Wesselmann, Law, & Williams, 2012),
social networking sites (Tobin, Vanman, Verreynne, & Saeri, 2015; Wolf et al.,
2014), anthropomorphized computer confederates (Wirth, Sacco, Hugenberg, &
Williams, 2010; Zadro, Williams, & Richardson, 2004), and role-playing
scenarios (Poulsen & Kashy, 2012; Williams, Bernieri, Faulkner, Gada-Jain, &
Grahe, 2000; Zadro, Williams, & Richardson, 2005).
Other common experimental paradigms in research involves participants either
recalling an autobiographical memory of being excluded (Chen, Williams, Fitness,
& Newton, 2008; Pickett, Gardner, & Knowles, 2004) or imagining a hypothetical
future exclusion event (Chen & Williams, 2012; Pfundmair, Graupmann, Frey, &
Aydin, 2015). A fascinating aspect of these paradigms is that they often evoke
similar psychological and behavioral outcomes as in vivo exclusion paradigms.
Social Exclusion Research 275
However, these psychological time-travel paradigms do not have equivocal effects to

paradigms that involve direct exclusion in real-time interactions; often their effects
are in similar directions but not as extreme (Godwin et al., 2014; Meyer, Williams,
& Eisenberger, 2015). Future research should be mindful of these potential
differences. Additionally, studies that utilize the autobiographical recall paradigm
should consider coding-specific content in participants’ responses for potentially
meaningful variables, such as the source of the exclusion (e.g., stranger, friend, or
family member; Nezlek, Wesselmann, Wheeler, & Williams, 2012) or even the
extremity of the language used to describe the events. The specific content of
autobiographical narratives can be meaningful theoretically and relate to various
personality variables (McAdams, 1995; 2001; McAdams et al., 2008); it is possible
that certain exclusion-related individual differences such as rejection sensitivity
(Downey & Feldman, 1996; Downey, this volume) or the need to belong (Leary,
Kelly, Cottrell, & Schreindorfer, 2013) might correlate with different ways of
recalling and describing exclusion-related autobiographical events.
Finally, future research should consider how in vivo manipulations may activate
memories of past exclusion events. Given that individuals can relive the pain of
past exclusion (Chen et al., 2008), an in vivo manipulation of exclusion may evoke
memories of past events in participants (Williams, 2001) and may even intensify
the negative effects by making participants question their ability to predict future
exclusion (Wesselmann, Butler, Williams, & Pickett, 2010; Wirth, Bernstein,
Wesselmann, & LeRoy, 2015). If this is the case, then individuals who have a
history of exclusion or are hypersensitive to cues of exclusion (e.g., individuals
high in rejection sensitivity; Downey & Feldman, 1996) may be responding more
extremely to in vivo manipulations (e.g., Ayduk, Gyurak, & Luerssen, 2008;
Dotan-Eliaz, Sommer, & Rubin, 2009; Pfundmair, DeWall et al., 2015) because
they are experiencing relived and prospective social pain in addition to the pain
caused by the specific manipulation.
Stage 2: Reflective Reactions

Williams (2009) argues that once individuals have experienced the initial pangs of
exclusion, their subsequent thoughts and behaviors focus on recovering their basic
psychological need satisfaction. Research suggests various cognitive strategies that
people can employ to recover from short-term experiences of exclusion, such as
distraction (Wesselmann, Ren, Swim, & Williams, 2013), cognitive reframing
tactics (Lau, Moulds, & Richardson, 2009; Molet, Macquet, Lefebvre, & Williams,
2013; Waldeck, Tyndall, & Chmiel, 2015), self-affirmation (Knowles, Lucas,
Molden, Gardner, & Dean, 2010), or reminding oneself of a positive relationship,
whether it be social, symbolic/parasocial relationships, or a religious affiliation
(Aydin, Fischer, & Frey, 2010; Aydin et al., 2012; Derrick, Gabriel, & Hugenberg,
2009; Epley, Akalis, Waytz, & Cacioppo, 2008; Gabriel & Valenti, this issue;
Gardner, Pickett, & Knowles, 2005; Knowles, & Gardner, 2008; Laurin,
Schumann, & Holmes, 2014; McConnell, Brown, Shoda, Stayton, & Martin,
2011; Twenge et al., 2007). However, it is unclear how long the benefits of these
interventions last and whether or not individuals would experience a recurrence
of negative feelings if reminded of their exclusion at a later time. Future research
should also investigate how these tactics may influence the degree to which
individuals re-experience social pain when recalling their exclusion (Chen et al.,
2008); it is possible that individuals who employ these cognitive recovery tactics
regularly experience decreasing distress each time they recall their former exclusion.
Williams (2009) also posits that excluded individuals’ behavioral responses can
differentially fortify specific needs: prosocial responses focus more on fortify
belonging and self-esteem, whereas antisocial responses focus primarily on
fortifying control and meaningful existence. Thus far, this framework has been a
useful way of contextualizing the paradoxical responses excluded individuals
exhibit in the literature (Wesselmann, Ren, & Williams, 2015; see also DeWall;
this volume), but future research needs to test these assumptions comprehensively.
Further, it is likely that fortifying one specific need may have a spillover effect on
the others; individuals who behave prosocially to reestablish a sense of belonging
may also experience an increase in feelings of control as well. There may be other
ways of restoring control that do not involve anti-social behaviors, such as
engaging in face-saving by acting stoically after being excluded (Bernstein,
Claypool, Young, Tuscherer, Sacco, & Brown, 2013; Waldeck et al., 2015). By
being stoic, individuals can at least convince themselves that the exclusion does
not matter (a cognitive reframing tactic), and they may even feel a sense of control
by denying the source of their exclusion the satisfaction of knowing the behavior
hurt. Another way that individuals may fortify their need for control (and others
indirectly) is to withdraw from the situation entirely and seek solitude (Ren,
Wesselmann, & Williams, 2015). Future research should investigate this option
and potential long-term consequences—it may be useful in the short-term but
repeated withdrawal may backfire and perpetuate future exclusion or lead to
individuals resigning themselves to isolation.
Stage 3: Resignation
Williams (2009) argues that individuals who experience chronic exclusion and
find their attempts to fortify their threatened needs futile will ultimately resign
themselves to perpetual exclusion. These individuals will experience extreme
outcomes as a result of chronic need–threat: alienation (belonging), helplessness
(control), depression (self-esteem), and feelings that life is generally meaningless
(meaningful existence). Further, individuals at this stage may resort to self-injury
or even suicide in a desperate attempt to escape this chronic social pain (Williams,
2001). Chronically excluded individuals may even be susceptible to recruitment
by extremist groups (e.g., homegrown terrorist cells; Knapton, 2014; Hogg &
Wagoner, this volume; Wesselmann, Ren, & Williams, 2015).
Theory and research on chronic exclusion are in their infancy and provide
several opportunities for future research. Several researchers have created individual
difference measures to identify individuals who experience exclusion chronically
in their everyday lives: these measures have been used to assess both children and
adults in various contexts (Carter-Sowell, 2010; Ferris, Brown, Berry, & Lian,
2008; Gilman, Carter-Sowell, DeWall, Adams, & Carboni, 2013; Nida & Saylor,
this volume; Robinson & Schabram, this volume; Saylor et al., 2012). These
measures provide useful tools for future theoretical development, but more
construct validity research is needed. There may be other ways of approaching this
construct, such as using event contingent diary methods (Nezlek et al., 2012) or
assessing exclusion-related experiences in special populations, such as incarcerated
and homeless individuals (Wesselmann, Hales, Ren, & Williams, 2015).
Ultimately, experimental paradigms increase researchers’ understanding of any
phenomenon by affording evidence for causal arguments. This issue poses a
problem for studying chronic exclusion because there are ethical and practical
concerns with constructing paradigms that would have high construct validity.
Researchers can influence participants’ expectations of future ostracism indirectly
by threatening their confidence in being able to detect future exclusion
(Wesselmann et al., 2010; Wirth et al., 2015) or by telling them explicitly that they
can expect a future devoid of social connections (Bernstein & Claypool, 2012a;
2012b; DeWall & Baumeister, 2006; Twenge et al., 2001). The latter paradigm is
useful because it causes various outcomes associated with chronic physical and
social pain in correlational studies that are not found in short-term in vivo
manipulations (Bernstein & Claypool, 2012a; 2012b; Riva, Wesselmann, Wirth,
Carter-Sowell, & Williams, 2014). Future research should investigate how these
prospective manipulations may effect outcomes theoretically related to chronic
exclusion (e.g., alienation, helplessness) differently from in vivo manipulations.
Comparative psychology and the use of animal models should also be utilized in the
experimental study of chronic exclusion. One animal model, the prairie vole (Microtus
ochrogaster), provides useful comparisons because it forms socially monogamous pair
bonds, engages in biparental care of offspring, and has physiological stress reactions
similar to humans (Grippo, 2009; 2011). Researchers commonly manipulate social
stress in voles by separating them from their closest relationship ties (i.e., mate or sibling)
and keeping them isolated for four weeks. This operalization is an analog to physical
ostracism in humans—being physically isolated from social relationships (Williams,
2001; Williams et al., 2000). Isolated prairie voles exhibit physiological stress reactions
and symptoms akin to depression and learned helplessness in humans who experience
chronic exclusion or prolonged feelings of loneliness (Grippo, Cushing, & Carter,
2007; Grippo, Lamb, Carter, & Porges, 2007; Grippo, Wu, Hassan, & Carter, 2008;
McNeal et al., 2014; Peuler, Scotti, Phelps, McNeal, & Grippo, 2012; Ruscio, Sweeny,
Hazelton, Suppatkul, & Carter, 2007; Scotti, Carlton, Demas, & Grippo, 2015).
Given chronic exclusion’s theorized extreme negative outcomes, future
research needs to focus on creating practical interventions for helping individuals
cope with their circumstances. From a biochemical approach, basic research

demonstrates that various chemicals can reduce the pain of in vivo exclusion
manipulations, such as acetaminophen (DeWall et al., 2010), alcohol (Hales,
Williams, & Eckhardt, 2015), marijuana (Deckman, DeWall, Way, Gilman, &
Richman, 2014), and oxytocin (Pfundmair, Aydin, Frey, & Echterhoff, 2014; see
also Grippo, Trahanas, Zimmerman, Porges, & Carter, 2009, for prairie voles).
Additionally, research demonstrates that using non-invasive stimulation of brain
regions associated with pain regulation can also reduce negative effects from
exclusion (Riva, Romero Lauro, DeWall, & Bushman, 2012; Riva, Romero
Lauro, DeWall, Chester, & Bushman, 2015). There may be other potential
interventions that utilize cognitive-behavioral strategies to cope with chronic
exclusion. In addition to the previously reviewed cognitive strategies that can
reduce distress in short-term experiences, Grippo et al. (2014) found that
environment enrichment (which involves activities that prompt cognitive stimulation
and physical activity) can reduce the distress of isolation among prairie voles.
There may be ways of encouraging chronically excluded individuals to engage in
these types of activities in conjunction with other types of cognitive attribution
strategies or medical treatments. Further, research suggests that individuals who
suffer from either chronic physical or social pain can seek solace using online
social support (Becker, 2013; McKenna & Bargh, 1998).
We must also avoid focusing only on treating the symptoms of chronic
exclusion but also focus on addressing the larger issue—how can we engender a
general climate of acceptance that reduces the occurrences of social exclusion?
Research on educational and socio-emotional development in childhood has
begun assessing systematic early interventions, some of which are relevant to
encouraging interpersonal acceptance and appreciation for diversity (Harrist &
Bradley, 2003; Paley, 1992). Further, other research suggests that individuals who
are high in dispositional empathy and emotional intelligence respond more
prosocially to targets of exclusion and are less likely to retaliate aggressively when
they are excluded (Masten, Eisenberger, Pfeifer, Colich, & Dapretto, 2013;
Masten, Morelli, & Eisenberger, 2011; Nozaki & Koyasu, 2013a; 2013b). As
such, intervention programs may be designed to encourage young children to
develop these skills as well. Future research needs to assess the immediate and
long-term consequences these interventions have at both the individual and
classroom climate levels.
Broad Theoretical Considerations

Integrating Various “Social Pain” Phenomena
Social exclusion, rejection, and ostracism are conceptually related and commonly
used synonymously, but they do have theoretical and empirical nuances
(Williams, 2007). There are other phenomena that also overlap with these
constructs, such as discrimination and stigmatization (Smart Richman & Leary,

2009; Wesselmann et al., 2016). Future research needs to disentangle the
similarities and differences in these constructs to determine what are the core
psychological mechanisms that facilitate distress in each case, and if they may
actually interact to intensify distress in some individuals (e.g., members of
stigmatized groups that feel ignored by society as well as experience discrimination
and exclusion in various contexts). Additionally, motivational theories of
exclusion have focused on four basic psychological needs: belonging, control,
self-esteem, and meaningful existence (Williams, 2009). There are other
potential need-focused theories that may also be thwarted by social exclusion,
such as self-actualization (Maslow, 1968) or competence (Ryan & Deci, 2000).
Future research should use measures of these needs as well, investigating how
they may relate conceptually to each other.
Being Ignored and the Ambiguity of Silence

One aspect of ostracism that sets it apart from other social exclusion experiences
is that it involves the target being both excluded and ignored in social interactions.
Early research on ostracism suggested that being ignored was an intensely harmful
aspect of the experience; one that individuals would often go to extreme lengths
to avoid. For example, one individual indicated that she could no longer stand
being chronically ignored by her husband and attempted to physically injure him
simply so that he would be forced to acknowledge her (Williams, 2001). Part of
what can make silence uncomfortable is ambiguity. When one’s greeting is met
with silence, does this mean that the recipient actively ignored the greeter, or
does it mean that the recipient simply was not aware of the greeter? The advent
and common nature of social media and electronic-based communication may
intensify ambiguity (and potential distress). In face-to-face interactions, individuals
often have both verbal and non-verbal cues to contextualize the situation. In
electronic-based media, there is often only one mode of communication (e.g.,
voice or text) and often the interaction is asynchronous. Thus, when someone
does not receive a response to their communication in a timely manner, they may
assume that the silence is purposeful and indicates a threat to their relationship, as
opposed to the receiver simply having technological problems or a lack of time
to read and respond to the message (Bargh & McKenna, 2004; Mai, Freudenthaler,
Schneider, & Vorder, 2015; Rintel & Pittam, 1997; Smith & Williams, 2004;
Thompson & Nadler, 2002). Recently, researchers have begun investigating how
Facebook interactions can paradoxically fulfill individuals’ belonging needs and
also provide an additional opportunity for them to feel ostracized if they do not
receive feedback on their posts (große Deters & Mehl, 2012; Knowles, Haycock,
& Shaikh, 2015; Tobin, Vanman, Verreynne, & Saeri, 2015; Wolf, Levordashka,
Ruff, Kraaijeveld, Lueckmann, & Williams, 2014). Future research should
continue to explore the boons and banes of social media usage and feelings of
social connection (Vorderer & Schneider, this volume), especially on how

individuals interpret and respond to “e-silence” when it inevitably occurs.
Using Social Exclusion

Researchers have dedicated considerable attention to understanding the
experiences for targets of exclusion, but have published less work on understanding
the motives and experiences of sources—those who exclude others. Studies using
self-report data demonstrate the majority of participants typically can recall using
ostracism at least once on another person, suggesting it is a common interpersonal
behavior (Faulkner, Williams, Sherman, & Williams, 1997; Nezlek, Wesselmann,
Wheeler, & Williams, 2015; Sommer, Williams, Ciarocco, & Baumeister, 2001;
Williams, Shore & Grahe, 1998). Further, participants report typically excluding
someone of equal status to themselves, whether it be an acquaintance or friend, a
family member, or co-worker (Nezlek et al., 2015; Poon & Chen, 2015; Poulsen
& Carmon, 2015). Participants report various reasons for excluding another
person, although some common reasons are to aggress against someone for a past
wrongdoing, to avoid being excluded oneself, or because the situation required
it (e.g., avoiding unnecessary conversations with strangers; Nezlek et al., 2015;
Poulsen & Carmon, 2015; Williams, 2001).
Given that most participants can recall excluding others it may be surprising
that little experimental research has been published on this area, at least compared
with research on targets. One reason for this is that individuals recognize that
exclusion hurts the target (Joel, Teper, & MacDonald, 2014; Wesselmann, Wirth,
Pryor, Reeder, & Williams, 2013). Indeed, individuals can experience this pain
vicariously (Wesselmann, Williams, & Hales, 2013) and often attempt to
compensate targets of exclusion in laboratory studies (Güroǧlu, Will, & Klabwijk,
2013; Howard, Landau, & Pryor, 2014; Masten, Morelli, & Eisenberger, 2011;
Nozaki, 2015; Wesselmann, Wirth, et al., 2013; Will, Crone, van den Bos, &
Güroǧlu, 2013). Many of the laboratory experiments that have examined sources
of exclusion induced participants to exclude others by instructing participants
directly to exclude someone, requesting that they help the experimenter by
excluding someone, or by designing a role-play scenario that involves participants
playing either sources or targets (Zadro & Gonsalkorale, 2014; Zadro, Godwin,
Svetieva, Sethi, Iannuzzelli, & Gonsalkorale, this volume). In many of these
paradigms, excluding another person negatively impacts the source as well as the
target: sources experience cognitive and emotional distress, feel less human, and
are motivated to behave prosocially to compensate for their previous behavior
(Bastian et al., 2013; Chen, Poon, Bernstein, & Teng, 2014; Ciarocco, Sommer,
& Baumeister, 2001; Grahe, 2015; Legate, DeHaan, & Ryan, 2015; Legate,
DeHaan, Weinstein & Ryan, 2013; Van Tongeren, Root Luna, & Vanoyen
Witvliet, 2015). Even simply recalling a time when one has excluded someone
can cause distress (Chen et al., 2014; Poon & Chen, 2015).
At first blush, one may view this evidence and ask why would people exclude
others because there seems to be no direct benefits. However, none of these studies
manipulated factors that would motivate participants to exclude another person
without experimenter prompting (Zadro & Gonsalkorale, 2014). In real-world
interactions, social exclusion likely is a weapon that needs to be used strategically.
Research suggests that exclusion can be used punitively in groups to safeguard group
harmony by encouraging deviate or otherwise burdensome members to rehabilitate,
or eject the member entirely as a protective measure (Kurzban & Leary, 2001;
Schachter, 1951; Söderberg & Fry, this volume; Wesselmann, Williams, Pryor,
Eichler, Gill, & Hogue, 2014; Wesselmann, Williams, & Wirth, 2014; Wesselmann,
Wirth, et al., 2013; 2015; Wirth, Bernstein, & LeRoy, 2015). Indeed, other studies
suggest punitively motivated exclusion evokes less aversive reactions in sources
than other motives, such as compliance or obedience to an experimenter (Gooley
et al., 2015; Nezlek et al., 2015; Sommer & Yoon, 2013). Future research should
further investigate how various motives for excluding another person affect sources.
Additionally, this area needs more replications and extensions using the current
paradigms (open materials available at Wesselmann, Wirth, & Grahe, 2015;
https://osf.io/env5w/), as well as new paradigms to reduce method bias.
Conclusion
More than two decades of research have produced a substantial and nuanced
understanding of the processes, outcomes, and moderators of reactions to and
reasons for exclusion. Of course, as with the evolution of empirical investigations
and theory development for any phenomenon, answers produce more questions
and new directions for future research in this domain. As we have identified
within this concluding chapter, the long-term effects of exclusion and the matter
of testing interventions in non-laboratory situations remain particularly deserving
of attention. Yet another issue that might be added to this list is the need for
research on exclusion both within and between groups. In short, we anticipate
that the next two decades of research in the area will yield numerous insights into
just how well the basic understanding we have achieved extends to the operation
of ostracism, exclusion, and rejection in real life, and hopefully, toward positive
interventions that will promote resiliency and healthy coping for targets, and
healthier alternatives to sources.
Note
1 Given the conceptual similarities between these constructs, as well as their physical and
psychological outcomes (Wesselmann, Grzybowski, Steakley-Freeman, DeSouza,
Nezlek, & Williams, 2016; Williams, 2007), we elect to use the broader term exclusion
for parsimony and only draw distinctions when we believe they are necessary for
theoretical or empirical precision.
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INDEX
Page numbers in bold refer to figures and in italic refer to tables
Abrams, D. 193–4 AI 67, 68, 71

acceptance 48; need for 47, 107; Need to AIDS 87
Belong Scale 55–6; regaining 95 alienation 21
accommodation 170 ambiguity 279–80
acknowledgment, power of 23 Amish, the 177
active disassociation 52 Andersen, Hans Christian 81
active exclusion 38 anger 4–5, 18, 54, 84, 99, 102, 114–5,
actual exclusion, and aggression 98–9 194
adaptation argument 274 animal kingdom 11, 12, 65, 86
adaptive disengagement 117 anthropological perspectives 8, 258–69;
Adaptive Disengagement Scale 117 evolutionary 259–69; Nomadic Forager
ADHD 198 Band Societies 262–3, 264, 265–7, 266;
adolescents. see children and adolescents responses to rejection 261–2; social
affiliation 106 control model 262; targets 267
affiliative responses 36–7 anticipated emotion 99
African Kalahari 263, 266 anticipated exclusion, and aggression 98
aggression 4–5, 32, 34, 95–107; and actual anticipated hurt 172
exclusion 98–9; and anticipated exclusion antisocial behavior 36
98; biological explanations 101–3; and anxiety 226; attachment 115, 122; and
control 104; cultural changes 97–8; social exclusion 47
environmental factors 103–6; General appreciation, lack of 103
Aggression Model 96, 96–7, 104; genetic Asch, S. E. 18
influences 101; I3 theory 97; and attachment anxiety 115, 122
interpersonal rejection 54–5; laboratory attachment styles 149
findings 98–9; neural responses 102–3; attributions, blame 139–40
overreactions 102; personality traits Australian Aborigines 263
100–1; physiological reactivity 102; authority figures 18
reactive 83–4; reducing 99, 106, 107; as autism spectrum disorders 198–9
reinforcer 99; and testosterone 83–4; autobiographical recall paradigm 275
underlying mechanisms 99–100, 107 autonomy 179
Index 291
avoidance 55 Brienes, J. G. 120

Ayduk, O. 118, 120 buffalo 11
bullying 7, 22, 73, 192; anti-bullying
bad apple effect 259 programs 202; children with special
Baker, Levi 3 needs 198; comparison with ostracism
Baldwin, M. W. 116 201–2; connections with 196–7; scale
Bali 177 of problem 201; types 200, 200
banishment 12 Bullying and Ostracism Screening Scale
Banki, S. 224 22, 199–201, 200
Barkley, J. E. 195 Bullying–Victimization Scale 196
Bastian, B. 138–9 Burklund, L. J. 121–2
Baumeister, Roy 2, 3, 4, 31–2, 47, 49, 50, Burnette, J. L. 34
56, 82, 242
bees 11 camaraderie 56
behavior, and self-uncertainty 208–9 Campbell, W. K. 114
behavior, antisocial 36 Canada 181
behavioral choices 30; destructive 34 Carpenter, J. 202
behavioral effects 17–9 Carter-Sowell, A. R. 18
behavioral responses 119–20 causal clarity 137
Bekoff , M. 259 Cavallo, J. V. 37
Bell, Sarah 4–5 celebrity 6, 147, 151–2, 156
belonging 5, 5–6, 122–3, 226; fortifying cell phones 246, 250
249–50; individual differences 56–7; Central Africa 263, 265
measurement 55–6; need for 2, 46–57, Charman, T. 198–9
47, 81, 82, 95, 242, 251; and relational Chen, Z. 18
value 49; and social exclusion 48; and Cheung, C. 18, 84
social inclusion 48; the source 138–9 Child Behavior Checklist 196
benefits 131, 131–4, 281 children and adolescents 7, 12, 135,
Benton, T. 201 192–204; adverse effects 194–6, 202;
Berdahl, J. L. 224 anti-bullying programs 202; behavior
bereavement 67 problems 197; bullying 192, 196–7,
Besser, A. 114–5, 115 201–2; Bullying and Ostracism
betrayal 52 Screening Scale 199–201, 200;
Bicchieri 258–9 conceptual model 195; depression
biochemical approach 278 197; gender differences 194; health
Black, D. 258 impacts 196–7; and individual
black sheep effect 213 normative exclusion 214;
Blackhart, G. C. 82–3, 261 interventions 202–4; need–threats
Blakemore, S. J. 198–9 model 192–4; peer rejection 46, 68;
blame, attributions 139–40 positive behaviors 202; self-regulation
blood pressure 83 34, 195; and social acceptance 107;
Boehm, C. 258, 263 socio-emotional development 278;
Boland, C. 199 with special needs 198–9, 202; studies
boyd, d. m. 241 192; targets 202
brain: ACC 65, 65–6; activation 4, 82; Children’s Depression Inventory 196
and aggression 102–3; children and China: psychological consequences 182,
adolescents 193; dorsal anterior 182–3; rejection sensitivity 181;
cingulate cortex 105; non-invasive workplace ostracism 232
stimulation 278; and pain 54; Choi, J. M. 70, 84
periaqueductal grey 65, 66, 67; Choi, W. 18
responses 16; and self-esteem 51 chronic ostracism 22, 196, 276–8
Brain Opioid Theory of Social cognitive effects 19–20
Attachment 62 cognitive responses 116–8, 194
292 Index
cognitive-behavioral strategies 278 dACC 67, 68, 69, 71, 101, 121–2
collective, self-representations 125 Dandeneau, S. D. 116
collective action 216–7 death-related themes 12
collective bonds 148, 178 defensive ostracism 133, 134–5
collective normative exclusion 215 dependence 171, 179
collectivism 178, 180, 181–2, 183, 184, depression 21, 86–7, 197
185–6, 186–7, 188 destiny beliefs 100
Collins, N. L. 120, 121 detection 15
comfort food 154–5, 156 developmental psychologists 46
comparative psychology 277 DeWall, Nathan 4–5, 35, 38, 122
competence 279 Dewey, John 208
compliance 18 direct-source inductions 141
computer-mediated communication discrimination 279
251–2 dislike 103
computers 16 dispositional perspective, social media 242
connectedness: online 244; seeking 240–1, disrespect 103
249 distraction 21
consequences 17–21 distress vocalizations 65, 66
conservation of resources theory 227 divorce 163, 171–2, 172
contagion 231 dogs 11, 21
contextual moderators, of effects 37–8 Downey, G. 180
control 5; loss of 104, 123; the source duration 137
137–8 dyads and dyadic ostracism 11, 106
coping mechanisms 21, 23, 123, 193–4;
romantic rejection 171–2; social media Eckel, L. A. 82–3
248–50 education 278
correlational methods 13 educational settings 12
corticotropin 82 effectiveness 132
cortisol 20, 82–3, 86, 87, 121 effects, adverse 3, 29, 130; acute 82–3;
cortisol awakening response 86, 87 behavioral 17–9; children 194–6, 202;
Cowan, G. 185 chronic 85; contextual moderators
coyotes 11, 259 37–8; cross-cultural perspective 181–3;
criminal behavior 35 depression 86–7; high blood pressure
criticism 52 83; immunocompetence 87; moderators
cross-cultural perspective 8, 177–88; 139–40; motivational, cognitive, and
anthropological 258–69; cultural setting physiological 19–20; on performance 3;
179–80; limitations 188; motivation physiological 81–8, 273–4; role of the
187; Nomadic Forager Band Societies endocrine system 83–5; on the self
262–3, 264, 265–7, 266; population 122–5; and self-regulatory capacity
genetics 180–1; psychological 32–7; social anxiety 84, 85–6; social
consequences 181–3, 188; reactions to surrogates 155–6; the source 139;
ostracism 183–5, 186–7; rejection workplace ostracism 226–7, 229
sensitivity 179–81; self-construal 180; Eisenberger, N. I. 4, 51, 66–7, 69, 121–2
social control model 262; targets 185–6; Ellison, N. B. 241
workplace ostracism 232 embarrassment 47
culture, responses and 6 emotional distress 12–4
cutting off 137 emotional intelligence 278
Cyberball 7–8, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, emotional responses, moderation 114
21, 66–7, 68, 69, 101, 103, 141, 182, emotion-as-mediator hypothesis 99
193–4, 194–5, 245–6, 247, 252, 274 emotions 3; and aggression 99; engaging
cyber-ostracism 7–8, 136, 240, 244–5, 186–7; hurt feelings 52–4; maladaptive
245–52; temporal need-threat model 51; negative 187, 194–5; self-focused
248–50 124
Index 293
empathy 278 General Aggression Model 96, 96–7, 104

endocrine system, role of 83–5 genetics 101, 180–1
endogenous opioid system 62–4 Germany 182–3
engaging emotions 186–7 get-acquainted paradigm 14
Enjaian, Brian 4–5 Giammarino, M. 262
entitative groups 210–2, 218 goal-attaining effects, social media 243,
environment enrichment 278 243–4
event-contingent diary studies 13 goal-preventing effects, social media
evolutionary adaptiveness 15 244–5
evolutionary perspective 259–69 Godwin, Alexandra 5
evolutionary psychology 274 Goldman, L. 214
experimental approaches 12–4 Gómez, A. 123
experimental paradigms 274 Gonsalkorale, Karen 5, 17
extreme groups 7; attraction to 207–19; Google+ 241
and collective normative exclusion 215; Gooley, S. L. 134
entitativity 210–2, 218; group grandiose narcissism 115
prototypes 209; individual normative Greece, ancient 1, 10, 261
exclusion 212–4; leadership 214; grief 67
minority influence 215–8; socialization Gross, E. F. 262, 269
213; totalist 211; uncertainty-identity große Deters, F. 243–4
theory 207, 208–12 group cohesion 105–6
eye gaze, attention to 124, 179 group identification, and self-uncertainty
209–10
Facebook 148, 240, 241, 250, 251, 252, Gruter, M. 2
279–80; effects of use 243–5; Gusinde, M. 262, 267
motivation 241–3; and ostracism Gyurak, A. 118
244–5; and self-esteem 249; as social
compensation 251; valence 244 Hales, Andy 3
fairness 12, 101 Harlow, H. F. 147
fairy tales 1 Harmon-Jones, E. 84
familiarity, and interpersonal rejection 53 Harter, S. 53
families 12 Hashimoto, H. 180
fear of missing out 242 Hawes, D. J. 194
feedback 50, 120, 243, 244–5 He, Theresa 6
Feldman, S. I. 180 health impacts 3, 35, 81–8; children and
Fiske, S. T. 184 adolescents 196–7; iDisorders 243, 244;
flight-or-fight responses 102 and romantic rejection 171–2;
Ford, M. B. 120, 121 self-esteem and 120; social media 243,
Forrest, C. B. 198 244
fraternities 214 Heatherton, T. F. 69
free-riders 259 helplessness 21
Friesen, C. K. 124 Hess, Yanine 5
Fry, Douglas 8 HIV 87
functional magnetic resonance imaging Hogg, Michael 7, 214, 217–8
(fMRI) 16, 66–7, 82 holding-back 136
functional role 225 Holmes, John 6
Hong Kong 182–3
Gabriel, S. 5–6, 150, 151–2, 153–4, hurt feelings 52–4
154–5 hypothalamic pituitary adrenal (HPA) axis
Gardner, W. L. 123, 181–2, 182 82, 83, 84, 86, 86–7
Garris, C. P. 182
gender differences, children and I3 theory 97
adolescents 194 Iannuzzelli, R. 5, 132, 133–4
294 Index
identity: self 207; social 7; uncertainty- Kahlo, Frida 61

identity theory 207, 208–12 Kapakus, the 267
identity Implicit Association Test 154 Kaska society 267
identity-uncertainty 207–19; and behavior Kassner, M. P. 246, 247
208–9; and collective normative Kelley, W. M. 69
exclusion 215; and entitative groups Kiecolt-Glaser, J. K. 87
210–2, 218; and group identification Kitayama, S. 178, 187
208–9; and individual normative Knowles, M. L. 123, 181–2, 182
exclusion 212–4; manipulation 210; Koch, E. J. 116
minority influence 215–8; sources of Korea 180
212 Kross, E. 67
iDisorders 243, 244 Kuhlman, D. M. 180
image 47 Kurman, J. 186
immersive virtual environments (IVE)
246, 247 leadership 214
immunocompetence 87 Leary, Mark 2, 3, 4, 82, 114, 242, 261
impulsive behaviors 30, 32–3 Legate, N. 261
incarceration 12 Leitner, J. B. 117
inclusion, importance of 16, 47, 146 Lennox, Annie 162
India 267 Lentz, T. 116
individual differences 56–7 Leserman, J. 87
individual normative exclusion 212–4 Lieberman, M. D. 66–7, 69, 121–2
individualism 178, 180, 181, 183, 185–6, life-alone paradigm 14
187, 188 lions 11
induced ostracism 133 literature 1–2
induced sources 134 loneliness 86, 97, 98, 107
induced-source paradigms 141, 142 longevity 85
ingroup projection model 215 Luerssen, A. 118
ingroups, preference for 16–7
injustice 101 MacDonald, Geoff 53–4
Instagram 241 McKenna, M. 198
instincts 95 MacLean, P. D. 65
instrumental ostracism 133–4 Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) 86–7
interdependence 178, 182, 187 maladaptive emotions, and self-esteem
internal working models 115 51–2
interpersonal rejection 3, 46–57; and Maner, J. K. 84
aggression 54–5; and familiarity 53; hurt MAOA gene 101
feelings 52–4; individual differences marginalization processes 212–4, 215
56–7; and pursuit of relational value 49; marijuana use 20
sociometer theory 49–52 Markus, H. 178
interpersonal responses 119 marriage 163
intimacy, avoidance of 37 Masters, R. D. 2
invisibility 2 Matsumoto, D. 187
Mbuti, the 265, 265–7
James, William 5, 10, 11 measurement 22
Japan: psychological consequences 181, mediated interpersonal communication
182; reactions to ostracism 184, 187; 252
rejection sensitivity 180 Mehl, M. R. 243–4
Jin, Ellie 4 memory 275; social 124
Josephs, Robert 4 mental illness 85
Ju/’hoansi, the 263, 266 Mexico 232
just-world beliefs 101 minority influence 215–8
Juvonen, J. 262, 269 moderators 37–8, 113–6, 139–40, 227
Index 295
Molden, D. C. 38 ostracism: definition 3, 10–2, 231

Montagnais-Naskapi society 263, 265 Ostracism Experiences Scale 22
moral decision making 132 ostracism in electronic-based interaction
morality 12 252
morphine 63 Ostracism Online 246, 247, 252
motivated sources 134 outgroups 16–7
motivated-source inductions 141, 142
motivation 3, 56–7; cross-cultural pain 16; the brain and 54; chronic 70, 73;
perspective 187; effects 19–20; and hurt feelings 53–4; management
self-regulation 33–4, 35, 39; social 20–1; moderation 114; mutually
media 241–3, 250; the source 131–4, influential effects 71–2; neurochemical
280–1; theories 279 pathways 63–4; physical 4, 63, 64–5,
multimotive model 261, 268 70–1, 71–3, 163, 278; romantic
Murray, S. L. 36–7 rejection 163; sensitivity 70–1, 72;
social 4, 19–20, 62, 64–5, 65–70, 71–3,
narcissism 5, 68, 100, 114–5, 119, 121, 82, 260, 278, 278–9
249 pain, physical–social overlap 4, 61–73;
Narcissism Personality Index 121 consequences 70–2; criticism 68–70;
narratives 152–4 individual differences 68; mutually
National Survey of Children’s Health 198 influential effects 71–2; neural evidence
Need to Belong Scale 55–6 64–70; neural substrates 64–5;
needs 15, 146 neurochemical pathways 63–4;
needs satisfaction 17, 21, 87–8 neuroimaging evidence 66–7;
need–threats model 192–4, 261, 268 neuropsychological evidence 65–6;
negative emotions 187, 194–5 pharmacological evidence 62–4;
negative expectations 116 salience network 69–70; value 61
neural responses, aggression 102–3 pain overlap theory 4, 20, 62
neurological and physiological responses Pakistan 177
120–2 Panksepp, Jaap 4
neuroscience: affective 4; and self-esteem Parad, H. W. 262
51 parasocial relationships 6, 147, 147–8, 149,
New Guinea 267 150–2, 157
Nezlek, J. B. 117 passive exclusion 38
Nida, Steve 7, 23, 201, 202–3 Pathan hill tribes 177
noisy silence 136 peer rejection, children 46, 68
Nomadic Forager Band Societies 258–9, Pelosi, James 10
262–3, 264, 265–7, 266, 268–9 perceived regard 164
normative exclusion 207–19; collective performance, effects on 3
215; individual 212–4; uncertainty- peripheral nervous system 102
identity theory 207, 208–12 perpetrators, benefits for 5
North Korea 268 perpetual sources 134, 135
nursery rhymes 1 persistence 11, 21–2
personal ostracism 7, 229, 234
obedience 18 person–group dissimilarities 262
obligation 179 Peterson, C. K. 84
oblivious ostracism 133 Pew Internet Project 250
online communities see social media Pfundmair, M. 182
opioid peptides 63 pharmacological interventions 20–1
OPRM1 70–1 Pharo, H. 193
O’Reilly, J. 224 physical ostracism 136
organizational culture 230–1 physical pain 4, 72–3, 278; dampening 63;
organizational diversity 231–2 mutually influential effects 71–2; neural
organizational structure 230 substrates 64–5; physical–social pain
296 Index
overlap 4, 61–73; romantic rejection and romantic relationships 164–5;

163; sensitivity 70–1, 72; value 62 self-fulfilling nature of 166, 167, 168
physical pain metaphors 61 relational value 114–5; and hurt feelings
physiological effects 4, 81–8; acute 82–3; 52, 53; maintaining 56; pursuit of 49;
chronic 85; depression 86–7; theory of 3, 49–52
evolutionary role 81; high blood relationship conflict 228
pressure 83; immunocompetence 87; relationship maintenance, interdependence
naturalistic observations 81; research model 34
273–4; role of the endocrine system relationship orientations 107
83–5; sex differences 83; social anxiety religion 12, 21
84, 85–6 reminders of others 6, 147, 148, 154–5,
physiological reactivity 102 157
Pickett, C. L. 5, 181–2 Ren, D. 3, 19, 182
popular culture 1–2, 147 research 2, 8–9, 12–4, 131, 140–3,
positive illusions 170 273–81; the ambiguity of silence
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder 86, 152, 279–80; children 192; chronic ostracism
155, 156 276–8; experimental paradigms 274;
power 232 phenomena integration 278–9; social
power of one, the 23 media 279–80; the source 280–1;
predictors, workplace ostracism 226 targets 280–1; temporal need-threat
pride 139 model 273–5; workplace ostracism
Priel, B. 114–5, 115 224–8, 234
primates 11 resignation reaction stage 3, 11, 21–2, 22,
prisons 12, 73 196, 250, 276–8
problem solving 19 respiratory sinus arrhythmia activity
progesterone 84–5 (RSAR) 102
psychological immune system 172 responses: anthropological perspectives
psychological time-travel paradigms 274–5 261–2; behavioral 119–20; cognitive
punitive ostracism 132, 141, 281 116–8; culture and 6; immediate 15;
indiscriminate 15, 16–7; interpersonal
quantity 137 119; moderation of 113–6; neurological
quiet silence 136 and physiological 120–2; pain 16;
power 15, 15–6, 22–3; research 276;
recall inductions 141 retaliatory 36
reconnection motives 124 Richardson, R. 16, 199
recovery strategies 275–6 Richman, Laura 55, 114, 261
reflective reaction stage 3, 11, 17–21, 22, risk-regulation model 36–7
248–50, 275–6 Riva, P. 18, 196
reflexive reaction stage 3, 11, 15–7, 22, Robinson, M. D. 124
248, 273–5 Robinson, S, 7, 224
Reid, G. 265 Roelofs, K. 86
reinclusion attempts 17–8 Roemmich, J. N. 195
rejection, fear of 150 role playing 13–4
rejection manipulations 4 romantic relationships and rejection 6,
rejection messages 38 162–72; anticipated hurt 172;
Rejection Sensitivity Questionnaire 180 avoidance motivation 162–4; coping
rejection words 116–7 mechanisms 171–2; dependence-
rejection-sensitivity 100–1, 118, 119, 120, promoting 171; emotional essence 162;
121–2 evolutionary perspective 163; health
relatedness dissatisfaction 244 outcomes 171–2; in ongoing
relational security/insecurity 6 164; in relationships 167–71; initiation 165,
ongoing relationships 167–71; and 165–7; maintenance 163–4, 165;
romantic relationship initiation 165–7; negative behaviors 169; neuroimaging
Index 297
evidence 67; over-reactions to 170–1; interpersonal responses 119; and

pain 163; and relational insecurity 165; maladaptive emotions 51–2;
and relational security 164–5; relational neurological and physiological responses
insecurity during initiation 165–7; 121; and neuroscience 51; and
relational insecurity in ongoing 167–71; parasocial relationships 151–2; and
sociometer theory 50; threat of 162, rejection words 116–7; and self-concept
165–6, 167, 168; under-detecting organization 118; and self-regulation
acceptance 166 119; and social media 245, 249;
Ruggieri, S. 193–4 sociometer theory 49–52; the source
rumination 21 134, 138–9; strength of 115–6; theory
Rusbult, C. E. 34 of 3; and work significance 233
rVLPFC 102–3 self-esteem hypothesis 213
self-focused emotions 124
Saami, the 267 self-interest 31
Salvy, S-J. 195 self-knowledge 118
Sani, F. 217 self-motives 113, 124–5
Santal, the 267 self-ostracism 85
Saylor, C. 7, 198 self-presentations, social media 249
Schaafsma, Juliette 6 self-regard 186
Schabram, K. 7 self-regulation 3, 19, 29–39, 119; affiliative
Schechtman, G. M. 252 responses 36–7; benefits 33; capacity
Scheithauer, H. 194–5 32–7; children 34; children and
schism 217–8 adolescents 195; contextual moderators
Schizotypal Personality Disorder 20 37–8; costs 33; failures 29–30, 30,
Schneider, F. 7–8 32–5, 36–7, 39; limited resource model
school shooters 4, 54, 105, 106 31–2; model 30–2; motivation 29–30,
Scotland 217, 268 33–4, 35, 39; retaliatory responses 36;
Sebastian, C. 198–9 role of 30–1; training 32
Segovia, K. Y. 246 self-regulatory resource model 30–2
self, the 5, 113–25, 163; behavioral self-related vulnerabilities 116
responses 119–20; cognitive responses self-representations, collective 125
116–8; collectivism 178; cross-cultural self-uncertainty: and behavior 208–9; and
perspective 183–4; effects of rejection entitative groups 210–2; and group
on 122–5; individualism 178; internal identification 209–10; manipulation
working models 115; interpersonal 210; sources of 212; uncertainty-
responses 119; as moderator of responses identity theory 208–12
113–6; neurological and physiological self-views 113, 122–3
responses 120–2; structural features 118 self-worth 122–3
self identity 207 Sensitivity to Rejection Scale 180
self-actualization 279 separation distress 65
self-affirmation 167 Sethi, N. 5
self-appraisals 117 Seung-Hui, C. 105, 106
self-categorization 210–2 sex differences 83
self-concept clarity 118 Sheldon, K. M. 251
self-consciousness. 113 Shorey, H. S. 185
self-construal 123, 154, 180 Showers, C. J. 118
self-control 101, 119, 123 shutting down 137
self-defeating behaviors 32 silence, ambiguity of 279–80
self-devaluation 117 silent treatment 12, 130
self-discrepancy theory 151 Sinclair, H. C. 38
self-enhancement 5, 117 Sinclair, L. 116
self-esteem 5, 12–4, 68, 85, 226; feedback Skype 252
50; health impacts 120; and smiles 124
298 Index
Smith, A. J. 181 social pain 4, 19–20, 72–3, 82, 260, 278,

Smith, A. R. 246 278–9; adaptive value 62; definition 61;
Smock, A. D. 243 mutually influential effects 71–2; neural
social acceptance 31; children and 107 substrates 64–5; neuroimaging evidence
social anxiety 47, 84, 85–6 66–7; neuropsychological evidence
Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD) 85–6 65–6; physical–social pain overlap 4,
social avoidance 116 61–73
social bonds 30–1 social phobia 134–5
social conformity 18 social psychology 2, 16–7, 261, 262
social connectedness 97; and social relationships 5–6; repairing 38
immunocompetence 87; importance of social self, the 5, 10
146 social snacking 243–4
social connections 2 social stability 263
social control 8, 258–9, 260, 269; informal social status 31
267–8; mechanisms 263, 264, 265; social support 23, 85, 87; importance of
model 262; Nomadic Forager Band 62
Societies 262–3, 264, 265–7, 266; Social Surrogacy Hypothesis 153–4
reasons for ostracism 265–6, 266; social surrogates 5–6, 146–58; adverse
targets 266 effects 155–6; attachment styles 149;
social cues 124, 246, 249 benefits 156–7; definition 147; features
social deficits 150 148–9; lesson of 158; parasocial
social dilemmas perspective 259 relationships 147, 147–8, 149, 150–2,
social exchange theory 228 157; power of 157–8; rejection risk
social exclusion: and anxiety 47; and 156; reminders of others 147, 148,
belonging 48; in popular culture 1–2 154–5, 157; role of 149–55, 156; social
social identity 7 worlds 147, 148, 152–4, 157
social identity theory 209, 213 social threats 72
social inclusion, and belonging 48 social worlds 6, 147, 148, 152–4, 157
social influence trifecta 18 social-freezing 166
social interactions, facsimiles of 146–58 socialization 213, 262
social media 7–8, 148, 240–52; coping socio-emotional development 278
mechanisms 248–50; definition 241; Sociometer Theory 3, 49–52, 105
dispositional perspective 242; dual-factor Söderberg, P. 8
model 242; fear of missing out 242; soft ostracism 251
feedback 243, 244–5; goal-attaining Somerville, L. H. 69
effects 243, 243–4; goal-preventing Sommer, K. L. 121, 141
effects 243, 244–5; health impacts 243, sororities 214
244; immersive virtual environments source, the 130–43; adverse effects 139;
(IVE) 246, 247; motivation 241–3, 250; attributions 139–40; consequences on
motivational perspective 240–1; and the 137–9; direct-source inductions 141;
need to belong 242; and ostracism familial tendencies 135; future research
244–5, 245–52; research 279–80; and 140–3; induced-source paradigms 141,
self-esteem 245, 249; self-presentations 142; interaction with target 142–3;
249; as social compensation 251; social methods 136–7; moderators 139–40;
cues 246, 249; soft ostracism 251; spiral motivated-source inductions 141, 142;
of silence 249–50; temporal need-threat motivation 131–4, 280–1; penitent 139;
model 248–50; text-based online- proud 139; recall inductions 141;
communication 246, 247; user numbers research 131, 280–1; self-esteem 138–9;
240, 250; uses and gratifications sense of belonging 138–9; sense of
perspective 241–2; virtual bravado control 137–8; temporal dynamics
248–9 135–6; traits 134–5
social memory 124 source paradigms 140–2
social ostracism 136 spiral of silence 249–50
Index 299
Spoor, J. 260 torture 97

sporadic sources 135 transcranial direct current stimulation
state-operated institutional ostracism 12 (tDCS) 103
Steptoe, A. 86 trauma 152, 156, 172
stigmatization 279 triggers 15, 135–6
Stinson, Danu 6 trust 183
stress 82–3, 85 tuning-out 136–7
subgroups 215, 215–8, 218–9 Turkey 182–3, 184–5
subjective group dynamics 213 Turnbull, C. M. 263, 265, 267
Sugimori, S. 180 Twenge, J. 4, 114
suicide ideations 22 Twitter 240
Sullivan, M. P. 185
support networks 140 unappreciated 52
survey research 12–3 uncertainty-identity theory 207, 208–12,
survival-enhancing affiliation 268 216, 218–9
Svetieva, E. 5 United Kingdom: psychological
Sydney Ostracism Record study 142–3 consequences 181; targets 185
symbolic bonds 157 United States of America: Amish 177;
sympathetic nervous system (SNS) 82 consensus 218; Hispanic community
185; psychological consequences 181,
Tafarodi, R. W. 181 182; reactions to ostracism 184, 187;
Taiwan 268 rejection sensitivity 180; targets 185
targets 5, 12, 130; anthropological uses and gratifications perspective, social
perspectives 266; behavior 132–3; media 241–2
characteristics 135; children and Uskul, A. K. 184
adolescents 202; cross-cultural
perspective 185–6; interaction with Valenti, J. 5–6
source 142–3; research 280–1; Van Beest, I. 17
workplace ostracism 225, 226–7 Van Dijk, E. 17
task conflict 228 Vangelisti, A. L. 52
task ostracism 7, 229, 234 vicarious ostracism 17
Tchalova, K. 4 victimization 85
teasing 52 video games 157
television 153–4 Virginia Tech University 105
temporal dynamics 125, 135–6 virtual bravado 248–9
temporal need-threat model 3, 11, 192–4, Vorderer, P. 7–8
240–1; reflective reaction stage 3, 11,
17–21, 22, 248–50, 275–6; reflexive Wagoner, J. 7, 217–8
reaction stage 3, 11, 15–7, 22, 248, wannabees 102
273–5; research 273–5; resignation war 97
reaction stage 3, 11, 21–2, 22, 196, Warburton, W. A. 36
250, 276–8; social media 248–50 Warrior Gene, the 101
terrorism, deaths related to 97 well-being 120, 226, 244
terrorist groups 7 Wesselmann, E. D. 8–9, 141, 182, 248–9
testosterone 83–4 Whitesell, N. R. 53
Texas 218 Wilkowski, B. M. 124
text-based online-communication 246, Williams, K. D. 1, 2, 3, 16, 17, 18, 19,
247 21–2, 66–7, 69, 84, 132–3, 136, 137–8,
threat responses 4 139, 141, 182, 192–3, 196, 197, 200,
Tice, D. M. 47, 49, 82–3 201, 202–3, 225, 246, 248–9, 250, 260,
Tierra del Fuego 262 273–8
time-outs 135 Wirth, J. H. 141, 179
Tonkinson, R. 263 withdrawal 18–9, 55
300 Index
Wolf, W. 247 targets 225, 226–7; task ostracism 7,

Wölfer, R. 194–5 229, 234; work performance 233–4;
wolves 11 work significance 232–3
women 83, 84, 87 Workplace Ostracism Scale 22
work performance 233–4 worthlessness 21
workplace ostracism 7, 224–34; adverse Wright, J. C. 262
effects 226–7, 229; ambiguity 225;
cultural differences 232; definition 224, Yahgan society 262, 267
228–9; distinctiveness 225; functional Yamagishi, T. 180
role 225; mechanisms 227–8; Yamaguchi, S. 180
moderators 227; organizational culture Yamamoto, M. 184
230–1; organizational diversity 231–2; Yoon, J. 141
organizational structure 230;
organizationally relevant factors Zadro, L. 5, 16, 138, 199
229–34; personal ostracism 7, 229, 234; zealotry 207
power 232; predictors 226, 229; Zeigler-Hill, V. 118
reporting structure 229; research 224–8, Zuckerberg, M. 240
234; scale 224; social support 228; Zwolinski, J. 249

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OSTRACISM, EXCLUSION,

This volume examines research into the related phenomena of ostracism,

Kipling D. Williams is Professor of Psychological Sciences at Purdue University.

Steve A. Nida is Professor and Head of the Department of Psychology at The

Frontiers of Social Psychology is a series of domain-specific handbooks. Each volume provides

ISBN: 978-1-84872-557-7 (hbk)

List of Contributors viii

1 Introduction and Overview 1

2 Ostracism: Being Ignored and Excluded 10

3 Alone and Impulsive: Self-regulatory Capacity Mediates and

4 Motivational and Emotional Aspects of Interpersonal

5 The Shared Neural Substrates of Physical and Social Pain 61

6 Acute and Chronic Physiological Consequences of

7 Only the Lonely: The Curious Case of Exclusion

8 Social Exclusion and the Self 113

9 Creating the Silence: Ostracism from the Perspective

10 Social Surrogates and Rejection: How Reading,

11 Rejection in Romantic Relationships 162

12 Ostracism from a Cross-Cultural Perspective 177

13 Ostracism in Children and Adolescents 192

14 Normative Exclusion and Attraction to Extreme Groups:

15 Workplace Ostracism 224

16 Social Media and Ostracism 240

17 Anthropological Aspects of Ostracism 258

18 Social Exclusion, Ostracism, and Rejection Research:

Levi R. Baker Florida State University, USA

Roy F. Baumeister University of Queensland, Australia

Sarah Beth Bell University of Kentucky, USA

C. Nathan DeWall University of Kentucky, USA

Naomi I. Eisenberger University of California, Los Angeles, USA

Brian Enjaian University of Kentucky, USA

Douglas P. Fry University of Alabama at Birmingham, USA

Shira Gabriel SUNY University at Buffalo, USA

Alexandra Godwin University of Sydney, Australia

Karen Gonsalkorale University of Sydney, Australia

Andrew H. Hales Purdue University, USA

Theresa H. He University of Victoria, Canada

Yanine D. Hess SUNY Purchase College, USA

Michael A. Hogg Claremont Graduate University, USA

John G. Holmes University of Waterloo, Canada

Rose Iannuzzelli University of Sydney, Australia

Ellie Shuo Jin University of Texas at Austin, USA

Robert A. Josephs University of Texas at Austin, USA

Mark R. Leary Duke University, USA

Steve A. Nida The Citadel, USA

Cynthia L. Pickett University of California, Davis, USA

Dongning Ren Tilburg University, The Netherlands

Sandra Robinson University of British Columbia, Canada

Conway F. Saylor The Citadel, USA

Juliette Schaafsma Tilburg University, the Netherlands

Kira Schabram University of British Columbia, Canada

Frank M. Schneider University of Mannheim, Germany

Nisha Sethi Peter Walker & Associates, Clinical Psychologists, Australia

Patrik Söderberg Åbo Akademi University, Finland

Danu Anthony Stinson University of Victoria, Canada

Elena Svetieva Católica-Lisbon School of Business & Economics, Portugal

Kristina Tchalova McGill University, Canada

Jennifer Valenti SUNY University at Buffalo, USA

Peter Vorderer University of Mannheim, Germany