I stare at yet another Facebook invite, hovering between “yes” and “maybe,” before finally landing on “maybe”… for now.
Parties have always been a source of stress. As an introvert, small talk feels like a foreign language — I fumble, I freeze, I wonder if people notice me sitting off to the side. It’s not that I don’t want connection. I do. I crave it. I just can’t always manage it in a crowded room. For me, joining a conversation takes as much effort as running a race — exhausting both mentally and physically.
Motherhood has only heightened this. My days are filled with noise, noise, noise (the Grinch nailed it). Caleb shrieking, TV blaring, toys beeping — sometimes I panic and mute everything just to breathe. A party is the same, only louder, brighter, harder. Sensory overload mixed with social anxiety: my perfect storm.
People who don’t struggle like this often think I don’t care. They see another missed party and assume I’m indifferent. The truth? It takes enormous effort to even consider showing up, and more still to pretend I’m not unraveling inside. To me, it’s not “no big deal.” It’s a very big deal.
For years I thought something was wrong with me. Now I’m learning it’s simply who I am. I need my quiet. My bubble. My time with books and silence. After mothering and working with the public all day, I hit my limit. By night, I’m often done.
So if you see me at a party — scrolling my phone, sitting off to the side, trying to fit in but not quite fitting — know that it took a lot to get there. I showed up. I cared enough to try, even when it stretched me thin.
And the truth is, I’m learning. Slowly, awkwardly, but still learning. One “yes” at a time.
No comments