On being a soft voice in a loud world
I wish I were the type of person who loved a good party. Or, hell, even tolerated a party.
But I don’t. I can’t even tolerate them.
I can’t stand parties, gatherings, small talk. I hate meetings, bars, and celebrations. Seminars and networking? Forget it. My idea of a good time involves the smallest number of people possible and zero chit-chat.
When I’m around other people, I find myself planning ahead, mentally preparing for the interaction, bracing for the inevitable awkwardness. I dread the friendly conversations I’m supposed to have and often cringe when I think of the things I might say. I worry about whether there will be street parking (which I hate) or one-way streets — and don’t even get me started on parking garages. If I’m headed to a work seminar where I won’t know anyone, I’ll probably bring a book just so I don’t have to make small talk during lunch. Sometimes, I even talk myself out of going because the anxiety of being uncomfortable around large groups of people, especially unfamiliar ones, feels unbearable.
I’d love to teach my children how to be confident in social situations, how to be comfortable in any setting. But the truth is, I don’t always know how. When we go to gatherings as a family, my partner and I exchange that familiar look, whispering, “Ready to go?” as soon as it’s acceptable to leave. The relief that washes over me the moment we get back in the car is instant. (Yes, my husband is the same way.)
Sometimes I imagine myself as someone completely different. I think of all the things I’m not and wish I could be them. I want to do things like a “normal” person, to feel the way others feel when they do them. I imagine going out, having a great time like everyone else my age — but it never turns out that way. I left home for college, full of excitement, picturing myself making friends and attending parties. Instead, I hated every single second of it. I’d sit in my room and cry, and then head home on the weekends. After a single semester, I transferred to a local school. Because, as they say, you can always go home again, right? For my bachelorette party, we went to a casino and hit up the nightclub. It was loud and dark, and I hated it. The real fun came when we left to play games in the hotel room. I haven’t been to a concert in years because it’s too loud, too crowded, and too much. But bring me to a sit-down comedy show, and we’re golden. No thumping bass, no crowds crammed together, just me in my own seat, laughing at a single voice speaking instead of a hundred.
So, what will I teach my sons? That we’re all different. The world may seem filled with people who are more outgoing, who know how to “have a good time,” but my good time is in my own little bubble, reading books and sitting on my own couch with my people. There are others like me out there... we’re just quieter, so we get noticed less than the loud ones. I’m NORMAL, just like they are.
I’ll teach them that a few good friends are all they need. That it’s okay to be the person who listens more than speaks. That they can always come home if they leave and don’t enjoy themselves. That it’s okay to feel nervous, anxious, or unsure, but that sometimes, we have to step out of our bubbles — and when we do, we can always retreat back at the end of the day.
Maybe they’ll be outgoing, friendly, and never anxious. Maybe they’ll be loud, confident, and the life of the party. Maybe they’ll be everything I’m not. But maybe they’ll be just like me. They’ll feel uncertain and shy. They’ll prefer reading over socializing. They’ll be quiet and contemplative. And either way, no matter how they turn out, they’ll be okay.
I used to think there was something wrong with me, but I know now there isn’t. The default in life doesn’t have to be loud, or bold, or big. There’s something special about quiet. There’s something sacred about the people who carry it with them — the ones who listen instead of shout.
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