How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety

by Ellen Hendriksen

That day at the grocery store, I took home a lot more than bananas. I took home a little booster shot reminding me of what it took years to learn: my anxiety is not credible. Seldom does anyone actually say, “Wow, you sure seem uncomfortable. You’re weird and don’t deserve to be here.” Or, “That’s it. You’ve paused in conversation one too many times—we’re all going to turn our backs on you now.” Or in my case, “Ma’am, is there a problem? The volume of milk in your cart clearly indicates you’re a freak.” Even if someone did, it would be the accuser who was unreasonable, not me. And if someone actually said to me, “You only eat milk and bananas! Wow, you have problems!” I could wave it off as the grumblings of a judgmental curmudgeon. I might even smile and offer them a banana.

But for those of us who experience social anxiety, the Inner Critic, rather than whispering in our ears, instead wields a megaphone.

Think of the Inner Critic as a helicopter parent, swooping in to save us from any upset. It tells us we can’t do it, we might get embarrassed, that it’s too much for us. Just sit this one out so you don’t make a fool of yourself, it instructs. Don’t risk it because people might notice. But at the same time, the Critic expects only the best from us. Just as the helicopter parent thinks their child is a special snowflake destined to rule the world, so does your Inner Critic expect great things from you. Only the best performance will do.

According to Dr. David Moscovitch, whom we met in chapter 1, what we’re really afraid of is The Reveal. Ultimately, social anxiety is the fear that whatever we’re trying to hide will be revealed to everyone like a gust of wind sweeps away a bad toupee.

Whatever your fear, it boils down to one thing: I am not good enough. And furthermore, everyone will see.

Crucially, the Inner Critic isn’t as confident and iron-fisted as we might expect. It actually waffles more than a Belgian politician.

I’ll bet you a kangaroo

people would rather watch C-SPAN 2 than listen to your stories.

Anxiety would make a great horoscope writer. It’s hazy enough that we can read just about anything into its predictions. Watch for the red flags of imprecision—“always,” “never,” “everybody,” “nobody.”

To sum up, when your Inner Critic kicks the anxiety into gear, first ask, “What’s the worst that can happen?” Answer as precisely as possible; remember: specify, specify, specify. Then ask: “How bad would that really be?” “What are the odds?” “How could I cope?”

judgment looks for what is vulnerable inside us and pounces, whereas self-compassion looks for what is human and meets it with understanding, graciousness, appreciation, and encouragement.

after client, as well as in myself. It was The Moment. Then with wonder in his voice he said, “The world is a lot nicer than I thought.”

Again, counter to the myth of I have lousy social skills, we don’t need more skills, we just need less inhibition. But guess what? You already know what to do to lower your inhibition: Like the assertive study participants, play a role—give yourself a mission. Dare to be average. Fake it until you are it. And finally, drop your safety behaviors. Step away from the body spray.

Now you know how to question your worries with “How bad would that really be?,” “What are the odds?,” and “How would I cope?” You know how to talk to yourself with compassion and understanding, creating a supportive environment from which you can do hard things. You know that if you jump in before you’re confident your confidence will catch up. You know that if you choose a role, a goal, or otherwise create some structure for yourself, you’ll feel more certain and focused. You know that each trip over the anxiety peak erodes it. You know to drop your safety

behaviors—those life preservers that do nothing but hold you under, and by doing so you’ll reap the authenticity that follows. You know to shift your attention to the task at hand, the person in front of you, or even, mindfully, to your breath. You can see yourself as others see you instead of the funhouse mirror image. You can dare to be average. You can trust that your foibles and blunders make you more endearing. You know to keep showing up, to disclose bits of your life, and to show others you like them. And most of all, you know to be kind and trustworthy.