Sorry I'm Late, I Didn't Want to Come: One Introvert's Year of Saying Yes

by Jessica Pan

I would say 90 percent of my acquaintances don’t even know that I’m an introvert because I take such pains to hide it. After-work drinks? Sorry, I’m very busy. Lunch at the deli? Can’t, I have plans (eating ramen alone in blissful solitude).

I’d read that being lonely or isolated is a risk factor for early mortality, which means that, by some stretch, maybe talking to strangers will save my life.

Psychologists also say that it takes time for shy people to warm up, so if you always leave after ten minutes, you’re never giving yourself the chance to actually succeed. Stay for at least an hour.

“If you’re lucky enough to have people who love you and whom you love, then how wonderful is it that you get to tell them?”

“I hate hanging out in big groups of people,” he says. “How are you supposed to know whose turn it is to talk?”

I wish public speaking was a dragon you only had to slay once, but it just keeps coming back.

But self-confidence doesn’t find us: we have to push ourselves to do something hard and live through it, and then confidence will eventually follow.

When I discover that one in eight men report that they have no one to discuss serious topics with, my encounters make a lot more sense.

Because I don’t just want passable chitchat: I want to break through the barriers. I want to know you. Terrifying, I know.

Jason Bourne doesn’t cry over bad cake! Jason Bourne doesn’t cry. (Although he should. Because toxic masculinity.)

Did you hear the one about the introvert who tried to extrovert for a year and ended up murdered in a forest?

“The fear of rejection feels worse than the reality.” I respectfully beg to differ.

It turns out that hosting is actually great if you’re socially awkward because it makes the night feel like a blur and you always have something to do. Plus you can always go and hide in your own bedroom—it’s not weird if you climb into bed and under the covers. Well, not as weird as if you climbed under someone else’s bed covers at someone else’s house.

“A disagreeable introvert is not necessarily constrained to a life of unhappiness.”