The weirdest social truth seems to keep reoccurring increasingly often as I have gotten more, ugh… lets just say ‘up there’… in my 40s. Maybe you can relate.
Picture this:
You’re disappointed (you really are)…
But also… let’s be honest… a little relieved.
The point is that there is…
No rushing.
No coordinating.
No pressure to be “on.”
You can just exist.
And at some point, you start wondering:
It’s not like socializing is the hardest thing we do.
Parenting is harder.
Work is harder.
Moving furniture is harder.
Following a recipe is harder.
For a long time, I thought it was the event itself. PTA meetings and the details to remember or my husband’s work event and all the names to keep straight… and while I can feel some pressure of those expectations, that’s not nearly enough to explain the extent of the exhaustion.
This is the answer I’m forced to consider:
I think what’s exhausting is maintaining the distance between who I am and who I think I need to be.
I like when people think I have it together.
I like appearing calm.
Capable.
Emotionally balanced.
Like life just sort of works out for me.
I’m not proud of that, but there it is. It isn’t a loud obnoxious part of me. But it exists.
And underneath all of that is a quieter belief:
If people think I’m impressive…
if I can make things look easy…
maybe they’ll want to keep me around.
So in certain social situations, I’m not simply showing up.
I’m managing. Not all of me. Not all the time. But there is a strong correlation between how exhausting I think a social situation will be and the underlying feeling that I’m going to have to ‘be on’.
And that ego that manages the version of ourselves we think everyone expects is relentless sometimes.
That little inner dialogue.
It’s subtle.
But it can be constant.
And it’s exhausting.
Performance creates a strange kind of loneliness.
Even in a crowded room, part of you never fully arrives because part of you is still backstage managing that character.
And the wild part is… most people are doing the exact same thing.
A room full of beautifully managed people quietly wondering if they’re acceptable.
When this performance concept occurred to me (because I was really unconscious of it for a long, long time), I started a little experiment.
What if I went into social situations the same way I walk into my own living room?
Not performing a role.
Just existing inside my own life.
Obviously, I wouldn’t double-dip the chips or start scrolling while someone is talking to me.
But otherwise?
The same energy.
When I approach events like this, allowing myself the vulnerability of being authentically myself, the levity I have experienced is unreal.
Conversations have gotten lighter.
Funnier.
More real.
I have listened more closely because I wasn’t mentally rehearsing my next line while the other person was still talking.
Becoming less aware of myself…
and more aware of the moment.
The give-and-take of conversation starts feeling curious and alive instead of ‘what’s the playbook say for this, again?’
Alive instead of managed. Bringing down that invisible wall created by self-consciousness.
Maybe you’re not the polished person you imagined you were supposed to be.
Maybe you’re the sarcastic one.
The awkward one.
The quiet observer.
The person who occasionally says something weird at exactly the wrong time.
Fine.
Maybe that’s why authenticity feels physically relaxing.
The nervous system finally stops bracing itself… against itself.
Humility removes the pressure to prove ourselves.
When we remember that there is no one to impress, that the narrative we created in our heads to define who we think we are, is just as incomplete as the next guy’s narrative, and provides no security anyway…. so we realize have nothing to prove anyway.
We finally have enough energy left to enjoy people again.
The energy we used to perform for the management, we use instead to participate in moment.
The more I embody the concept, the more I find events energizing instead of draining. The more I come home inspired instead of in a hurry to zone out. I am NOT perfect at this. But I think I’m on to something.
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