I’m about to hit the dance floor and groove in front of a crowd for a full hour. I’ll need to remember the choreography for at least fourteen different songs as everyone watches my every move. Surprisingly, this doesn’t make me anxious at all; in fact, I thrive on it. I absolutely love it.
I lead Zumba classes, a dance-based fitness program. Each week, new participants arrive, forming their opinions about me, the gym, and Zumba based on how well I guide them through the routines. While it may seem intimidating, I approach it with enthusiasm, smiling, enjoying the moment, encouraging others, and soaking up the collective energy of the group.
However, step into a mundane setting like the post office, and I transform into someone entirely different. My palms get sweaty as I clutch a package that doesn’t fit in my mailbox. I almost hesitated to send it because I couldn’t manage it from home, but it was important, so here I am. My heart races alongside my thoughts: What if I didn’t wrap it properly? What if it’s not sealed correctly? What if it violates some postal regulations?
My mind spirals through an endless list of potential mishaps, and by the time I reach the counter, I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I can already hear my internal voice criticizing me: “How can a woman in her thirties not know how to send a package?” My breath quickens, and I mentally rehearse what I’m going to say so I won’t sound foolish. But my anxiety chimes in, declaring, “You’ll sound stupid anyway!” drowning out all reason.
This contradiction is something I grapple with daily: the life of an extroverted individual grappling with social anxiety disorder—two traits that seem incompatible yet coexist within me. My existence is a constant tug-of-war between feeling outgoing in certain situations and wishing to disappear in others.
It’s perplexing. The triggers that send me spiraling into anxiety often appear trivial to others; for instance, I can’t bring myself to order a pizza over the phone. In fact, I dread phone conversations in general and avoid them as much as possible, even with those I love talking to face-to-face. Something about the phone amplifies my anxiety, even though the person on the other end can’t see me.
Taking my kids to the dentist or my pets to the vet is a source of anxiety that I’ll ruminate over for days. Yet, I can walk into a social event, engage with strangers, share laughs, and dominate the conversation—no alcohol required.
But it’s not as straightforward as always having the same responses to various situations. Some days are better than others; on my worst days, I’ve found myself hiding when the doorbell rings. I adore people and cherish connections, but it feels risky, like petting a dog that might snap at any moment. On days when I lack the strength to take that risk, I retreat.
I realize this sounds irrational. Like many who deal with anxiety, I know that my worries are often unfounded. The postal workers probably won’t mock me for not knowing how much postage to use, and the pizza delivery person isn’t likely to judge me for my fears. I can’t even pinpoint why ordering pizza over the phone terrifies me; it’s just one of those inexplicable quirks of anxiety. If I were to walk into the pizzeria and order in person? No problem. No anxiety. And absolutely no idea why the phone triggers such fear.
This unpredictable nature of my responses makes it hard to discuss my social anxiety with others. It sounds just as confusing as it feels: how can I be completely comfortable in situations that would terrify some, yet panic in scenarios most people find trivial?
If I can’t comprehend my own feelings, how can I expect others to understand? Then my anxiety whispers that they’ll think I’m just strange. So, I keep it to myself, pushing through when I can (even though I’m often miserable) and avoiding situations I can’t handle.
If you have a friend who sends all your calls to voicemail, just text them instead. And if you notice they’re quirky about simple things, like a trip to the post office, don’t call them out on it; it’s the fear of judgment that differentiates socially anxious individuals from merely introverted ones. Accept their idiosyncrasies, even if they seem odd to you, and plan gatherings in places where they feel most at ease. And when it’s pizza time, you might want to be the one placing the order.
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In summary, navigating life as an extrovert with social anxiety is a perplexing experience, filled with contradictions. While I thrive in some social settings, I often find myself overwhelmed by seemingly mundane tasks. Embracing my quirks and finding supportive friends who understand my challenges helps me manage this unique dichotomy.
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