I know I don’t always show up the way people expect.

I disappear.
I go quiet.
I skip things I said I might attend.
I take longer to reply.

From the outside, it can look like disinterest. Or distance. Or flakiness. I understand why it’s confusing. But the truth is simpler and heavier at the same time.

Being social costs me more than it looks like it should.

Social interaction isn’t just talking. It’s processing tone, reading faces, managing eye contact, choosing words carefully, monitoring my volume, tracking reactions, and constantly adjusting so I don’t say the wrong thing or take up too much space. My brain doesn’t let any of that run on autopilot.

So when people say “just come hang out” or “it’ll be chill,” my nervous system hears a much longer sentence.

It hears: stay alert, don’t mess up, don’t be awkward, don’t be too quiet, don’t be too much.

That level of awareness is exhausting. Not emotionally tired like after a long day. More like muscle fatigue, but inside my chest and head. After a while, even the idea of being around people feels heavy, not because I don’t like them, but because I know what it will cost to be present.

And sometimes, my social anxiety spikes hard.

Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, internal spiral kind of way. Heart racing. Thoughts looping. Every interaction feeling high-stakes for no logical reason. I replay conversations before they happen and then replay them again after they’re over, searching for mistakes like it’s my job.

When that happens, pushing myself to be social doesn’t build confidence. It drains it. It turns connection into survival mode.

There’s also the misconception that being capable of socializing means always being able to do it. I can be engaging. I can be funny. I can hold space and make people feel seen. That doesn’t mean I can do it endlessly.

Think of it like this. Just because someone can lift something heavy doesn’t mean they should carry it all day.

When I pull back, it’s usually not because I don’t care. It’s because I’m trying to protect what little energy I have left. It’s because I know that if I keep pushing past my limits, I’ll burn out completely and disappear even longer.

I don’t want to be the person who resents connection because they never learned when to rest.

So I pace myself. I choose quiet. I choose fewer interactions done honestly over many done on fumes. That doesn’t mean I value people less. It means I’m trying to show up as myself, not a depleted version that feels hollow and performative.

If I’m distant, it’s not a rejection.
If I cancel, it’s not personal.
If I go quiet, it’s not because I forgot you exist.

It’s because my nervous system needs a break, and I’ve learned the hard way what happens when I ignore that.

I still want connection. I still care deeply. I just need it in doses that don’t leave me shaking afterward.

That’s not weakness.
That’s self-awareness.

And if that means I’m quieter than people expect sometimes, I hope they can understand that the quiet is me taking care of myself so I can come back whole.