The Weird Little Habit That Helped Me Overcome Social Anxiety
Not long after we started dating, my now-husband (but then a relative stranger) found an incriminating piece of paper in my purse. His search for gum had exposed a square of loose-leaf with an odd little list. It read: "Unicyclist in a neck brace, childhood in L.A., Homestar Runner, Muffin Quest 2006, learning Spanish in Guatemala, dessert philosophy," among other things.
They were personal details about him, little jokes and stories we'd made over email.
"What is this?" he asked, puzzled.
"Oh. Don't look at that!" Embarrassed, I balled up the paper and threw it in the trash. "It's the list I made so we wouldn't run out of conversation topics on our first date."
Thankfully, he found it adorable and didn't categorize me as a Grade-A lunatic. What he didn't know is I've been scribbling these little "conversation lists" my whole life.
I grew up the shy younger sibling to an assertive older brother. I was the Robin to his Batman. In groups, I'd become mute and withdrawn. I was incapable of calling for a pizza delivery because my ultimate fear was talking to strangers.
My father, in particular, worried about me. He was a warm, burly man with a booming, theatrical voice. Thanks to years of globetrotting, he had a bottomless supply of shaggy dog stories. But he often wondered how his quiet, self-conscious little girl would get by in the world. At times, he'd try to coach me.
"Let's practice. Just make eye-contact and offer up compliments! Like this." He scanned my outfit. "I like your jelly shoes! Where can I get some?" he'd say, doing his best impression of teen girl chatter.
As much as I tried, I couldn't imitate my father's social confidence. But by adulthood I had ironed out a lot of these social anxieties thanks to my secret crutch: the pocket list.
This choice made sense. My generation of women considers list-making to be both organizational and aspirational. Martha Beck, a life coach, once said that lists have the magic power to manifest our dreams and women took note. With an incentive like that, we were furiously scribbling, driving a whole field of paper products and eventually a market of apps.
Putting speech into bulleted formats gives me structure in the chaos of conversation. They're small maps I follow if I ever got flustered. They also ensure that I don't waste precious moments with loved ones yammering about the weather or other conversational fillers. Instead, I focus on the person before me because I'd already spent time putting them front of mind. Before my reunion with an old roommate, I scribbled down that she has a dachshund named Skippy, she got a new job with a startup, and she's been struggling with a running injury. In this simple way, I can remind myself of who she is, what matters to her, and how we can connect.
I used to throw these lists away after I finished seeing loved ones, ashamed by the evidence of my social weirdness. Only recently have I realized their value. They're little snapshots of my relationships, and as such, they've become dear to me.
So, even though I've grown sure of myself as I've gotten older, I still compose my cheat-sheets. And as my social circle has broadened and friends and family have moved away, these magic lists have strengthened those increasingly fragile connections.
I know my father was proud that his wallflower daughter came into her own. But these days, our roles have reversed. My talkative dad has succumbed to dementia, and slowly his language has diminished to a few grunts. Now I chatter to him, and he's the mute one.
The more he withdraws, the more worried I become. But I still have the note from our last real conversation. It reads, "Alaska, ham sandwich, Louis L'Amour, new Pope," and I will always know exactly what that meant.
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