“Tony, I get that you’re not shy,” my new friends said.
I laughed, but inside, I felt that familiar twinge. He wasn’t wrong. But the way he said it—like it was so obvious, so easy—made me wonder if he really knew what that meant for me.
In elementary school, I was that kid—the one who couldn’t sit still, whose desk was always next to the teacher’s. When that didn’t work, they sent me to the hallway. By high school, I had this quiet, desperate hope that the principal wouldn’t recognize me on sight.
As an adult, it’s different, but not really. People don’t send you to the hall anymore. Instead, they say things like, Maybe just tone it down a little, or Not everyone needs to hear every thought you have. I’ve been told to “be responsible for my enthusiasm.” To keep my hands still when I talk. To listen more.
And I try. I really do.
But the truth is, when I think about all those moments—back then, even now—there’s this knot in my chest. The constant reminder to use my inside voice. This creeping fear that maybe I am too much. That I take up too much space, talk too fast, share too many stories, and don’t know when to stop.
So I hesitate. I try to lower the volume, to keep my voice even, my hands still, my stories brief. I don’t want to be the person who floods the room, who overwhelms people just by being myself.
But sometimes, late at night, I wonder—what if I didn’t? What if I just let myself be… me?
