There are few things that rate higher for me than a fiery Hawaiian sunset over a pillowy white-sand beach dotted with pitch-black lava rocks as the gentle surf laps against the shore. Paired with some great food, an educational component, and (most importantly) connection with friends/family/loved ones, and I’ll go so far as to call it a perfect evening for me.
I was fortunate to experience such a connected evening at a luau during a recent trip to the islands. I wasn’t prepared though for what happened after sunset however.
The performers had concluded their dinner performance and before resuming with the obligatory post-dinner cultural tour of the South Pacific, they invited folks up onto the stage to learn hula. I then regretted my recent ankle injury as I wouldn’t be able to stand in front of a bunch of people and show off my two left feet. In my desire to live vicariously through our more able-bodied generation, I leaned across the table to my 9-year-old nephew and suggested he head up there. Now, I fully intend him to decline; he’s not a dancer and not one for public spectacle. What he told me, though, floored me:
“Do you want to go up there and learn hula?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Oh come on!” I teased “Why not?”
“I have social anxiety,” he stated matter-of-factly.
I was flummoxed, thinking: “My 9-year-old nephew has social anxiety!?” But, more importantly: ”my 9-year-old nephew is conscious enough of the concept of social anxiety that he uses it as an excuse to get out of doing something he doesn’t want to do in public?”
I put myself into my nephew’s shoes, and I recalled with my 9-year-old self. 9-year-old Jerry certainly wasn’t aware of social anxiety. He was quiet. He was shy. He had one friend. He spent hours by himself drawing, writing, reading, exploring, and playing make-believe. He was very close with his family. He was desperately lonely for more social contact. Most of all, he was scared. He was scared of acting with the slightest hint at imperfection.
It would take a few more years for my childish thirst for external validation to flip my disposition to one of outward expression: I won city and state public-speaking competitions, sang/played guitar in many a church and diocesan choir, performed lead roles in various musical theater productions, built a following 10,000+ DAU strong on my pre-2000 “blog,” and delighted in always volunteering for the silly “public participation” activities at luaus (and myriad other events, for that matter).
I made friends.
I had fun.
I felt a sense of belonging and connection, even with my critics.
I trace conquering my own isolation to creative writing in school. What I wrote, I owned. My words were mine. I was propelled to the height of self-identity.
As it does, however, life happened. Over the years, my drive to write, speak, perform, sing, and emote publicly atrophied until that childhood social anxiety crept back in, likely fueled by my depression, deep-seeded loneliness, and growing dissatisfaction with life. Daily self-reflection became weekly shallow updates became quick-social media posts became silence. Critical thought and pithy-yet-poinent analysis of current events/technology/personal life became the occasional comment on a colleague’s social media post. Social media became a source of stress and a reminder of my isolation and dissatisfaction.
The links between negative psychological disposition are better understood today thanks to studies like Vaid’s Social Media Sensitivity. At the time, I simply felt bad trending worse. Letting social anxiety win meant giving up the benefits of putting my original self-expression into the world: Connection, confidence, stress reduction, creativity, accountability, critical-thinking, and personal reflection.
Writing, I learned, was the cornerstone atop of which all of my outwardly socially connected behavior was based.
As an introvert, quiet moments of in-depth analysis of a particularly challenging subject are energizing … they energize me so much that I’m often excited to share my findings with the world. Writing allows a seed of thought to germinate and grow. The act of documentation not only makes progress and growth tangible, but also retraceable – for myself or for whomever comes after me.
For me, writing down the steps of my analysis into a cohesive, concise, and grok-able narrative is hugely cathartic and confidence-inspiring. I recall with great joy the day that my boss, a particularly harsh writing critic at Amazon, told me that I was one of the few leaders under him who could write an effective 6-pager with little assistance. Since then, I’ve written countless internal docs, but I haven’t published any writing publicly in years despite ample opportunity.
This blog therefore is a space for me to publish my writing, but more importantly a space for me to explore, delve, grapple, and understand topics crucial for technology and leadership in the next evolution of our connected world.