Am I becoming more social?

Or is dissipating social anxiety just allowing me to enjoy people more?

On March 12th we met up with Sean’s brother in Nashville. The next day we saw friends in Indianapolis. After that we arrived at my parents’ home, where my sister and niece were also staying. Then we we visited college pals in Madison, hung out at another friend’s house (plus hopped on a virtual happy hour), and joined a dinner-and-game night. That weekend we traveled to Sean’s parents’ where all his siblings were in town to celebrate his sister’s wedding on the 22nd. A few days later we went back to Madison and had two days to ourselves—excepting work calls and a nearly-four-hour FaceTime with my closest long-distance friend—before spending three more nights with friends in person.

That is more than two weeks of almost constant social interaction outside our little family unit of me and Sean and Scout. We are not used to that. For years I’ve said I do not enjoy it.

And yet: I was in an incredible mood. I couldn’t get enough of my niece, of our siblings, of making mochas for more than two people in the morning, of sharing food, of cracking jokes, of sitting on someone’s floor within touching distance of other bodies, of being present. My phone stayed in the van and I had almost no motivation to write, but I was happy.

I was so happy.

Of course, I did crash a little when we finally extricated ourselves from the who-are-we-seeing-next parade. But the fall was not as hard—nor did it last as long—as previous spells of exhaustion following lengthy visits.

Am I becoming more social? Is “introvert” an outdated identity? (Personalities have always been more complex than binary distinctions, but in general this one has rung true for me.) Has living in a van as a self-proclaimed hermit made me crave community?

Or am I reaching a place where I finally like myself enough that the joys of interacting with fellow humans far outweigh the uncertainties?

Probably both. (The answer is usually both.) I’m really feeling that latter explanation right now, though, because of course I miss friends and family when we drive across the country from them—but it’s not just people I already know and trust who I’m enjoying more.

It’s strangers, too.

The other morning I complimented a barista’s spider tattoo. When she seemed kind of sheepish, I rolled up my sleeve to show her my own (see? It’s a real compliment, I mean it, I am not lying about loving spiders!) and we had the most delightful moment of camaraderie over “edgy” ink in a stuffy small town.

After leaving his work happy hour last month, I turned to Sean in a sort of wonder. “I don’t feel anxious about any of those interactions!” (I wish that observation wasn’t so exciting, but it is.)

While FaceTiming my oldest friend, I admitted to feeling really cool lately. Properly cool. Not like I’ve learned to speak someone else’s cool language—like I am finally speaking my own.

When we met my brother-in-law’s girlfriend for the first time in February, I was thrilled that her first impression of me would be My Current State. She was introduced to the most confident, comfortable version of myself instead of the still-very-confused 21-year-old the rest of Sean’s family got to know.

I resent the stereotype that to be introverted means one is shy (or worse: actively dislikes other people) but now I have to question how much of my own “I am a homebody who would rather keep to herself” inclinations came from anxiety and insecurity rather than real, permanent personality traits. Not that anxiety and insecurity aren’t real. They are very much so. But I don’t think temporary emotions define me the way other tidbits of my psyche do. And as those temporary emotions dissipate—as I continue growing into myself and processing shit that needs to be processed—who I am underneath them feels stronger.

Perhaps even a little shiny.

Here’s a truth: The more anxious I felt about social interactions, the less I was able to pay productive attention to those social interactions. The less I could learn from them. When I grew confident enough to hold my own—at least a little—I found myself in a position to observe and analyze and engage meaningfully. Not just omg she raised her eyebrow slightly she must hate me but actually here’s what I know about her, here’s where we connect most easily, here’s where our personalities usually collide.

I still feel introverted in the sense that too much social interaction—even the good, fulfilling kind—eventually drains me. I like a small deep circle. (Scout agrees with me.) But I can’t shake the sense that something slightly magical is happening to me this spring. Years after I thought I’d finished the bulk of the work required to be a stable adult with a solid sense of self, I am suddenly reaping untold rewards: boldness, comfort, can’t-hold-it-in laughter, eyes welling with real emotion for someone else and not just concern for how I myself come across.