I have nothing to say
I used to talk for a living.
Well, kind of. Being a staff writer for the Observer-Reporter or any media outlet requires lots of talking. Interviews are like a game of 20 Questions that, when done well, naturally evolve into what the interviewer hopes is pleasant conversation. My job was to chat with people from all walks of life and turn their stories into stories that could be printed and inform, entertain or inspire readers.
When I became a mother, my world at once expanded and contracted; I held the universe in my arms, but it was a quiet place with its own language, and that language was mostly cries and coos and songs. If conversation is an art, then it also requires discipline, and I quickly fell out of practice.
While always a little self-conscious, I do love meeting people – everyone has a story, you know – and talking to strangers never induced anxiety. After welcoming my son into the world on a cold December morning, though, I found myself … anxious. I, who used to watch all the latest shows, could rattle off the day’s headlines, and knew most of the Oscar noms, stopped binge-watching TV, listening to today’s top hits, and reading the news to focus on creating a calm, screen-free home in which my son could grow and develop in peace.
My days were beautifully repetitive. And I dreaded telling people that.
The polite, “What’s new?” became cause for sweaty palms and a racing heart. How to explain that everything was new: The cloud formations in the sky outside our large dining room window, the way my son felt a little heavier in my arms, me? I couldn’t put any of it into words. I also couldn’t think through my fatigue; instead of sleeping, I joked, my son and I intermittent-napped. I had nothing to share in conversation, and I couldn’t think of anything to ask other people about themselves. I thought people thought I was self-absorbed. I felt needy. I ached for human connection, but felt unequipped to connect, and so I retreated into the safety of my home and focused all my energy on bonding with my son. Which isn’t a bad thing. Except I was lonely.
According to the National Social Anxiety Center, 10% of new parents experience anxiety; most struggle with generalized anxiety or social anxiety disorders. According to Yale Medicine, about 13% of all Americans experience some social anxiety. Those anxious in social situations might sweat, blush, feel dizzy or nauseous, speak quietly, and avoid eye contact. The symptoms, whether noticeable to an outsider or not, are incredibly uncomfortable. Thankfully, anxiety can be treated with either cognitive behavioral therapy or medication.
I opted for therapy – I’d been going for years. After a cathartic cry on my therapist’s couch, a long winter, a New Mom Summer (not to be confused with hot girl summer, because it certainly was not that), a Sad Girl Fall, and another winter, my son and I woke one morning to sunshine streaming through the windows, illuminating our universe in the first signs of spring. We said to heck with routine and ventured, shoeless, outdoors. The adventure was glorious in the way only a mom and her baby can find walking outside, mother narrating the several turns about the yard, glorious. We prioritized getting out more. We walked our neighborhood sidewalks, said, “Morning!” to strangers passing by. We started talking regularly to those we love. I began practicing the art of conversation.
I made a list of responsorial quips to questions like, “What’s new?” Instead of panicking, I say something like, “How much time do you have?” or ask a question like, “What’s the best thing that happened to you this week?” Because I genuinely want to know what’s making your heart happy. Because your joy will likely lead us into a beautiful conversation about other joys, big and small.
I’m no longer limiting my world to my son, husband and dog. I now delight in introducing my little guy to local libraries and parks, to my favorite coffee shops and bookstores (the trips are short, but so sweet), to the people I love but held at a distance for too long. Please, don’t think motherhood has been a trial for me. Quite the contrary: I want to shout from the mountaintops that motherhood is the most spectacularly life-altering and euphoric experience. Most of the time, it’s the best thing. Some of the time, it’s less glamorous than social media would have you believe. Every once in a while, it’s this column.
Today, the bags beneath my eyes and my flushed cheeks are the only social anxiety battle scars still visible. I want to get to the point where I no longer turn beet red or feel at a loss for words during conversation, but I’m putting myself out there. To the reader also struggling with social anxiety, I encourage you to seek help. There’s nothing more enriching or important than human connection. I know, because I’ve experienced the loss and the finding of person-to-person interaction.
These past months – of new motherhood, isolation, and, finally, societal participation – haven’t transformed me into someone new. Rather, motherhood changed the shape of me, and I’m getting comfortable in this new skin.
I finally feel like I have something to say.
Katherine Mansfield is a former staff writer for the Observer-Reporter who now serves as a full-time mom and freelance writer. When she isn’t chasing her toddler around, she pens essays, poems and fiction at https://katherinemansfield.substack.com/.