In high school, I noticed that I was a little bit of a homebody. I was always at home on Friday nights or passing up football games. I vowed to resolve this in college—I’d become a veritable social butterfly. This didn’t go exactly as planned.

During my first semester, some sort of event was happening nearly every night, and I made it my mission to never miss a single one of them. This resulted more in me missing a lot of sleep. Not only that, very few parties or outings were as exciting as I thought they’d be. Most of the time I found myself clinging awkwardly to a friend or sitting in a corner with my phone, which wasn’t at all what I had imagined. I wished I could be one of those people who just strikes up a conversation with anyone, or dances freely, but try as I might, that isn't me. Every attempt felt awkward and forced, and I decided maybe I should give it a rest. This carried over into other aspects of my life as well—I couldn’t start chatting with people I met in my classes without practicing conversations in my head, and while people formed new friendships and separated into cliques, I felt like I was lagging behind.

As the year went by, the parties trailed off, but I still maintained an overwhelming fear of missing out. I’d forego parties once in a while, but then I’d obsessively check Snapchat stories to see if something was going on that was worth witnessing. I enlisted my friends to notify me whenever something was happening, but more and more I found myself frustrated and exhausted when I returned to my room at the end of the night. My one-on-one interactions weren’t improving much either. I believe my shyness was mistaken for standoffish-ness, as if the reason I didn’t talk to people was because I thought I was too good for them. This couldn’t have been further from the truth, but I had no idea how to remedy it.

After a while, academics became overwhelming, and my social life slipped ever lower on my list of priorities. Ironically, this was exactly when I found what I really enjoyed. The rare nights and weekends that I was free, I found myself spending with a few friends who I wanted to catch up with, or with my roommates that I was growing closer and closer to, or even occasionally by myself. Sometimes when I visited a friend’s apartment, they’d have others over, and in that environment, I found it infinitely less daunting to speak to new people. I’ve been told many more times than I’d like to admit that people were scared of me when they first met me or that I’m a much nicer person than I seem. At first this stung a bit, but I’ve come to realize that other people are often just as nervous as I am. Frequently, I’ll bemoan the fact that I could have been friends with someone much earlier, but perhaps I had to grow a little as a person for the relationship to form.

Now, when I go to parties, I choose the ones that I think will be worth it. I also make sure I’m not going alone—the added security of a few familiar faces makes it all the easier to speak to new people. And I’ve come to value the time I spend alone as well. Instead of thinking of a night in as having a lack of things to do, I consider it time spent recharging, figuring out what I enjoy and pursuing interests I might not share with others. I value the time I spend with others as well, but I’ll choose to favor long conversations rather than brief catching up or going on spontaneous adventures. Now, I’m not the social butterfly I’d hoped to be, but I don’t think I’m wrapped up in a cocoon either.