Our devices have a battery life. In the same way, we all have our social battery. And mine? Let’s say it is not built for endurance.
My social battery has a personality, and a dramatic one at that.
It is like one of those cranky kids who refuse to behave exactly when you need them to. They do not care how important the event is. They simply decide to do their own thing, without caring two hoots about the surroundings.
And yes, my socialising capacity is wildly unpredictable.
Some days it is glowing at 100%, ready for small talk with strangers, deep discussions, mild oversharing, and peak best behaviour. And some days? It looks deathly still with a grouchy face, as if smiling even once will cost it a luxury tax.
The funny part is, I never know which version I am getting.
There have been events I have excitedly dressed up for, taking my own sweet time with a dozen makeup products, feeling all glammed up, only to find myself, an hour or so later, staring into a blank space, wishing to be back in my cosy room with my Kindle. The chatter of people around me slowly starts feeling louder than it needs to be. And yet, the writer in me is still alert, eavesdropping a little to giggle inwardly at the absurdity of strangers’ conversations.
For the longest time, I treated this as a shortcoming. How do people around me seem to have a never-ending supply of energy to socialise and look fresh for HOURS, channelling their inner Ranveer Singh, while I mentally scream Alia Bhatt’s dialogue from Raazi, “Mujhe ghar jaana hai!!” Surely I should be more socially durable, right?
But lately, I have stopped being harsh on myself.
Now, when I feel that subtle shift in my mood, the slightly forced laughter, the growing awareness of background noise, the sudden urge to go home and call it a night, I take it as a sign. A sign not to disappear dramatically, but to wrap up and respect that this is who I am.
What I have noticed is that when I started respecting my social bandwidth, I actually began enjoying people more. I show up fully for the time I am there. I listen better. I laugh more genuinely. And when it is time to head back, I leave without questioning myself.
My social battery might have a mind of its own. But it is mine.
I can be warm, polite, kind, present, and still need my space and quiet. I can show up for my people, but I can also be there for myself. And learning to listen to it feels like a quiet, powerful kind of self-respect.
There is something so liberating about accepting your own wiring. And that, to me, feels beautiful.
This post is part of the Softly Speaking series. You can read the previous entry here: Softly Speaking #1.
Softly, until I write again.
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