In praise of the quiet ones

I was so shy as a teenager I locked myself in the loo to eat lunch at my Saturday job, but now I embrace my quietness.

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

Hello, and thank you for reading The Honesty Box. If you’re reading this and have recently subscribed (after I was brave and put this on LinkedIn a couple of days ago), I really appreciate it, and if you’ve been reading this for a while, I am also very grateful to you!

This week I posted about The Honesty Box on LinkedIn for the first time, which felt like the emotional vulnerability equivalent of lying down in the road.

It feels like I’m giving people a headlight into my soul, hoping that some might lie down with me, or even offer a hand, but also accepting that others might just hoot at me to get out of their way.

The reason I felt nervous about posting on a public forum is that LinkedIn is a place for work and careers, and usually I’m on there looking for contacts or sharing articles I’ve written as a journalist.

I sat fascinated by all the people around me who seemed happy to talk over each other and have their voices heard

I’m being professional me, and heaven forbid I am also a human with a personal life. And the truth is, sometimes I hide the real me at work. I always have done.

When I was 16, I had a Saturday job at Boots in Brent Cross shopping centre. Most of the time I worked on the till, which meant I didn’t have to talk to my colleagues much, and I dreaded lunchtimes.

I felt so shy that I would lock myself in the loo to eat my sandwiches, which felt like a much easier option than sitting around a communal table while louder workers shouted across it about their love lives, football teams or what they were doing that night.

(I didn’t feel I had much to contribute: I was a virgin, didn’t like sport and my idea of a fun night was sitting in the living room watching The Generation Game with my family.)

During a Boots training session before Christmas, when the manager was getting staff to shout out (why so much yelling?!) all the ways they could think of to sell more stuff on the shop floor, I sat fascinated by all the people around me who seemed happy to talk over each other and have their voices heard without embarrassment.

A while into this session, I realised I was supposed to speak up, but I couldn’t think of anything to suggest other than to be polite and helpful to customers.

Shyness - and its cousin quietness - is a strength

I was happy to learn from other people’s shouted-out ideas, and I reckon because I was concentrating on what they were saying, I probably took more in than they did. (I often did this at school, too, though conversely I also got told off for my incessant chatting during maths lessons.)

I now know that shyness - and its cousin quietness - is a strength (see Susan Cain’s bestselling book, Quiet, which has been called ‘the best leadership book of the century’).

While people sometimes distrust quietness, I know that it means I am able to listen, observe and be curious about people and situations, and that I can get as much enjoyment from listening as I can from talking.

I’m now comfortable in my skin enough to go hands-in-the-air clubbing stone-cold sober

I know that I relate to people best in one-to-one chats, and that it takes me a while to feel confident enough to speak up in big groups.

I also know that I’m now comfortable in my skin enough to go hands-in-the-air clubbing stone cold sober, to do an improv performance, to go on first dates without drinking and to dance salsa with strangers.

But despite this confidence, the what ifs about lying down on the LinkedIn road still crept in.

What if my editors now know that sometimes I felt like I was wading through shit emotionally during lockdown, and sought professional help when I hit a low?

What happens if ex-boyfriends (hello ex-boyfriends!) see a picture of 45-year-old makeup-free me? And what if colleagues find out about my lockdown dating experiences from my childhood bedroom?

Having posted on LinkedIn, the scariest thing of all happened: multiple people signed up

The answer to all of these questions is simply: so what?

I advocate seeking help for mental health issues and if me writing about low moments and therapy can encourage someone else to seek help, then, great. If I can help others feel heard, I’m happy.

Anyway, having posted on LinkedIn, the scariest thing of all happened: multiple people signed up. Isn’t that what I wanted? But when my inbox pinged with notifications, I was pleased and scared at the same time.

Now, I have to write some stuff that’s useful/entertaining/enlightening/funny/etc enough for people to keep reading. This is where the real work starts.

People say true happiness lies in being content with yourself without the need for external validation, but the truth is that having people sign up and reading The Honesty Box kind of equals external validation, because it means what I write has some resonance.

Hello, world!

Things I like

Being semi-sober

This is a shameless plug, but earlier this year I wrote about my ‘semi-sober’ strategy for Delish magazine (employed partly because I get a hangover after one drink). I’m posting it again because it’s a difficult time of year to say no to booze, or to drink in moderation.

While I love a Christmas do, they can be quite long-winded and there can be pressure to ‘just have one more’ or carry on to the after-party. But everyone has the right to say no, call it a night, or switch to water.

Disco heaven

Printworks, the massive nightclub in a former printing press in London’s Docklands, will close next year, so it’s your last chance to dance to disco music at La Discotheque, on 10 March. Norman Jay will be joined by Alexis Taylor doing a Prince tribute set plus about eight other top names. I’ll be there.