I never really thought of myself as bad at conversations. I just knew they felt harder than they seemed for everyone else.
I remember the days before cellphones, talking on the corded rotary phone, stretching it all the way into the laundry room from the kitchen. Speaking in hushed tones for just a smidgen of privacy, always aware that someone might pick up another receiver in a different room.
The first time I remember truly dreading phone calls was during my marriage to my son’s father, especially after my son was born. My mom would often call with loads of unsolicited “mom advice,” and it felt less like a conversation and more like an interrogation. The moment I saw her name pop up on my phone, I felt instant anxiety. I couldn’t explain why—it just felt intense in a way I couldn’t put into words.
I rarely talked to anyone on the phone. I avoided ordering pizza, even that felt overwhelming.
If I’m on a call, it’s for a purpose.
Once the purpose is served, the call ends.
When I say, “I have to go,” or “I’m going to get off here now,” I mean it. That doesn’t mean talk for another fifteen minutes. The shift to texting and ordering things online felt like a relief I didn’t fully understand at the time.
It didn’t just show up at home. It showed up at work too.
In my senior year of high school, I worked the drive-thru at Hardee’s. One evening, a woman in a small red convertible pulled up and asked what items we had for ninety-nine cents. I told her the entire left side of the screen was the ninety-nine cent menu. A little more conversation followed, and then she pulled up to the window and asked to speak to the manager.
I remember being caught off guard. I could tell she was upset, but it felt completely unreasonable to me. My manager handled it, but the woman complained that I was rude and that something needed to be done.
Years later, at an office job, I had to cover the phones during lunch. One day, during an argument, a coworker said, “Well, everyone thinks you’re rude on the phone when they call.”
That stuck with me.
In both situations, I was being efficient.
Clear. Direct. Consistent.
But also, probably a little too robotic.
I didn’t understand that answering a phone—especially in a business—comes with unspoken expectations. A tone. A rhythm. A kind of social padding that softens things.
Adjusting how I spoke never felt natural. It felt fake. Performative.
It took me a long time to realize people weren’t reacting to who I was.
They were reacting to how I communicated.
I thought I was bad at conversations.
I wasn’t.
I was just communicating in a way that didn’t match what people expected.