I had a conversation today with the good friend of a good friend—one of those generous, strategic humans who actually knows things about hiring and was kind enough to let me pick his brain. Because, yes, I need a job. And while we’re all supposed to pretend that’s a casual thing you manifest through vibes and personal branding, let’s be honest: it’s messy.

We covered a lot. Clarity. Strategy. The deeply unsettling question: Does what I want to do even exist?

And then he brought up networking.

Not as a throwaway suggestion, but as a thoughtful, pragmatic thing I might need to do more of. Show up to events. Talk to people. Make connections.

And that’s where my nervous system starts scribbling in the margins.

I froze. Not just inside—outwardly. I think I even stopped nodding. My eyes lost focus. My posture shifted into that stiff, slightly defensive shape it takes when I’m trying to keep from crawling out of my own skin.

Because networking is one of the few things I have never been able to do.

For a long time, I thought this was just shyness. Or a sort of disdain for that awkward zone where there are too many people for intimacy and too few for anonymity.

But it’s not that. Not exactly.

I realized today, for the first time in almost 20 years of forcing myself to get better at it, that the discomfort I feel in these situations is not a quirk or a personal failing. It’s cognitive overload. It’s sensory chaos. It’s empathy burnout in real time.

Here’s what I mean:

When I’m paying attention to someone, I’m really paying attention.

Eye contact. Tone. Body language. The subtext behind their story. The subtle shift in their posture when they start to feel awkward or bored or misunderstood. I’m locked in.

Add another person to the mix and suddenly I’m doing double the work. I start counting seconds of eye contact to make sure I’m showing interest but not flirting. I monitor my facial expressions, make the appropriate listening noises. I remind myself to breathe. And if it’s just me and two other people, I can manage that for a while.

But then a fourth person joins. And now we’re off the cliff.

If the group splits into pairs, I’m fine. One-on-one is my comfort zone.

But if we stay in a cluster, someone is always being ignored or interrupted. And I will absolutely, 100% be the one who notices. So I start trying to adjust—make space for someone to speak, track who hasn’t been heard yet, juggle the timing of when to nod or speak or disengage.

Meanwhile my brain is screaming: You’re being weird. You’re too quiet. You’re not contributing enough. That person probably thinks you don’t like them. That laugh was too loud. You’re making this uncomfortable.

My body’s trying to sit still, but my nervous system is already filing a report.

Oh, and I can’t hear out of one ear. So if the room is noisy—which it always is—I’m only catching pieces of the conversation. Add the drone of voices, clinking glasses, fluorescent lighting, perfume, and the unmistakable collective sweat of every amazing human who chose to bike instead of drive—and I start to float out of my body. Not in a transcendent way. In a dissociative I cannot process all this input way.

I’ve spent my career behind the scenes, making things happen—quietly connecting people, building spaces that feel human, creating moments where others can shine. I’m not great at small talk, but I’ve made a life out of creating the conditions where real conversations can happen. I make the room work—for everyone else.

But when it’s time to advocate for myself in that same space? I vanish.

I’m not shy.
I’m not antisocial.
I just can’t fucking network.

And maybe that’s not a flaw to fix, but a design feature I’ve finally stopped debugging.