SELF-AWARENESS | NAMASTE NOW!

Why I Sometimes Freeze When Talking to Strangers

Even though I teach for a living

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash

I’ve always been confused by the version of myself that appears when I’m around strangers. The confident, articulate version of me who teaches students with ease disappears for a while, and the other version of me appears in its place. She’s quieter and hesitates to get involved in a conversation with someone she doesn’t know.

When she joins a webinar, she suddenly becomes panicked when a webinar host says, “Does anyone want to share?”

She arrives at the most inconvenient moments, usually when I’m sitting in an online course, staring at a grid of unfamiliar faces, or when I’m at a face-to-face event with many strangers around me. I can feel her before she even speaks.

She’s the part of me that whispers, “Don’t say anything. You’ll sound ridiculous. Someone will roll their eyes.” And that leads to my throat tightening, and my heart thumping. And I instantly become the shyest version of myself.

It’s strange, because in my everyday work I talk constantly. Teaching is a kind of performance, but it’s also a role I know well. I know what’s expected of me and I know how to guide the flow. I know how to hold the space.

When I’m teaching, I’m the tutor, the mentor, the person with the plan. My identity is clear, and confidence follows naturally from that clarity.

Working alone changes me in ways I don’t notice at first

Most days, I work from home. It’s quiet, peaceful, and very convenient. But it also means I can go hours without speaking to another adult.

My working day consists of my laptop, the dog’s soft sighs as she sleeps beside me, and now and then the sounds of the kettle as it boils and switches itself off, indicating that it’s time for me to make a cup of tea.

It’s a gentle life, but it’s also a solitary one.

When I spend so much time alone, I temporarily forget the rhythm of spontaneous conversation. I forget the small social cues that come naturally when I’m out in the world. And sometimes I forget how to interrupt politely, how to join a group discussion, and how to read a room that isn’t mine.

And then suddenly I’m in a webinar with fifty strangers, and the host says, “Let’s go around and introduce ourselves,” and my brain goes into panic mode.

Confidence is contextual, and identity is the context

People often talk about confidence as if it’s a fixed personality trait. You either have it or you don’t.

But I’ve learned that confidence is far more complex than that. It’s a relationship between who you believe yourself to be and the situation you’re in.

When I’m teaching, my identity is anchored. I know my role. I know my value, and I know the boundaries of the space I’m in. Confidence flows easily because the identity beneath it is solid.

But when I’m in a group of strangers, that identity becomes blurry. I’m not the tutor. I’m not the leader, and I’m not the one with the plan. I’m simply me. And that’s when the shy part of me steps forward.

She’s not wrong to be cautious. She remembers things I’d rather forget, like moments from childhood or adolescence when speaking up led to embarrassment, or laughter, or dismissal. She remembers the sting of being misunderstood. She remembers the heat in her cheeks, the awkward silences, and the feeling of wanting to disappear whenever something she said didn’t go down well.

She learned, long ago, that being quiet was safer.

And even though I’m older now, wiser, and more grounded, she still lives inside me. She still wants to protect me, and she still believes silence is safety.

The fear of ridicule is ancient, but it still lives in my body

Whenever I’m about to speak in a group of strangers, I feel a familiar rush of adrenaline. My heart beats faster, and I breathe more quickly. My mind starts rehearsing sentences that suddenly sound clumsy and wrong.

Humans are wired to fear social rejection. In evolutionary terms, being cast out of the group once meant danger. My nervous system hasn’t caught up with the fact that a Zoom breakout room is not a life‑or‑death situation.

So when I unmute myself, it feels like stepping onto a stage I didn’t audition for. I worry that what I say will be judged, dismissed, or worst of all, that things I say will be thrown back at me with a hint of ridicule or sarcasm.

It’s a fear that doesn’t match the reality of the situation, but it feels real all the same.

The day my shy self took over

A few months ago, I joined an online workshop. I’d promised myself I would speak up at least once. I would just comment or ask a question.

But when the moment came, my shy self took over.

Someone else spoke first. Then another. Then another. Each time I thought, “I’ll go next,” my chest tightened, and my cursor hovered over the unmute button for ages.

By the time I finally gathered the courage, the host said, “Okay, let’s move on.”

I sat there, feeling foolish and frustrated. Not because I hadn’t spoken, but because I’d let fear win again.

But the next time I joined a workshop, I did speak. My voice shook a little, but I did it. And afterwards, I felt pleased that I had managed to do that one small but difficult thing.

Why my identity shifts so dramatically around strangers

I’ve realised that when I’m with strangers, I’m being seen. And being seen without the protective frame of a role can feel exposing.

When I teach, people see me through the lens of competence. They expect me to speak. They want me to speak. They trust me to speak.

But when I’m in a group of strangers, I’m stripped of that familiar identity. I’m not the tutor or the guide, or the one who knows what she’s doing. I’m simply me, and that can feel terrifying.

It’s not the speaking that scares me. It’s the being seen without a script.

Why I keep trying, even when it scares me

I keep speaking up because every time I do, I reclaim a little more space inside myself. I remind myself that the shy part of me that she’s safe now. I try to show her that the world is not full of people waiting to laugh at me.

I teach her that courage doesn’t mean the absence of fear. It means acting anyway.

And sometimes when I speak, something lovely happens. Someone nods or someone smiles, and occasionally someone says, “I’m glad you said that.”

Those tiny moments build confidence back into my identity, bit by bit.

Working as best as I can with the shy part of me

I don’t think the shy part of me will ever disappear completely. She’s been with me too long. She’s woven into my history. But I’ve stopped trying to silence her. Instead, I’ve learned to walk alongside her.

She can come with me to webinars, workshops, and conversations with strangers. She can sit beside me, hands folded neatly in her lap. But she doesn’t get to hold the microphone anymore.

Because confidence is about deciding who I want to be in the moment when it matters.

And every time I speak, even if my voice trembles, I choose to be the version of myself who believes in connection and the courage to speak up whenever I feel the need to do so.

Thanks for reading.

How do you work with the shy part of yourself?

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