I don’t know how to talk to people. This may sound like a small thing, but it’s one of my defining features.



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For as long as I can remember, I have been quiet and shy. I think I was a fairly normal, talkative child, but as a teenager I went into my shell and never really came out of it again. My fear of embarrassment often leads me to say little or nothing when I’m around other people, even those that I know. Far better to be the odd one in the corner who stays quiet, rather than saying something wrong.



I live a relatively normal life. I don’t have many friends but I’m married, I have a child and I’ve managed to make it some way in academia; I’m currently in my second post-doc role.

But it’s not the usual (and very real) pressures around workload, job security and publications that have me worrying. It’s the fact that every time I walk into a room with other people, I find myself thinking: “Why am I here? Why do I put myself through this? I can’t do this.”



The opportunities for social awkwardness are plentiful at a university: meetings, seminars, training days, coffee mornings, leaving parties, drinks in the pub, Christmas meals, to name a few. These are bad enough, but at least they are usually over fairly quickly, it’s the conferences that I particularly dread.



It’s not the substance of these events that worry me. Like most people, I get nervous when I’m about to speak in public, and I wonder whether I really belong when I hear about the amazing research that others are doing, but it’s the social element that I fear more than anything else.

Will I suffer in future because of the connections I have already failed to make?

Some people seem to thrive in this environment – they are confident and almost seem to have their own gravitational pull. I am the opposite. I find myself sitting alone during coffee and lunch breaks, trying to blend in, to disappear.

Over the years I’ve learned how to cut down on these awkward moments. If it’s an option, you can go to the room where the next session is due to take place and sit down early. This is easier if you have a phone or conference material to look at, so you appear to be doing something.

Alternatively, you can just take yourself away. This could mean going for a walk and coming back, or it might mean hiding in the toilet (something I have done many times).

Or you can avoid going in the first place. I recently skipped an entire drinks reception because I knew it would be awful. Needless to say, none of these are positive solutions.

Every now and then there will be a kind-hearted person who sees you standing on your own and invites you over to join them. These people are lovely, but they only make things worse. I can’t help but wonder what they must think as they take pity on me.

Sadly, this is not just a personal thing, it is also affecting my work. It has been affecting my work for a long time, I suspect. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy; the more I think about the fact that I am not talking to anyone, the less likely I am to be able to do it.

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Perhaps I am putting too much pressure on myself, but it feels like networking is really important in this career. So why have I chosen a career that hinges on something I am terrible at? Will I suffer in future because of the connections I am failing to make? I’m sure things would be easier if I was outgoing and articulate.

I recently attended a conference where one of the keynote speakers was a leading professor in my area of research. I should have introduced myself and spoken about my work. I should have asked for advice. It was important. It is my job. But I didn’t do it, I couldn’t do it. I sat at the back of the lecture theatre on my own, and then left. I went back to my hotel room and cried.

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