Unexpected visitors. No, I'd rather not.

I Thought I Was Social. I Was Wrong. I used to think I was a social person. Turns out, I wasn’t. Or well… “social” is a big word. Let me put it like this: I can be social. I have the skills. I know how to ask questions, nod at the right moments, laugh at things that are only mildly funny, and keep a conversation going about a topic I don’t care about at all. For years, I thought that was my personality. That this was me. Social. Easygoing. Always up for a chat. But the truth is different.

The truth is: more and more often, I just don’t feel like it. Not because I dislike people. Not because I secretly want to live as a hermit in a cabin in the woods with just a cat and a stack of books. But because somewhere along the way, I realized I’d rather decide where my energy goes. That I don’t have to be available all the time. That “no” is a complete sentence. And that my couch, my Netflix, and I form a holy trinity that should not be disturbed lightly.

The doorbell rings. The door stays closed

Let’s talk about unexpected visits. If I’m on my couch, wrapped in my favorite blanket, fully invested in a series that finally got good. Or scrolling through something on my iPad that I’ve been meaning to dive into for weeks. At that exact moment, my need for human interaction is precisely zero. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t even want contact with the outside world through messages, but that’s a different story. And then the doorbell rings.

In the past, I would jump up, quickly check if I was wearing something decent, and open the door. Because… what else would you do? That’s normal, right? Well. It used to be. Now I think: who decided that? If I’m not expecting anyone, if there’s no package on the way, if I have absolutely no reason to believe someone is at my door that I want or need to see… then I simply don’t open it. I stay right where I am. I hit pause. I wait until the ringing stops. And then I continue my life. Is that weird? Maybe.

But here’s the thing: the people who actually need me, send a message. They call. They let me know they’re coming. And then I do open the door. I might even make coffee. But random, unannounced, unexpected?

No. I’d rather not. Sorry.

The VIP list exists. And it’s small

Let me be honest. There are people who can show up unannounced. They exist. But if I count them, I don’t get past one hand. And even that feels generous. These are the people I open the door for before they even ring the bell, because I already saw them coming. The people I don’t need to change clothes for. The ones I don’t pretend to be busy for. The people who get me exactly as I am. Bad hair, worn-out sweatpants, and all. But there really aren’t that many of them. And I’m okay with that. Because I’d rather have five people with whom I can truly be myself, than twenty-five people for whom I perform some version of me that doesn’t even feel real. Quality over quantity. Grandma was right. Always.

The conversation that only goes one way

There’s something else too. Something that drains even more energy than unexpected visits. Conversations where you are the only one asking questions. For a long time, I thought I was just genuinely interested in people. And I am. Sometimes. But I’m starting to realize that my interest has an expiration date. And that date arrives the moment I notice it’s a one-way street. Because I do ask questions. I want to know how you’re doing. What’s going on in your life. How that project ended. If your mom is doing better. Whether you booked that trip yet. I listen. I respond. I follow up. I’m a great conversationalist, if I may say so myself. But if after ten minutes not a single question comes back my way… if my stories become background noise while you’re already thinking about your next topic… if I have to repeat myself because you simply weren’t listening… Then something quietly shuts off in my head.

Click.

I’m still there. Physically. But the real me? She’s gone.

Repeating myself is not a hobby

And the repeating… that might be my favorite annoyance. I tell you something. You respond to something I didn’t say. I correct you. You ask something I just explained. I repeat it. You nod.

Five minutes later, you ask again.

Some people manage to pull that off multiple times in one conversation. Others seem to have the memory of a goldfish and don’t even remember the conversation we had last week. You might think it was a good, meaningful talk. Meanwhile, I remember telling you something important, something that mattered to me. And the next time I see you, you ask about something that I already explained was no longer relevant. At that point, I’m done.

Not angry. Not offended. Just done.

I store it away internally, close the window, and the next time you ask how I’m doing, you’ll get a simple: “I’m good.” That’s it. No more stories. No more details. Because you’re not listening anyway. It might sound harsh. Maybe even cold.

I call it self-preservation.

The social event I’m not attending

I used to go everywhere. Birthdays of people I barely knew. Friday drinks where I already knew at 4 PM that I didn’t want to go, but went anyway because it felt impolite to say no. Neighborhood events where I stood there nodding about pavement issues while mentally begging to go home. Now? I just say no. No excuse. No made-up plans. No polite lies. Just: “No, I’m not coming.” Or at most: “I don’t feel like it.” And here’s what I discovered. Most people are perfectly fine with that.

And the ones who aren’t? They prove exactly why I didn’t feel like going in the first place. It’s a filter. A very useful one.

So maybe I am a bit of a hermit. And that’s okay

In the end, I realized I’m an introvert who spent a long time thinking she was an extrovert. Or maybe I’m just someone who is social on her own terms. On moments I choose. With people I choose. At times I choose. And the rest can stay outside.

Sometimes quite literally.

My couch doesn’t judge me. My Netflix doesn’t ask how I’m doing and then wait for an answer. Well… occasionally it asks if I’m still watching. My iPad doesn’t interrupt me with stories about bathroom tiles. My blanket never asks questions. That’s friendship. That’s companionship. That’s everything I need on a random weekday evening. So if you ever find yourself at my door, ringing the bell without warning…

Maybe I’m home. Maybe I’m not.

Either way, I’m probably not opening it.

Just send me a message.

It works better for both of us.

Do you recognize this? Or are you the kind of person who just shows up unannounced? Let me know in the comments. I’ll read them. Later. Probably from my couch.