Making Small Talk Big: My Journey to a More Social Life

For as long as I can remember, social situations made me feel like I was walking into a room full of invisible walls. People chatted effortlessly around me—about the weather, sports, weekend plans—but my mind would go blank. I’d practice lines in my head, trying to sound “normal,” only to mumble something awkward or just laugh at the wrong time. I wasn’t shy exactly—I wanted to connect—but small talk felt like a foreign language everyone else had mastered.

High school was the worst. While others gathered in buzzing cliques, I hovered near the edges. I wasn’t unfriendly. I just didn’t know how to start. I’d say things like, “So… you like pizza?” and instantly regret it. Even in college, the pattern continued. My roommate made friends in every hallway, while I was still overthinking how to say “hi” in the laundry room without sounding weird.

It wasn’t until I entered the working world that things began to shift. I got hired at a small design firm with an open office layout—which meant no hiding. Everyone talked constantly: at the coffee machine, in meetings, even in the elevator. My first week, I barely spoke unless directly spoken to. People were friendly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was always two steps behind in conversation.

Then, something unexpected happened. During a team lunch, my coworker Lauren leaned over and said, “I’m terrible at these things. I never know what to say at group lunches.”

I blinked. Her? The woman who seemed so natural? “Wait, really?”

She nodded. “Oh yeah. I just fake it until I can go back to my desk.”

That moment cracked something open in me. If even the social butterflies felt awkward sometimes, maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe small talk wasn’t about being perfect. Maybe it was just about showing up.

So I made a decision—not a huge one, but enough to shift my energy. I would try to talk to one new person a week. Just one. No pressure to become best friends, just a simple “How’s your day going?” or “Cool mug—where’s it from?”

The first week, I complimented a woman’s shoes in the elevator. She lit up and told me she got them on sale. We laughed about how our feet were secretly dying from office shoes. Ten seconds. That was all it took. But something about it gave me a boost.

The second week, I asked the guy next to me in the break room if he liked the podcast he was listening to. He launched into a full review, and we ended up sharing recommendations.

Over time, I noticed a pattern: people wanted to connect. They weren’t judging me for being awkward—they were just as relieved when someone made the first move. The pressure I’d always placed on myself to say something brilliant was never real. What mattered was effort, not eloquence.

I began to enjoy these micro-moments of connection. I asked people about their pets, weekend plans, their weirdest Uber experience. I laughed more. Listened better. And something wild started to happen—I made friends.

Not just “talk-about-the-weather” acquaintances, but real, laugh-until-you-snort friendships. People started inviting me to lunch. Someone added me to the office meme chat. I even got asked to plan our holiday party—which involved, yes, talking to everyone.

There were still awkward moments. Like the time I accidentally called my boss “Dad” in a team meeting. Or the time I asked a coworker when her baby was due (she wasn’t pregnant—never again). But even those missteps became part of the fun. I realized that being social isn’t about getting it right—it’s about being real.

The biggest surprise was how much better I felt inside. I stopped dreading group settings. I felt more confident. More connected. And even on quiet days, I carried the warmth of the small moments I’d created.

Now, whenever I meet someone who says, “I’m not really a people person,” I smile and say, “Neither was I. You’d be surprised what happens when you start small.”

So yes, I still overthink sometimes. I still rehearse lines in my head when I’m tired or nervous. But now I know: small talk isn’t small. It’s the first thread in a tapestry of connection.

And I’m proud to say, I’ve learned to weave.