Stay in Your Comfort Zone: A Story of Social Anxiety

TL;DR

• Childhood Trauma and Social Anxiety: The author’s traumatic childhood of public humiliation, criticism, and persistent emotional abuse led to severe social anxiety.
  

• Enduring Public and Private Struggles: The author’s social anxiety made simple interactions like ordering food or giving class presentations excruciatingly difficult, accompanied by physical symptoms like shaking and a pounding heart.
  

• Misguided Advice and Forced Exposure: Despite attempts to cope through forced exposure and unsolicited advice to “step out of the comfort zone”, the author’s anxiety did not improve over a decade, exacerbating her mental health issues and leading to physical ailments like gray hair and digestive problems.
  

• Healing through Self-Acceptance: Moving away from her abusive environment and experiencing a quieter world during the pandemic allowed the author to start healing. Embracing self-acceptance, taking breaks, and setting personal boundaries proved more effective than forced exposure, leading to gradual improvement in social interactions and mental well-being.
  
  

As a child, I experienced a profoundly traumatic event due to the willful negligence of my caregivers. Rather than accepting responsibility, my father threatened me with a similar fate. This trauma manifested as severe PTSD, causing debilitating anxiety that would overwhelm my nervous system and lead to loss of consciousness throughout my life. Despite being aware of my condition, my father concealed it from doctors and denied me access to therapy. Instead, he ridiculed my mental health struggles in the presence of family and friends, often while I was in the room.

This public humiliation, combined with constant berating, hypercriticism, and emotional abuse throughout my childhood, shaped my perception of reality. My mind learned to assume that everyone in the world is like my father. Once a little girl who loved making friends and giving class presentations, I grew into someone who couldn’t order food at a restaurant or make a phone call without a pounding heart and sweaty palms. As my father would lecture me for hours if I let slip any negative facial expressions, I unconsciously began masking my true emotions from everyone, fearing they might discern my thoughts and punish me for them.

I felt like a mortal walking among fickle gods eager to destroy me in an instant. Everyone was dangerous. Everyone had the power to obliterate me with their disapproval.

School was especially challenging. I avoided teachers and asking questions, fearing they might berate me in front of the entire class. Securing letters of recommendation was always difficult. I was terrified of my peers’ judgment and couldn’t give class presentations without the sound of my racing heart drowning out my own words. Low class participation grades reminded me of my shame. Having very few friends did as well.

By my late teenage years, every aspect of life involving human interaction became unbearably difficult. Even worse, this struggle was apparent to everyone around me. I became a target for ridicule and unsolicited advice.

“Get out of your comfort zone” became a phrase I dreaded hearing from others.

My father punished me for not acting as “extroverted” as others my age. He labeled me as lazy and unwilling to push through the slightest discomfort for the sake of personal growth. He harassed me to do things outside my mental bandwidth, insisting that his version of forced exposure therapy — while denying me access to an actual therapist — was the only way for me to “become stronger” and “get out of my comfort zone”.

However, the reality was that I lived so far outside my comfort zone that I didn’t even know what one felt like. By early adulthood, leaving the house became difficult as a result of this persistent abuse. The moment I stepped outside, a blanket of fear enveloped me, hounding me until I returned home. I felt like a lone seal swimming in open water, shadows of sharks lurking beneath, seeking brief moments of reprieve on small islets of ice or rock.

Still, when I explained my struggles to others, the only recommendation I received was “just go out and do it” and “step out of your comfort zone”. Since no one would recognize that my struggle was valid and that it was all a matter of me “not being strong enough”, I assumed I must not be. I grew to hate myself for being socially anxious. 

I developed a practice of mercilessly forcing myself to do uncomfortable things. I pushed myself to talk to strangers and join clubs. I auditioned for a dance group in front of dozens of people. I performed at a music recital in front of a hundred more. A kind professor offered the option to upload a recording of their final presentation instead of presenting it live to the entire class, a rare and thoughtful gesture for those with presentation anxiety. Despite this, I opted to present live because I didn’t want to feel “weak”. Each and every time, I could feel vines of poisonous stress hormones lashing through my veins, heart beats so loud they’d cloud my hearing. My hands would shake and palms would sweat. I would not stop trembling for a while afterwards.

It took me years to realize that none of these experiences helped me. Even though the auditions, recitals, and presentations went well, my social anxiety never improved. Instead of feeling proud of my accomplishments, only the sheer discomfort of these experiences was what lingered with me. Indeed, I never had a comfort zone. I was consistently, perpetually uncomfortable and never felt safe, no matter where I was, nor who I was with. The physical impact of this consistently high level of anxiety resulted in gray hairs, digestive issues, and eczema by my mid twenties. Putting the fear of being weak over my mental health had never been conducive to my well being.

It’s only in recent years that I’ve begun to heal my social anxiety due to life changes. I moved away from my father and left school, where participation was no longer forced onto me. The Covid-19 pandemic was strange in the way in which it allowed me to catch up with the rest of the world. Remote classes, job interviews and employment considerably eased my anxiety. Having my own income finally allowed me to seek therapy.

Without my social anxiety being triggered over and over, I was finally allowed to rest. And although I began therapy, I didn’t respond well to CBT, a common therapeutic modality for social anxiety. Challenging the validity of my thoughts and feelings, after years of being told they were wrong by others, was retriggering. I later found that somatic sensing therapy, which allowed me to simply feel and accept the uncomfortable emotions trapped in my body, was personally much more helpful. Combined with this, I took up mindfulness and meditation, all of which helped me subconsciously begin to reframe how I thought of my social anxiety.

I realized that my brain adapted to survive my circumstances, in a reality where my caregivers threatened unimaginable, traumatic harm if I stepped out of line and humiliated me for sport in front of others. My mind therefore developed a deep fear of people that made sure I did not step out of line and be visible enough to warrant humiliation.

This was my survival mechanism. Yet, it was criticized for years by peers, professors, family and coworkers. I soon realized that those who gave me no credit for my invisible, excruciating struggle did so because they assumed I had no trauma. Indeed, they likely could not even imagine what I went through. Their brains felt safer around people than mine did, therefore they held me to the same standards as them, convinced I just needed to try harder when I was already trying beyond my best every single day.

This reframing revealed the truth. My social anxiety is not a deformity that is a mark of shame. It’s my body’s protection and survival. There is nothing wrong with me. I never had to force myself to fit into the world. My brain’s valiant efforts to protect me is not something that needs to be fixed, but loved.

Imagine a runner with a broken leg who struggles to keep up, feeling sharp pain with every step and in need of medical attention. Now picture this runner being told to “hurry up” and “just do it” while competing in a race. Despite the excruciating pain that no one else experiences, they push themselves to keep going. What is a manageable race for others is an agonizing ordeal for them. Their suffering is evident, yet instead of receiving support and empathy, they are met with ridicule and unsolicited advice on how to run faster. Now, imagine this runner having to endure this painful race every single day.

Many people will come into your space and tell you to run the marathon with a broken leg rather than gently carry you to the sidelines and tend to your injuries. It’s important to realize that you must take yourself out of the race when you can. Listen to your pain when no one else will because you are the only one who knows what you’re going through.

There is neurological diversity in the human race, yet the world is built only for the able-minded. It must learn to understand and accept those who are not outgoing, those who are neurodivergent, those with personality disorders, those who don’t come from safe or loving households, those whose brains adapted to survive in ways that society deems undesirable or “antisocial”. Telling someone who seems shy or quiet to come out of their comfort zone assumes they have a specific brain chemistry that is unaffected by trauma. It’s a form of ableism. The lack of compassion and effort to understand people may make them feel more alone and deepen social anxiety.

Rather than continually placing the onus on victims to conform to what is considered “normal”, we as a society need to challenge ourselves to step out of our comfort zone. We must go out of our way to acquaint ourselves with people who are different from us, those whom we don’t understand. Deepening our compassion for those who have more difficult lives than ours is the way we can begin to dismantle ableism that surrounds not only social anxiety, but all mental illnesses and neurodivergent conditions.

When tennis player Naomi Osaka, who has been open about her struggles with social anxiety, made the decision to step back from doing press talks during the French Open in 2021, she received heavy criticism, a $15,000 fine, and an ultimatum to either withdraw from the competition or stay and fulfill the press obligations. She decided to withdraw, citing waves of anxiety that would overcome her during press events. Still, the public responded with scrutiny and assumed a weakness in her character, which likely made her decision even more challenging. Nevertheless, Naomi’s actions demonstrated that even the greatest athletes in the world with social anxiety are not exempt from people’s assumptions that they are not trying hard enough. She showed me that their ableism should still not dissuade you from taking care of yourself. She gave me the first example in which I can step back instead of push through without shame.

So, put yourself first. In healing, take your time and take time-outs. Avoid social interactions that are unbearable for you that will likely exacerbate anxiety. It took me eleven years to feel moderately okay with interacting with people again. It undoubtedly took so long because I was never told that I didn’t need to be fixed or constantly face my fears. Instead, I found what worked for me, which was simply accepting my anxiety, giving myself space and breaks when I needed them, and putting self love and self acceptance above all else. This was difficult, given my deep conditioning to hate myself for not being “normal”. Yet with time, I healed myself this way, one step at a time, until I woke up one day and found that things felt just a bit easier than the day before.

Now, I enjoy giving presentations, making small talk with waiters, asking questions to strangers, and leaving my house – all when I feel up for it. I’ve always deeply loved people, loved being around them, learning from them, and am grateful for the chance to do so again.