A few months back, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Emily while waiting for the restroom at a café. I complimented her shoes, and although I quickly shifted the focus to my own footwear, she seemed friendly and engaged. We might have exchanged names, but I can’t recall for certain. I hoped perhaps we’d become friends.
As time went on, I would occasionally see Emily around town. Sometimes she greeted me, and other times, I felt like she didn’t acknowledge me at all. This led me to only wave back at her sporadically, or, on the off days, I would avoid eye contact, pretending to examine something above her head. I even started doubting whether she was the same person I had spoken to earlier, despite the fact that our small town has about 200 residents, with only a handful resembling one another. Eventually, I convinced myself that I had never met her, stopped saying hello, and even ceased looking her way. In my mind, she transformed from a friendly stranger to someone who simply didn’t like me.
Isn’t it fascinating how we can rationalize our own distance or perceived unfriendliness? We often convince ourselves that the other person initiated the rift. This tendency isn’t limited to mere acquaintances; long-time friends can fall into this trap as well. I’ve found myself mediating between two friends, each believing they’ve put in the effort while the other hasn’t reciprocated. “I feel like I’ve tried my best with her,” one might say, “but if she wants to hang out, she needs to reach out first.” It’s a cycle of misunderstanding that feels familiar yet disheartening.
What’s more, trying to explain to someone who is wallowing in social self-pity that their perceived slights are often imaginary is futile. The more you attempt to comfort them, the more defensive they become, as if you’re trying to take something precious from them.
Returning to my own experience, I must admit that even while I was convinced Emily disliked me, I knew I was caught in a familiar pattern. It was a strange comfort, a game of emotional back-and-forth that felt both good and bad. After all, would we dwell on negative perceptions of others if it didn’t serve some purpose? Perhaps it brings us back to a time when we felt innocent and helpless, much like children navigating the complexities of playground dynamics. Or maybe it’s just easier to blame others for our loneliness than to exert the effort to connect. The less exciting possibility is that by believing no one likes us, we inadvertently fulfill that belief—though, in reality, plenty of people likely do appreciate us.
In an unexpected twist, Emily reached out to me via a note on Facebook. I had previously shared an article expressing my feelings of isolation, perhaps hoping for some sympathy while also wishing to be taken lightly. She commented, “It wouldn’t have occurred to me that you were someone who needed friends.” This realization made me sad, as it highlighted how effectively I hide my true self. Yet, strangely, it also brought me a sense of happiness, as it affirmed my ability to protect myself emotionally.
As adults, we often get wrapped up in our own worries—jobs, families, health—leaving little room to ponder what others think of us. Shouldn’t we just assume everyone thinks we’re great?
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Summary
We often misinterpret social cues, leading us to believe others don’t like us. This behavior can stem from a desire to protect ourselves or from simply not wanting to put in the effort to connect. Ultimately, we may find that many people appreciate us, regardless of our assumptions. In the realm of home insemination, understanding the emotional landscape can be just as vital as the practical aspects of the journey toward parenthood.