Unraveling from Isolation, Rolling into Connection

Content note: This piece includes discussion of disordered eating, anxiety, and addiction.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I was an introvert. Before that, there was also a period where I convinced myself (and others) that I was an extrovert. In both directions, it was always extreme. These extremities ruled my life for a longggg time.

As far back as I can remember, I believed everything was black and white, either all or nothing. I spent a lot of time stuck in the past or spiraling about the future. In both places, I was never fully present. I was living in a black hole of worry, stress, and mental overload. Existing this way ruled my life (and not in a good way) for a very long time.

In this month’s journal entry, I want to explore how social anxiety has majorly impacted my life and share a few realizations I’ve had since reaching two years of sobriety.

In my adolescence (aka middle school and high school), I painted myself as an extroverted social butterfly. I was always laughing, cracking jokes, and being silly. Don’t get me wrong, being a silly goose is genuinely part of my nature and probably the first bullet point on my personality chart. But a lot of the time, it was also a mask; a way to feel accepted.

I often let myself be the butt of the joke, especially when I was deeply struggling with my body image. Making people laugh felt good because, truthfully, it was really hard for me to feel joy. I was constantly around people; always out, always busy, always at some sort of social gathering.

In high school and college, as I got involved in drinking, alcohol became a major crutch: a way to be social, a way to numb, and a way to avoid feeling my feelings.

It was no secret that I had (and still have) an addictive personality. Before alcohol, it showed up as an obsession with food; what I ate, when I ate, how I ate. You get the point. Once again, the theme of extremity was present. It was truly all or nothing. That same pattern continued as I partied for years, until it reached a point where I simply couldn’t do it anymore.

The years of abusing my mind and body had to come to an end. I’m intentionally skipping over a lot of what happened in between because I’m still learning how to cope with and heal from it. I want to share that part of my story when I can speak from a place of love rather than embarrassment and shame. Healing is a lifelong process, and I want to be transparent without sugarcoating the sticky stuff.

When I became sober, shame, guilt, embarrassment, and anxiety were a sea of emotions that flooded in. The overwhelm I felt when I stopped numbing and masking everything was terrifying. I could no longer pretend to be happy all the time, and that realization knocked me down hard. The shame of no longer being “the fun one” or feeling like a “Debbie Downer” was a tough pill to swallow.

Where my social anxiety once showed up as overcompensation and people-pleasing, it slowly shifted into isolation and shutdown. I could still flip the switch and be the happy, go-lucky version of myself when I needed to, but the moment I could, I would retreat.

Eventually, I convinced myself that I was an introvert who didn’t like being social at all. I developed a deep fear of being perceived. Being at a social event, running into someone on the street, or even being in a group of close friends felt overwhelming and anxiety-provoking. That reality was isolating and lonely. It created a cycle of pulling away and feeling down about myself. I still get waves of those feelings sometimes, but they’ve softened as I continue to work through them.

The deeper I searched within myself by asking why socializing felt so unbearable, the clearer it became. My social anxiety held me in a state of constant overwhelm, so my survival instincts decided the safest option was to stop socializing altogether.

It wasn’t me rejecting social connection, it was my nervous system.

I slowly began to realize that I actually do enjoy socializing. It just took time to rediscover that part of myself, especially in sobriety. Learning to find the balance between solitude and connection, and safety and vulnerability, has been key.

Yoga became a major lifeline during my sobriety journey. On one hand, I felt incredibly proud of myself for being sober, doing the inner work and diving deeper into my yoga practice. But at the end of the day, humans need community. Through therapy and my psychology studies, I began to understand that connection isn’t optional; it’s biological.

My good friend Lizzy recently introduced me to The Work That Reconnects by Joanna Macy, which has helped pull me out of the isolation hole. I began to understand that no matter how much inner work, therapy, or yoga we do, it doesn’t mean much if we can’t bring love and connection into our communities.

And healing, I’m learning, is about gently reminding myself, and my nervous system, that it’s safe to reconnect with others and to show up as I am. In fact, being in community can help us process and grow through what we’re facing. The process of growth and healing is not linear and there’s no perfect finish line to cross. I’m still learning, stumbling, and growing every day. If you feel like any of this resonates with you, I hope you know you’re not alone and that it’s okay to take small, gentle steps forward. Community, connection, and self-compassion are always possible, even after long seasons of struggle. Thank you for reading and for holding space for me to share.