I walk into social situations already bracing for it. My brain catalogs every word I say before it’s fully out of my mouth. Was I too quiet? Too loud? Too stiff? Did I talk too much or not enough? Should I have smiled more? Did I sound bored, or desperate, or disinterested? Was that joke off? You probably didn’t notice. But I notice everything.

Even if I make it through the event without obvious disaster, I come home and unravel. I run it all back like security footage, searching for what went wrong. I tell myself it’s fine, I’m fine… but I never quite believe it.

And still, I want the invitation.

Even when I say no, I want to be asked. I want to know you thought of me. I want to belong to something, even if I can’t always show up for it. For people like me, inclusion isn’t about attendance. It’s about possibility. It’s about knowing the door is open, even if I can’t walk through it this time.

We live in a culture that celebrates presence. Loudness. Togetherness.

You fill tables and group chats with ease. You host effortlessly. You stay late. You thrive in the mess and chatter of communal life. You are, in so many ways, what I admire and what I can’t keep up with.

I need something different. I need quiet the way you need conversation. I need slowness, space, recovery time. I need to be able to leave early without guilt, to sit silently without suspicion. I want connection. I just want it in soft doses, with room to exhale.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve built my life too safely. If this solitude is less about peace and more about protection. Because when I show up, I can’t always guarantee I’ll be the version of myself I want you to see. I can’t promise lightness, or ease, or charm. Some days, just being there costs more than I have to give.

And I know it’s hard to understand from the outside. It looks like flakiness. Like disinterest. Like I don’t care about you, or your simchah, or your effort. I want to be the kind of person you don’t have to think twice about inviting. I just don’t always know how to be that person and still feel like myself.

So I pull away. I dip early. I don’t respond. I scroll through the photos afterward and tell myself it’s fine. I needed the rest. I needed the quiet.

But deep down, there’s that little pulse of longing. I wish I could’ve come. I wish it felt easier.

And that’s why I’m asking you: Please, keep inviting me.

Keep including me, even when I don’t show up. Keep sending the text, even if I leave it unread. Keep the door open. It tells me I still matter. That I still belong. That even if I can’t bring myself to join you, I haven’t been forgotten.

Maybe one day, I will come. I’ll slip in, quiet and unsure, and hope you don’t notice the nerves in my smile. Maybe I’ll stay the whole time. Maybe I’ll laugh without thinking. Maybe I’ll feel like I belong — not because I performed well enough to earn it, but because you made space for me to be exactly who I am.

But even if I don’t come — if I panic, if I change my mind at the last minute — I’ll still remember that you thought of me.

And that will mean more than you know.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 979)