When I was six years old, I was blazingly unshy.
I didn’t “meet” neighbors, I introduced myself to them. I would march across the street, knock on a stranger’s door solo, and say something like, “Hi! I love your Mustang. I’ve never been in your house before. Can I have a tour?”
(Yes. That happened. Repeatedly.)
Looking back, it seems like a great way to get kidnapped. But somehow, nothing bad ever happened.
If a new kid moved into the neighborhood, I’d just show up and say, “Want to go to the park?” No overthinking. No shame. Just a clear desire for connection.
Then puberty hit.
And with it came the slow shrinking. A fog of self-consciousness rolled in. I became less sure. Less bold. I started questioning my impulses. The desire to connect was still there, but now it wore a coat of hesitation.
College cracked that shell for a while. Everyone was a new kid again. There was permission to introduce yourself, to reinvent, to build friendships from scratch. The slate was blank, and we filled it with dorm-room conversations and dance floor chaos.
But adulthood?
Adulthood gets weird.
Suddenly, making new friends feels like asking someone out on a date. “Want to grab coffee sometime?” becomes emotionally loaded. The muscles we once flexed effortlessly have atrophied. Our adult social lives calcify into whatever’s left over: co-workers, the parents of our kids’ friends, or the one friend from college we still text on birthdays.
Now, I find myself in a new city.
A new house. A new rhythm. And exactly two local friends.
So I’m setting myself a challenge for 2026:
To channel my six-year-old self.
To knock on metaphorical doors.
To ask for the tour.
And it feels like a challenge because, while my inner child was fearless, my adult brain has gotten tangled with “what ifs”.
What if they think I’m too much?
What if I bother them?
What if they don’t want to be friends with me?
But here’s what I’m learning:
That voice—the one warning me to stay small—it doesn’t protect me. It imprisons me.
So I’m choosing something else. I’m choosing to increase the surface area for connection, even though that also means increasing the surface area for rejection. Because I’d rather feel liberated and rejected than protected and isolated.
My word for this year is “aliveness”—and that includes awkward coffee invites, new conversations, unexpected friendships, and a lot more rejections too.
This month, aliveness looks like writing handwritten notes to all my new neighbors and dropping them in mailboxes. An invitation to come over for a “new kid on the block” open house. To meet in person, to say hi, and to start weaving the fabric of community.
Handwritten notes are an easy starting place. But the muscle I’m most eager to start using is asking the random person in the coffee shop with great energy if they want to meet up sometime.
It might feel weird.
It might feel bold.
It might even feel a little like knocking on a stranger’s door and asking for a tour of their home.
But honestly? That kid knew something.
An invitation for connection doesn’t always need a reason. It just needs a beginning.
So if you’re reading this and feeling a little stuck on the same social track, consider this your permission slip to try something different. Reach out. Start the conversation. Let it be weird. Let it be wonderful.
Here’s to more.
More depth.
More silliness.
More courage.
And more people to dance through this messy life with.
Wish me luck. I’m off to write some notes.
