Finding Connection: A Quiet Understanding

Sometimes, it feels like I’m standing on a dock, waving at a ship that just won’t see me. Friendships, you know – those quiet, comfortable connections we assume come so easily to others – they've always been... tricky. Not impossible, mind you. But often requiring more effort than seems fair. It wasn't something discussed much when I was younger. A child expected to play nicely and make friends, and if that didn’t happen, well, it was a reflection of *you*, wasn’t it? A little sad shake of the head, a whispered comment about being “shy” or “difficult.”

I remember feeling this particularly keenly during my years teaching. A classroom thrives on connection, of course – between student and teacher, student to student. I could orchestrate that atmosphere beautifully; build rapport, mediate conflicts, create a sense of belonging. But sustaining those kinds of connections outside the controlled environment of school…that was another matter entirely. The vibrancy faded when the bell rang. And beyond a surface level, a deeper, more reciprocal connection? That was something I often yearned for but found difficult to achieve.

It’s not that I wasn't *interested* in friendships. Quite the opposite! I wanted them dearly. But my attempts sometimes felt… clumsy. As if I missed unspoken cues, misinterpreted intentions. There was a constant low-level anxiety about getting it wrong – saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, being the wrong kind of friend. That noise made it difficult to actually *be* present and engaging in an authentic way. It’s exhausting trying to monitor yourself constantly like that.

I've come to understand, through a great deal of observation over many years – both personal and from watching my students navigate their own social landscapes – that what we call “social skills” are largely learned behaviors. They aren’t innate, not really. We pick them up by observing others, mimicking actions, interpreting subtle signals. For some people, those signals arrive loud and clear. But for others—for those of us whose brains process information in a different way — they can be… muted, distorted, or simply missed entirely.

Think about planting a garden. Some seeds sprout quickly, reaching for the sunlight. Others lie dormant longer, needing specific conditions to thrive. It doesn’t mean the second group of seeds are inferior; it just means they need something different. Perhaps a little more time, a bit more nurturing. And sometimes, you have to be willing to experiment – try different soil mixes, adjust the watering schedule until you find what works best for that particular seed.

This summer, in my newfound quiet, I've been thinking about Phyllis and our autumn equinox gathering. It wasn’t planned; it was just... there. A comfortable silence between us while we tended the dahlias. An easy flow of conversation without the pressure to *perform* friendship. And I realized that genuine connection isn't necessarily about grand gestures or elaborate plans. Sometimes, it's simply showing up – being present and open to whatever unfolds.

Perhaps that’s what’s been missing all along: a sense of permission—permission to be imperfect, to stumble, to miss those subtle signals without feeling like a failure. The freedom to let friendships develop organically, at their own pace, rather than forcing them into some preconceived mold. To accept the quiet spaces between conversations just as much as the lively exchanges.

It’s never too late to cultivate new connections, or to deepen existing ones. But it also takes understanding—understanding yourself and your own unique way of navigating the world. It's not about changing who you are; it's about creating space for authenticity to flourish. A dock isn't a failure because a ship passes by without noticing – sometimes, it just means that another ship will come along, one that is looking directly at you.