Today, social anxiety is one of the most common barriers to building friendships, yet it’s still so often overlooked and even less talked about.
It doesn’t always look dramatic or even noticeable. In fact, some of the people who seem the most confident on the surface are the ones struggling with it internally.
Often, it shows up as a subtle tension that follows you into social spaces – a tightening in the chest, a mental rehearsal of what to say, a quiet panic in extended silence, a worry about coming across the wrong way.
It can make something as simple as walking into a room feel like stepping onto a stage. Every silence feels loaded. Every new person feels like someone you need to win over. And even when nothing is wrong, your mind searches for signs that something is.
For some people, this leads to avoidance. They stay home, decline invitations, or arrive late so there’s less pressure. For others, they show up but never fully relax. They hover at the edges of conversations, overthink their words, or leave events feeling drained rather than connected.
What’s important to understand is this: social anxiety often doesn’t come from being inherently bad at socialising. More often, it comes from low confidence and low self-esteem.
Instead of entering social situations with openness, we walk in braced for failure. We shrink. We second-guess. We assume people have already formed a negative opinion of us long before they’ve had the chance, and a tiny misstep becomes “proof” that we don’t belong.
Over time, these narratives shape our whole approach to connection. We become hyper-attuned to signs of rejection – even when those signs aren’t real.
In friendships, this can make us hesitant, overly apologetic, or so focused on pleasing others that we stop showing up as ourselves.
But the issue isn’t that we’re unworthy of connection. The issue is the distorted lens we’ve learned to see ourselves through.
When the lens is distorted, even kindness can be misinterpreted. Support can look like pity. Silence can feel like disinterest. Compliments can seem exaggerated or insincere. We draw conclusions that quietly limit the friendships that could grow around us.
For those for whom this resonates with – here’s a simple story that might help…
The Story of The Cracked Pot
Long ago, in a small village at the edge of the Indian countryside, there lived a humble water-bearer.
Each morning before sunrise, she walked down to the river with a wooden yoke balanced across her shoulders. Hanging from each end of the yoke were two large clay pots.
One of the pots was perfectly formed – smooth, sturdy and well-shaped – and every day, it always carried a full measure of water back to the house each day.
The other pot, however, had a long, thin crack running down its side. It was old and weathered from years of use.
Whenever the water-bearer filled it at the river, the pot leaked steadily. By the time they reached the house, it delivered only half of what it set out with.
Day after day, year after year, the water-bearer made the same journey. And every day, the perfect pot arrived full, while the cracked pot arrived half empty.
As the years passed, the cracked pot began to construct its own story about worthiness. It believed it was failing at the one task it was created for.
The shame of that perceived inadequacy grew heavier with time, until one morning the pot could no longer contain its feelings.
As the water carrier knelt by the river and began filling the pots, the cracked pot found its voice and said:
“I am so sorry. For years I’ve watched with guilt and shame, knowing I will return home half empty.“
“The other pot does its job perfectly, but I leak and fall short every single day. You must be tired of me. You must want to replace me with a better pot. I would understand if you did.”
The water carrier listened with genuine care but the pot’s story of failure was not one she recognised. She knew the crack existed, but she had never viewed it as a flaw or a burden.
Gently she replied,
“On our walk home today, I want you to look carefully at the ground along your side of the path.’
The cracked pot was puzzled, but it trusted the water carrier – recalling that in all the time that it had journeyed with her, she had never said a harsh word, never scorned or ridiculed it, but had always shown a sense of gratefulness and care when filling it with water.
And so on the journey back, the pot did as she asked. It looked up. It looked out.
On one side of the path, the earth was dry, bare, and colourless. But on its side, to its astonishment, the earth on its side of the path glowed with life.
There were small, delicate wildflowers in shades of yellow and white, bending gently in the breeze. Bright green leaves spilled out from the soil, and the air carried a faint, sweet fragrance.
In its former state, it had not noticed that along the path that they travelled there was a dazzling array of beauty, colour and life.
The water carrier in her wisdom, knowing of the crack in the pot’s side, had sprinkled seeds along the path. These seeds were duly watered every day as a result of the crack in the pot’s side.
‘For two years, I have been able to pick those beautiful flowers. Without the crack in your side, the path would be barren. Without it, there would be no beauty to bring into the home. You think you are broken, but you have been giving life all along.’
The cracked pot fell silent. The shame it had carried for so long softened, replaced with a quiet understanding. What it had seen as failure had been its contribution. What it thought made it useless had made it uniquely valuable.
And so, the pot no longer wished to be perfect. It wished only to continue doing what it was already doing, bringing beauty into the world in its own imperfect way.
Like the broken pot, when we believe we bring nothing of value, tragically we often miss the quiet ways our imperfectness makes connection possible.
We overlook the moments when our presence softens a room, the warmth that touches others, or the small ways our humour brings joy.
We see only the leak, not the flowers – and just like the cracked pot, we assume people are judging us and fear they see the very worst in us.
In doing so, we forget that our weaknesses are simply signs of being human, and may be the very things that allow others to feel safe with us.
After all, healthy friendships aren’t built by being flawless. They’re built by being human, consistent, worthy of trust, and willing to show up as we are – cracks and all.
So if you struggle with social anxiety, here are a few questions to consider:
- What if the story you’ve been telling yourself, like the broken pot, has been wrong all along?
- What if the “cracks” you worry about aren’t barriers to connection at all?
- What if the parts of yourself you feel you must hide are the very things that help others feel comfortable with you?
- And what if you gave yourself permission to show up as you are – rather than how you’d wished to be seen?
These questions are vital to consider as overcoming social anxiety involves a lot of learning and unlearning, but the real shift begins when we start to change the story we hold about ourselves and give ourselves permission to show up more fully.
And when we show up more fully… we also give our confidence a chance to grow and create space for stronger and more meaningful friendships to grow too.
