Fake It 'Til You Feel Like Going Home – How to Show Up When You’d Rather Hide
Full disclosure: I’m an introvert who chose an extrovert’s life.
I smile big, I dress loud, I coach clients, pitch ideas, and show up on Zoom and in the office like I’m ready to take over the world. But inside? Most days I’m just trying to survive small talk without sweating through my blazer.
If you’ve read “Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come” by Jessica Pan, you already know the vibe. It’s basically the holy grail for introverts faking their way through high-energy lives—and reading it made me feel so seen I wanted to cry, but like, in private. Alone. In my car. With the doors locked. Anyway, I’m sure you’re wondering, why would i trust this nutcase to help me then? Well, let me tell you how I make it through the extrovert life I chose (with just a few mental breakdowns).
The Paradox of Being a Social Introvert
I wasn’t always this way—an introvert, I mean. Growing up, I LOVED being the center of attention. I craved performing in crowds, giving speeches at school, etc.
But somewhere between college and adulthood, after years of criticism, people-pleasing, and social obligation, something shifted. These days, I find myself cringing at the thought of talking to someone new—at the gym, at the store, even in the grocery aisle. (And if we’re being real, I avoid going inside the grocery store most days because... too many humans.)
And yet—people assume that if you’re good at something, it must come naturally.
“You’re so outgoing!” they’ll say, as I silently plan my escape route from the networking event I just RSVP’d “yes” to and instantly regretted.
But here’s the truth:
I chose this.
I chose a career that requires me to talk, teach, lead, and listen—deeply. I talk strategy with clients, collaborate with my team throughout the day, go to social events, and every other introvert nightmare.
I chose to start my own business that’s sole success depends on being able to connect with people.
I chose to help women show up more fully… even when I’m struggling to do the same.
Because you can grow into someone who leads, even if it used to feel easy and now it feels exhausting. You can love the impact, even if you don’t always love the people-ing.
It’s Not Fake—It’s Intentional
Let’s clear something up:
I’m not “faking it” to impress anyone.
I’m strategically showing up for the life I chose—even when my brain is screaming, “Let’s just cancel and disappear into a blanket burrito forever.”
I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m honoring both sides of me—the girl who secretly wants to be invisible in public, and the woman building a life that demands presence, power, and visibility.
Reading Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come by Jessica Pan made me realize I’m not alone in this weird duality. In the book, she talks about choosing to extrovert—to deliberately lean into uncomfortable social situations—not because it’s fun, but because that’s how things move forward.
I’ve had to learn that just because I can do something doesn’t mean it’s easy. It takes effort. It takes recovery time. It takes a lot of self-talk, deep breathing, and sometimes texting my sister from the bathroom at a work event like, “Please tell me I can leave soon.”
But I do it anyway.
Because this life—this career, this business, this impact I want to make—it requires me to show up. And I want it badly enough to push through the discomfort.
So I’ve built rituals, routines, and backup plans that help me survive (and occasionally thrive) while people-ing. And hopefully, if this resonates, they’ll help you too.
How I Combat the Urge to Run (Even When I Really, Really Want To)
Pre-Game My Interactions
If I’ve got a dinner, coffee meet-up, or client session on the calendar, you better believe I’m doing a full recon mission before I ever leave the house. I read the menu ahead of time (which cracks my fiancé up every time), not because I’m indecisive—but because I do not need one more decision to make in the moment when my brain is already spinning.
I’ll also pull it up on Maps to check how far it is, how busy the area might be, and what the parking situation looks like. (And if it’s street parking only? Count. Me. Out. I’ll spiral before I even get there.)
And yes, I mentally rehearse everything:
What I’ll wear, what I’ll say, where I’ll park, which exit I’ll use if I need to slip out early.
It’s a full-blown social dry run, and it’s not because I’m being dramatic—it’s how I stay grounded.
The more unknowns I eliminate ahead of time, the less my brain tries to convince me to bail last minute with a vague “I’m just not feeling great” text, the immediate feeling of missing out, and a bowl of cereal in bed.
Dress Like I Belong—Even If I Don’t Feel It Yet
Style is—and always has been—my armor. It’s the way I signal, both to myself and to others, that I’m steady. Composed. Ready. It doesn’t mean I feel that way 100% of the time, but putting myself together externally gives me a point of control when everything else feels a bit unpredictable.
When I walk into a room that makes me nervous, I don’t want to waste energy overthinking how I’m being perceived. I'd rather people be distracted by my jacket or my shoes than whatever anxiety I’m trying to keep in check. Compliments on an outfit give me something tangible to respond to—something to ground me—rather than spiraling into that vague internal question of, “Are they looking at me weird?”
It’s not about being fashionable for fashion’s sake. I dress with intention. I choose pieces that help me feel structured, capable, and less vulnerable. A tailored blazer, a sharp boot, a color that feels like momentum. These are not superficial decisions—they’re tactical ones. Clothing gives me a framework. It says: I’ve arrived, and I belong here, even if my brain hasn't caught up yet.
This is one of the first tools I reach for when I need to override my impulse to disappear. Not because it changes who I am—but because it helps me access the version of myself who’s able to show up.
Setting a Time Limit Before I Say Yes
I don’t commit to social plans without first setting boundaries around my time and energy. That might sound rigid, but it’s actually the opposite—it’s what makes me able to participate at all.
Before I agree to anything—a dinner, a coffee meeting, a Zoom call—I mentally pre-negotiate the terms. “I’ll stay for one hour.” “I’ll have one coffee and then head out.” “I’ll keep my camera on for the first 20 minutes, and then I’ll decide from there.” These aren't excuses or exit strategies. They’re part of my internal framework that allows me to show up without feeling trapped or depleted.
For me, the difference between follow-through and full cancellation often comes down to how much control I feel going in. If something feels open-ended, my brain starts spiraling: How long will this last? What if I can’t leave without it being awkward? Will I be stuck trying to make small talk while mentally planning my exit? You get the idea.
By creating a boundary around my time, I give myself psychological safety. It’s a contract I’ve made with myself: You don’t have to overperform. You don’t have to stay longer than you want. You’ve already decided what enough looks like. And more often than not, once I’m there and feel that structure holding me, I stay present longer than I planned—not because I have to, but because I want to.
There’s freedom in that.
Keeping a Social Cheat Sheet
In my early twenties, I used to rely heavily on whoever I was with—friends, coworkers, or whatever date—to carry the conversation. I’d show up, stay quiet, and assume they thought my silence meant mystery and i was obviously 10x more charming. Spoiler: they didn’t always.
And that’s where things got awkward. Painfully awkward.
Professionally, the same thing started happening. Early on in my career, I’d walk into meetings or events assuming someone else—the more senior person, the extrovert, the client—would take the lead. But when they didn’t? Cue the panic. Cue the long, strained silences. Cue me, replaying the awkwardness in my head for the next three days.
Eventually, I learned: if I want to avoid dead air, I need a backup plan.
Now, I keep a few go-to conversation starters in my mental back pocket—not the stiff, overused ones, but open-ended, low-pressure questions that invite connection without feeling forced. Things like:
“What’s something you’ve been learning lately?”
“Are you from around here?”
“How did you end up doing what you do?”
They’re simple, thoughtful, and most importantly—they buy me time. When my brain wants to peace out, this little mental script keeps the interaction moving without me having to dig deep in real-time.
Reading Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come, I deeply related to Jessica Pan’s hunger for real conversation—the kind that cuts past small talk and taps into something deeper. That’s what I want too. But I’ve also learned that you don’t always get to skip the surface-level stuff. Sometimes, the casual back-and-forth is the doorway to something more meaningful. And if I want that connection, I have to be willing to open the door—even if it starts with something simple like, “So, what do you do?”
Schedule the Recharge in Advance
This might be one of the most important lessons I’ve learned: showing up requires recovery. If I have a day full of client meetings at the office that I’m actually involved in, a night of my own client one-on-ones, a networking event, or even a 2 hour lecture with my fellow classmates, I intentionally block time afterward to come down from it.
This isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessary part of functioning well and staying regulated.
Sometimes that looks like a solo Target run where I don’t speak to a single person and can zone out in the candle aisle. Sometimes it’s getting into bed with a bad TV show and absolutely no expectations of productivity. And sometimes it’s just sitting in silence without being perceived for a while.
The point is—recovery doesn’t happen by accident. I have to build it into the structure of my day like a buffer. When I don’t, I burn out faster, show up half-present the next time, and start resenting the very work and relationships I care about.
No guilt. No apology. Just capacity management.
Phone a Friend (or Your Sister, Brother, Cousin, Whatever)
This is the unglamorous truth of introvert life in an extrovert context: sometimes, I just need someone to know I’m not okay. And more than once, that’s meant texting a safe person from the bathroom of a crowded event with something like, “Send help. I feel weird and I don’t know how to leave without making it a thing.”
We don’t talk enough about this part—the behind-the-scenes micro-panic that happens when your social battery hits empty but your body is still in the room.
But the reality is, I’ve learned I don’t always need a solution. I just need someone to see me in that moment. A quick “You’ve got this” or “Step outside for five minutes, no one will notice” is often all I need to reset and get through it.
Connection doesn’t always mean being in the room. Sometimes it’s knowing you’re not in it alone.
Remind Myself Why I Said Yes in the First Place
When I feel the internal spiral creeping in—heart racing, overanalyzing every interaction, questioning why I’m even here—I try to pause and go back to the why.
Why did I say yes?
Why did I agree to this panel, this coffee, this pitch, this dinner?
Usually, the answer is simple and deeply rooted: because I want to grow. Because I believe in what I’m building. Because showing up—however imperfectly—is part of creating something that matters.
This doesn’t magically make the discomfort disappear. It’s not a switch. But it reframes it. It reminds me that I’m not just enduring awkwardness for the sake of it. I’m practicing presence. I’m investing in my work. I’m honoring my own goals.
And that context makes the discomfort feel purposeful—even if it’s still hard.
Brave Doesn’t Always Look Loud
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that bravery isn’t always about being the loudest in the room. Sometimes it’s quietly choosing to show up—again and again—even when everything in you wants to disappear. It’s putting your name on the invite, your face on the Zoom screen, your voice in the conversation... even if your stomach knots up every time.
It’s calculated. It’s exhausting. And it’s worth it.
Because this version of showing up? It’s still real. It’s still leadership. It still counts.
If you’re someone who feels this way too—who is building a career, launching a brand, starting over, or simply trying to navigate a world that demands extroversion when you’re wired for solitude—I see you. You don’t need to be someone else to succeed. But you do need a plan, and maybe some tools that help you hold your ground while staying true to who you are.
This is exactly the kind of work I do with my clients: building confidence that’s rooted in clarity, personal style that supports your presence, and messaging that lets you own the room (without feeling like you have to perform in it).
If that sounds like what you’ve been looking for, I’d love to help.
