There are two types of people in the world: those born for the spotlight, and those born to hold the spotlight. I somehow fall in the middle. And no, that doesn’t make three types of people. It just makes me the middle person stuck untangling the extension cord.

Take crowded parties, for example. Extroverts thrive on the chaos, soaking in the attention like plants in a dry spell. Introverts retreat to the corner, clutching their drink like a social shield. Each side claiming their place. Me? I’m the line drawn between them– not bold enough to shine, yet not timid enough to vanish. A wallflower who keeps accidentally sprouting in the middle of the room. 

The noise is excruciating—conversations overlapping like a million podcasts playing at once, none of which I subscribed to. By the time I’ve figured out how to answer a question, the person who asked has already spotted a more interesting human across the room.

And don’t get me started on the dancing. The confident ones are Lee Ann Womack meets Coachella. The reserved ones are statues fading into shadows. I, however, panic– stuck between rhythm and retreat.  

Crowded parties are hell. Mostly because belonging tends to circle the room and land on everyone else.