Prologue
I’ve always been the quiet girl.
Not the mysterious type you see in movies—just... quiet. The kind of quiet that made adults whisper, “She’s too calm,” and made teachers frown and ask if I understood the question. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like a choice, but a weight I carried everywhere.
As a child, I didn’t have the words for what I felt. I thought my pounding heart during roll call was just nerves. I thought it was normal to feel like the walls were closing in at birthday parties or to rehearse what I wanted to say for hours, only to end up saying nothing at all. I thought I was broken. Maybe a little odd.
My parents never used the word “anxiety.” They called it “shyness,” “timidity,” “bad habit.” My mom would scold me for not speaking up. My dad would say, “Leave her. She’ll grow out of it.” But I never did. At least, not in the way they expected.
Growing up felt like being a shadow in my own life. I watched people laugh, dance, talk loudly, and wonder how they made it look so easy. I had one friend who understood, and maybe that saved me. Or maybe it was the notebook I filled with thoughts I could never say aloud.
It wasn’t until university—on a day when I stood in front of a class presentation and completely froze—that I searched online: Why is it hard for me to talk to people? Why do I feel like I’m drowning in crowds?
That was the day I met the name that changed everything: Social Anxiety.
And for the first time, I felt seen.
This is not a story about overcoming. It’s a story about becoming. About learning to live, not without fear, but with it. About finding peace in the quiet, and strength in my softness.
My name is Simi George, and this is my story—the quiet parts, the shaky parts, the healing parts.
The real parts.
****
