The art of never knowing a stranger

Every stranger is nothing but a person I have not yet met.

I am not extroverted in the slightest and contrary to popular belief, just because someone wants to put themselves out there and talk to people doesn’t make them an extrovert; it makes them human. I am human to a fault. I value and seek human connection like I breathe air, and I have always been that way.

Growing up, my parents always said I “never knew a stranger.” I would talk to anyone and everyone who gave me a chance to speak, and I did so with a smile. They tell stories of me too young to walk beside them, but too old to sit still, giggling in my stroller, blabbering.

I gained a lot of notoriety at home for being talkative. I spewed every part of my day in extreme detail. I asked questions like I was on a time limit. I pried myself into my siblings' rooms just to see what they were doing. I spoke until my head hit the pillow. I wanted to be active and present in their life. I refused to be forgotten.

In elementary school, I got the same award every year: “The Brightest Smile Award.” I hated it. I wanted something that reflected my academic work, not how I presented myself day to day, but I realize now I didn’t get that award because I was happy all the time – I got it because I projected it onto my peers.

I was young when I realized the weight of kind words. Some people wanted to talk, but couldn’t find the courage. I wanted to be a friend to everyone. I was always first in line to brighten others’ days, always the first to say I liked their outfit, always the first to say anything at all.

My “bright smile” wasn’t just a physical smile; it was how I infected those around me with one of their own.

I was often told to be quiet in school, to turn around and face the front and mind my own business, but I knew I was turned around for good reason. I was talking to take someone’s mind off the test they thought they'd fail. I wasn’t paying attention because I was helping the person next to me find what page we were on. Getting in trouble made me sick, but being of help to someone was worth the sickness.

Of course, as I got older, I started to think more and more about how others perceived me. Slowly, I started to calculate my words instead of just speaking them. I second-guessed myself before joining conversations, and when I did, I often wished I hadn’t. It’s a shame what growing up does to someone, but it would be an even bigger shame not to grow from it.

It wasn’t until high school that I realized my lack of restraint when it came to speaking wasn’t something to dwindle. I was slowly learning who I was and what I wanted – to be a conduit for others. Make someone’s life easier and, in the end, be bigger than me. However, at that point, I was someone who was afraid to raise my hand in class, afraid of stepping out of line, someone who couldn't be bigger than myself.

I had started knowing strangers and, in turn, became a stranger to myself.

When I was 18, my senior lacrosse season was cut short by injury. Instead of focusing on performing drills, I became the #1 bench-warmer. And, of course, this title came with the job of talking, cheering and being my team’s biggest fan. I wasn’t focused on giving my team a win; I was focused on making sure everyone was having a good time.

At the end of my season, I received awards, but none meant as much as the words from a teacher at my school. Mr. Reed was a science teacher and the father of one of the girls on the team, who also announced the games senior year, but I never had him as a teacher. I never connected with him until my arm broke, and as someone who taught Human Anatomy & Physiology, Reed was one of the first to ask to see my X-rays.

Reed never knew a stranger, and because he never saw me as one, he left me with one insight that highlighted who I wanted to be – and who he claimed I was all along.

After one of our last games, he said to me, “Out of all the girls on the team, you’re the only one I haven’t had in the classroom, but it doesn’t feel like that at all. I feel like I know you and that is a talent I believe will take you far.”

I could’ve let self-doubt and social pressures enclose me in a box, but instead, I chose and am continuing to choose to never know a stranger. I show up and talk to anyone who will let me. I let the awkwardness of my personality guide the conversations instead of letting it stop me from engaging.

I am still the same girl I was when I was giggling in my stroller, still the same girl who got the “Brightest Smile Award,” still the same girl who knows everyone deserves a friend. Human connection is powerful and unifies us.

So tell someone you like their outfit, chime in on that conversation and be who you are without fear of what others may say you are.

Strangers are only strangers if you let them be.