One day in seventh grade, while I was eating lunch, an old friend from years ago unexpectedly walked up to my table and greeted me with a smile. He asked me how I was doing and seemed genuinely interested. It seemed like he wanted to be friends again, but I was so caught off guard that I couldn’t think of what to say. My mind raced, and I felt confused. All I could do was stare and mumble when it was my turn to talk. There was a period of awkward silence, and then he walked away.

It took me a few days to get over that incident; just remembering it makes me cringe. He probably thinks I’m weird now, and I feel like I lost an opportunity to become friends with him again.

Stuff like that always happens to me. It’s not that I don’t like people – but for some reason, talking to them is much harder for me than it seems to be for everyone else. I just feel uncomfortable. I always wonder how others can talk casually – seemingly without effort or anxiety.

The next year, I didn’t know anybody in my lunch period. I hated sitting alone; I could feel the looks I was getting and I never felt at ease. I started to sneak into my empty math classroom to eat. One day my teacher came back early to find a dark figure sitting in the corner of her classroom. Instead of coming in, she stood outside peeking through the window, her eyes wide. I jumped from my seat to show her that it was me. She told me later that she’d been about to scream.

I was lucky: she allowed me to continue to eat there, even though it was against school policy. Soon I was having lunch with her every day. I learned that she has a family in another state whom she often visits and supports. Eventually, I told her about my nervousness talking to others and my reasons for avoiding the cafeteria.

Maybe because no one else was looking, or maybe because she was so understanding, I didn’t stutter, mumble, or pause to search for the right words when I was with her. This was one of a handful of moments that stand out in my memory when I was able to talk to someone with ease, instead of feeling so awkward. I cherish those moments, but I’ve learned not to expect them. After all these years, my problem doesn’t seem to be going away.

When I was younger, my parents encouraged me to become a doctor or lawyer, like some of my relatives, and for a long time I felt that those careers were my only options. But as I got older, I began to worry about whether they were right for me. I preferred being alone instead of with others. Being a lawyer requires great verbal skills and social confidence, things I knew I lacked. And while I did enjoy my biology classes, becoming a doctor and having to talk to patients sounded like a nightmare. I realized that, ironically, while I want to help others in any way I can, I don’t want to talk to them.

The older I get, the more I worry about how my discomfort socializing will affect my future. The world seems to be made for conversationalists. Without alarming my parents, I’ve started collecting my memories of moments and places where I didn’t feel that usual anxiety – when the world didn’t seem to be weighing me down – and scanning them for hints about how to arrange my adult life.

In middle school, my sister brought home a Pomeranian puppy. At first I thought it was at a cat because of how small and furry it was. Normally, I dislike small dogs, since they tend to be hyperactive and annoying, but as soon as I saw this puppy, I was overjoyed. I could tell my life was going to get more exciting.

My sister named her Choco, which was weird since her fur was white, but nobody objected, because the name somehow fit. From that day on, when I arrived home after school, Choco would bolt out of the house like a jet, sprinting to me through the grass on her stubby white paws. I would play fetch with her and walk her up and down the street until the sun went down. While I did homework, she’d sleep next to me on the sofa. When she was awake, Choco was like a battery that never ran out, but as soon as she hit the pillows, she collapsed like a sack of bricks. Even when she was sleeping, looking at her always brought a smile to my face. When I was lonely I would talk to her, even though she didn’t understand. I always enjoyed her company.

I had known for a long time that we were going to Korea that summer; we went every year to visit relatives. But it wasn’t until the last minute that I found out that Choco couldn’t come with us. There wasn’t enough time to register her, and nobody we knew was willing to take care of her. In the end, my parents gave her away. Her new owner came for her while I was at school, so I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I guess my parents had anticipated that I would object, because they didn’t tell me until after she was gone.

I bawled when I got home and heard the news. For a long time, I hated when the school day was over, since that meant going home – and instead of feeling excited, I felt an overwhelming loneliness every time I saw my empty backyard. I had nobody to turn to when I had a hard day.

I told myself not to wallow in my loss, to try to move on. But when I started high school, things didn’t get any better. My new school was gigantic, and there were hundreds of kids who were strangers to me. I hated the obnoxious crowds and the louder-than-ever hallways. But at home I just felt lonely. My old friends were all busy learning instruments, playing sports, and volunteering. I wanted a place to escape to and be myself. 

I realized I needed something to keep my mind occupied. I knew I would feel better if I were helping people. At the same time, I was afraid. Volunteering would mean working with others, and not necessarily kids my age. I just wanted somewhere I could be myself.

That was when my tutor suggested a local animal clinic. Unfortunately, they didn’t accept applicants my age, but the staff was kind enough to suggest an animal shelter nearby. I was hesitant at first, because I was afraid of being reminded of Choco. But it was the perfect choice.

At the shelter, my job was to care for the dogs and cats. I barely had to interact with the staff; instead, I got to know the animals. Each had a different personality. Most were friendly and eager to play. Suddenly I had something to look forward to. I happily spent my weekends walking ecstatic dogs and playing with lazy cats.

Unfortunately, there were also abused and abandoned animals. One dog came in almost completely blind. He had to rely on his nose to find balls or toys, and since he didn’t know where he was going, walking was also a struggle. To my relief, he was adopted by an elderly couple who didn’t mind his disability.

Other animals had tumors, weight problems, or missing limbs. It sounds melodramatic, even to me, but I felt a particular connection to these injured animals; they, like me, were missing something everyone else seemed to have. Like me, they had to learn to adapt to the world, to find a way to meet expectations that others found easy to achieve. It was remarkable what some of these handicapped animals were capable of: they ran with three legs, fought without claws, and played without sight. To me, the most impressive thing was their happiness. They accepted their differences and lived without dwelling on their limitations. Despite how difficult their lives had been, they were eager to play, to make friends, and to accommodate others.

I don’t know what career I’ll eventually settle on, but it means a lot that I have found somewhere that my anxiety no longer gets in the way. Animals are intelligent; I think they’re as capable of feelings as humans. But at the same time, they’re not judgmental or difficult to talk to like people. When I’m with them, I feel relieved of the pressure to make an impression, and I no longer worry about looking awkward.

Animals want different things, but they’re always clear about what they want, whether it’s to be played with, walked, or simply taken care of. And when I’m with them, I know what I want too. I want to make this world safer for them, especially those that are disabled – the ones that need help most. Whatever the future may hold for me, it’s a comfort to know that there will always be animals in it, in one way or another. Knowing that, I’m not so nervous anymore.