At a dinner party two years ago, someone asked what I’d been up to. I said, “Not much, honestly. Work, mostly. Watched a lot of TV.”
The table got quiet for a second. Then the conversation moved on to someone else’s hiking trip in Portugal.
I used to dread moments like that. Now I kind of appreciate them.
The performance
For most of my twenties and early thirties, I curated myself pretty heavily. Not lying, exactly—just selecting which parts of my life were worth mentioning.
Interesting hobbies? Emphasized.
Mundane weekends? Edited out.
Opinions on movies, books, restaurants? Carefully considered for maximum relatability and just enough edge to seem like I had taste.
I knew what made someone sound interesting at parties. I practiced it. I got pretty good.
The problem was, it was exhausting. And somewhere along the way, I stopped knowing which parts were actually me.
The breaking point
It wasn’t dramatic. No breakdown, no revelation. Just a slow realization that I was tired.
Tired of having a “take” on everything. Tired of finding ways to make my weekends sound more exciting than they were. Tired of the low-grade anxiety of being asked “what’s new?” and scrambling for something worth saying.
One day, someone asked about my favorite recent read, and instead of naming something impressive, I said, “Honestly, I’ve been re-reading Harry Potter. For maybe the sixth time.”
They laughed. Not at me—just a warm laugh. “Same, actually.”
It was such a small moment. But something clicked.
The experiment
I decided to try something for a year: stop performing. Just… be honest about my boring, ordinary life.
No inflating plans to make them sound better. No curating opinions to seem cultured. No pretending I’d seen that movie, heard that album, read that article everyone was talking about.
If my weekend was “groceries and naps,” that’s what I said. If I didn’t have thoughts on the thing everyone was debating, I’d shrug. “Haven’t really followed it.”
At first, it felt vulnerable. Almost shameful. Like I was admitting to being less-than.
Then it started to feel free.
What I learned
Most people aren’t listening that closely anyway. The anxiety about being interesting was mostly in my head. People ask “what’s new?” as a social script, not an interview. They don’t remember your answer. They’re already thinking about what they’ll say next.
Boring is relatable. When I started being honest about my unglamorous life, other people relaxed too. Turns out, everyone’s rewatching shows they’ve seen before. Everyone has weekends where nothing happens. The pretense that we’re all constantly doing fascinating things is a shared lie.
I like myself more this way. When I stopped curating, I started noticing what I actually enjoy—not what sounds impressive, but what genuinely makes me happy. Turns out, it’s a lot of small, quiet things. Early mornings. Long walks. The same coffee shop every Saturday. Not exciting, but mine.
The hard part
I won’t pretend this was all upside.
Some relationships got weird. I had friends who seemed to like the curated version better—the one with opinions on everything, the one who’d always done something interesting last weekend. When I stopped performing, some conversations got thinner.
That stung. I wondered if I’d made a mistake.
But the relationships that stayed? They got better. More honest. I stopped feeling like I had to entertain people just to keep them around.
Turns out, the people worth keeping don’t need you to be interesting. They just need you to be there.
Now
I still go to dinner parties. Still get asked “what’s new?”
Sometimes I have something to share. A trip I took. A thing I’m excited about. It happens.
But most of the time? “Not much. Work. Reading. The usual.”
Nobody seems disappointed. Or if they are, I’ve stopped minding.
The most interesting thing about me might be that I stopped trying to be interesting. Or maybe not. Either way, I’m okay with it.