Extroverts aren’t always what we seem.

A couple weeks ago, I went to an event alone. I arrived early and watched duos and groups filter in. I wandered a bit, then sat at a picnic table, watching, waiting for a moment where it wouldn’t seem rude to interrupt a conversation. My enthusiasm for networking, however, was lacking.

I should note, I am a raging extrovert. Gregarious. Outgoing. Energized by interactions. For my fellow personality test nerds — I’m an ENFP, the strength of my E for the Extroverted trait is 95%.

Usually, I feed off the energy of people and events around me, but my psychological reserves were drained that night. During an emotionally difficult week where tears seemed to pool up at will, I wasn’t sure I had the energy to introduce myself to new people.

Fortunately, someone sat down next to me, noshing on some food. Feeling out her receptiveness to conversations with a stranger, I asked, “how’s the food?”

“Good,” she responded.

“Where is it from?” I asked.

“The restaurant over there.” She pointed across the lawn.

Maybe she was just super hungry, but I took it as a social cue to leave her alone. Mildly defeated, I continued my watch from the picnic table post and noticed a woman’s tattoo running the length of her forearm. She was surrounded by people, so I waited, scanning the crowd. My gaze passed back over the woman next to me; she’d turned her back to me and was scrolling through her phone. Emotional exhaustion threatened to override my resolve.

My inner monologue lamented, “I just want to cry and go home.” But another voice inside me resisted, “just talk to one more person.” Worst case scenario, I am snubbed by a grand total of two people, and I’ll get what I came for, the talk about creating brand content from “The Middle Coast.”

The woman with the forearm tattoo and two others migrated across the lawn and stood 5 feet in front of me. Curiosity poked my extroverted side. It was a gentle jab — barely noticeable, yet just as persistent as the urge to blend into the background. Anticipating my chance for one more interaction, I wondered, “where’s the line between super chill waiting and gawking?”

Her two acquaintances walked away, and I quickly peeled myself off the bench, resisting the pull of the seat. “Sorry to bother,” I said, “but I’m curious about your tattoo.” A pestering voice in my head chided, “don’t say ‘sorry to bother,’ be more confident.”

She looked me in the eyes and smiled. Holding up her arm, the tattoo, penned in a beautiful script, read, “nevertheless she persisted.”

“Hell yes,” I said, “I love it.” We chatted. She told me about how it came to be, collaborating with a tattoo artist while living in LA.

Revitalized by her friendliness, I introduced myself, and she said, “I’m Dana, I’m one of the speakers.” I laughed, “well shit, next time, I guess I’ll take a closer look at the speaker’s faces before introducing myself.” She chuckled and mentioned that she thought a lot of people were there to hear the music that followed the conversation. “Well,” I said, “I actually came to hear your talk.” She thanked me and kindly excused herself to prepare.

Subdued by a bit of naiveté yet bolstered by my own resolve and Dana’s affability, I stuck around. Abandoning my picnic table post in the back, I grabbed a seat near the stage. I enjoyed the conversation between Dana Robinson and Jamie Kirby. I waited after the talk to thank them, met a few other cool humans. And to my delight, this beautiful human materialized before me as I was preparing to leave.

She snapped a selfie of us to text to some mutual friends. Two badass babes making the most of a fantastic event on a beautiful night. But I wasn’t feeling so badass. I was self-conscious about my chest. Worried my scars were showing. My heart skipped a beat when my brain realized I was braless and rushed that thought to the surface. Grief was fighting for control of my emotional reserves.

Author and yoga teacher Jessamyn Stanley has said, “life is so much more than it seems on the surface.” Damn, if that isn’t packed with truth. Life is so much more than the way my shirt falls on my chest, more than my scars, more than my journey with cancer or bipolar or my job, hobbies, or extroversion. We are amalgamations of our experiences. Mine sometimes override my gregariousness. Life for the woman who gave me the cold shoulder is more than it seemed on the surface. Life, for Dana and others on stage, is more than it seemed on the surface.

I asked my friend if I could use our photo for a blog post, to which, of course, she responded, “of course!”

I believe we are at our best when we offer compassion for ourselves and empathy for others. I believe we are blessed when humans let us see what’s beneath the surface.

Be kind. We don’t always know what’s happening beneath the surface.