Earlier last year, I had a revelation about my social life. For the longest time, I thought I was anti-social, but I now realize that was just a protection mechanism. Deep down, I crave connection and community.
This realization first hit me during our team trip to Chicago, where we participated in a workshop about personality colors and working styles. We were given four color categories—blue, yellow, orange, and gold—and asked to rank them based on descriptions. I instinctively picked blue as my top choice, which represented harmony, connection, and appreciation. Looking back, I was surprised by my choice. I had always thought of myself as structured (gold) or logical and objective (green), but something about “connection” resonated with me in a way I hadn’t consciously acknowledged before.
The Chicago trip made me realize how much I value connection with people. Even though I was just spending time with coworkers—some of whom I didn’t work with directly—I felt energized by our interactions. It made me reflect on how much I had been missing that feeling after working remotely for two years.
Reevaluating My Social Patterns
As my close friends from UT left Austin, I became lonelier. I struggled to connect with Americans the way I had with my Chinese friends. I did make new connections here and there, but I didn’t put in the effort to maintain them, and I gradually drifted apart from people. During my master’s program, I was part of a large 60+ person cohort, yet I never truly felt like I fit in. Looking back, I wish I had made more of an effort to connect with individuals instead of just attending their parties and feeling like an outsider.
This pattern of isolation wasn’t new. In high school and college, I had convinced myself that I was cool and independent—that I didn’t need anyone. But when I think back to my childhood, it was different. In elementary school, I was social and outgoing. I hosted big birthday parties, planned agendas, and even wrote stories and games to share with my classmates. But something shifted in middle school. Maybe it was social media, maybe it was just growing up, but I started withdrawing, spending more time online with strangers than nurturing real-life connections.
A few months ago, my boyfriend and I were driving in West Palm Beach, and he asked me to reflect on my judgement against people. I had a sudden memory from my childhood—a birthday party at my host family’s house. The other kids were hanging out, but I felt like an outsider. I went to my room alone, convincing myself, I don’t want to hang out with these basic white girls anyway. But the truth was, I felt rejected. Instead of trying to fit in, I built walls. I told myself I didn’t belong, so I didn’t even try.
That memory made me realize something: I chose isolation as a defense mechanism. I feared rejection, so I convinced myself I didn’t need people. But in reality, I do.
Rediscovering Connection
On Wednesday, I met someone who creates retreats and community events. My boyfriend met her at a kava bar, and before I went to meet her, I felt sluggish and unmotivated. I had skipped my morning workout and was stuck in my head, feeling sorry for myself. But the moment we started talking, her energy completely shifted mine. She was passionate about her work and generously shared advice, even mapping out ideas for my future business model. I left the conversation feeling inspired and excited.
That night, I went to Honey’s Eden, a late-night tea gathering space. They were hosting an album listening session for Eusexua by FKA Twigs. I had never listened to the artist or album before, but I decided to show up.
At first, I felt self-conscious. Everyone was sober, watching dancers, and I hesitated to join in. But then I let go—I allowed myself to feel the music, even if I looked silly. After the album, I sat down with the group. Initially, I didn’t feel like talking, but we started asking each other meaningful questions, and the conversation naturally deepened.
As I listened to them share their most joyful memories—10/10 days, festival stories, and cherished moments—I couldn’t stop smiling. Before coming to the space, I didn’t know a single person there. I had even judged them a little at first, thinking they reminded me of the theatre kids in college that I never quite fit in with. But once I opened myself up, I realized how kind and genuine they were. They valued experiences, just like I did. They weren’t strangers—they were people I could connect with.
That night, I felt open. Open to my surroundings, open to my boyfriend, open to people. And, well, let’s just say we had a really good night together.
Am I an Extrovert Now?
I don’t know. But I do know that I feel energized by people in a way I never admitted to before. For so long, I told myself I gained energy from solitude, and while that’s true to an extent—solitude gives me time to rest and recharge—I’ve also realized that too much of it makes me feel stagnant, lazy, and disconnected. When I connect with others, I feel more awake, more alive, more in tune with the world.
Why I Created samar
I’ve started to think back to why I created samar. Of course, it was inspired by Tea at Shiloh, but deep down, I think it came from my own loneliness. After COVID and years of remote work, I craved meaningful connections but didn’t know how to create them for myself.
samar is about presence, love, and connection—but maybe, more than anything, it’s a way for me to open my heart again.