A (Totally Unqualified) Theory on How to Cure Social Anxiety

What if social anxiety is just your brain calculating the odds—and it’s been using the wrong data all along?

I love a good Kurzgesagt binge. Their visuals, their pacing—it just works for my neurodivergent brain. It’s one of the few YouTube channels that helps me understand the world instead of overwhelming me with it.

The other day, I watched this one: Why Your Brain Blinds You For 2 Hours Every Day. It explains how our brains don’t actually “see” the world in real-time—they predict what’s likely based on probability and past experience. Your brain isn’t reacting to the tennis ball flying toward you—it’s guessing where the ball will be, based on everything it’s learned.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about that.

Because what if social anxiety works the same way?

What if all those spiraling thoughts—they don’t actually like me, they’re annoyed I came, everyone noticed how weird I was—aren’t some personal flaw, but actually just my brain calculating probability based on past experiences?

And let me tell you… my past experiences did not set me up for social success.

I’ve been the weird kid, the over-attached friend, the one who tried too hard. I’ve had friendships ripped away for things that were out of my control—money problems, chaotic parents, being too intense, too emotional, too much. My VHS collection was deliberately destroyed by my cousins because they were jealous. (Yeah, I’m still mad.) And when I thought I found “my people,” something always came along and wrecked it. Like my dad’s boss forgetting to pay him so I had to cancel my birthday party last-minute. Or calling the cops on my parents in the middle of a sleepover. (Twice.)

Honestly, it’s no surprise that my brain’s probability calculator is screaming DO NOT ENGAGE anytime I consider letting people in.

Even as an adult, it’s been a minefield. I somehow became a narcissist magnet. Every time I opened up, my vulnerabilities were used as weapons. So, I stopped letting people close. Now? It’s just me, my husband, and my best friend in the UK who knows all my darkest shit and still answers my texts.

But… I want more.

There’s this part of me that aches to belong. To be part of something real. Not in the “soulmate friendship” way movies always show, but in the casual, comfortable way people seem to hang out in groups, laugh together, make last-minute plans for karaoke or a paint-and-sip.

I want those late-night belly laughs. The blurry phone photos from nights we barely remember but will never forget. I want to feel known, like really seen by a group of people who think I’m worth showing up for.

But how do you do that when your brain is stuck on loop?

They’re only inviting you out of pity.
You’re too much.
You’re too fat.
You talk too loud.
You’re not fun enough.
They regret inviting you.
They went home and made fun of what you said.
You’re embarrassing.
You should just stay home.

The intrusive thoughts are a full-time job. And honestly? I’m tired. It would be easier to just tap out of the whole “trying to make friends as an adult” thing.

But what if—and hear me out again—it’s not actually true?

What if my brain is just doing its best to protect me from the hurt it already knows?
What if it’s not about truth, it’s about probability?

What if my brain has been calculating risk based on outdated data?

If every social experience I had growing up ended in rejection, embarrassment, or abandonment, then yeah—of course my brain thinks the odds are bad. Of course it says, “Don’t risk it.” It’s just doing its job.

But here’s where I think I can cheat the system.

If I believe the brain uses experience to predict outcomes, then the only way to change that prediction is to give it new data. New memories. New moments where I wasn’t the punchline, the afterthought, the one people talk about but never to.

I’ve done so much internal healing. The kind where you stare down the ugliest parts of yourself and still choose to be kind. I’ve worked through resentment and fear because I don’t want to die bitter and hard. I want to be known for my softness, my care, my empathy. I want people to say, She was safe. She showed up. She had a big heart.

But that version of me deserves a life that’s full of laughter and connection too.

So, here’s my very scientific, definitely-not-peer-reviewed strategy:

I’m going to drown out the anxious voice with good experiences. I’m going to overwhelm the probability calculator with so much joy and connection that the scales finally tip in my favor.

Because maybe I’m not too much.
Maybe I just haven’t found my people yet.
Or maybe they’re already in my orbit, and I’ve just been too scared to reach back.

Maybe I can be social without being perfect.
Maybe I get to try again.

And maybe next time I hear that voice whisper, “They don’t like you”, I can answer back with: “That’s not the most likely outcome anymore.”