The Cringe Cost of Business
When You’d Rather Be Quietly Excelling in the Woods
Today, I’m doing something that feels deeply unnatural: reaching out on LinkedIn like an extrovert who genuinely enjoys putting herself out there. DMing people I used to know. People I once collaborated with. People who may have forgotten who I am.
It feels weird.
I’ve done far scarier things… walked away from a pension, ended chapters that meant everything, said yes to unknowns with no map.
But this? This is a different kind of risk. The tiny, invisible kind. The quiet reach-out, the ‘hello again,’ the exposure of re-entry.
For someone who has spent decades doing deep relational work, most of it built through word of mouth, primarily in one region, this is the part I’d rather skip. But I’m relocating, and the work I love is coming with me, which means I need to remind people I am here.
At first, the assignment to reach out, be visible, and get on LinkedIn felt like swallowing glass. It didn’t matter that it came from expert advisors, business minds, or social media-savvy friends. What I heard was an old, familiar echo: ‘Who does she think she is?’
Beneath it was something quieter, and louder in the body. The fear of being perceived. As too much. Too eager. Too visible. Too try-hard. Without realizing it, I gave those somatic cues an old meaning, automatically tying them to a familiar, outdated critical narrative. That posting and reaching out would be perceived as shameless self-promotion. That visibility was vanity. That putting oneself out there to be seen was somehow undesirable…embarrassing.
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one carrying that story in my nervous system
Over time, I’ve learned to pause. To notice the sensation attached to the story. A tight chest. Hesitation. The heat of vulnerability rising through my skin. These are signals, portals, not stop signs. So I start there.
I meet the body in the now first. I breathe into the contraction. I do the things I’ve learned to do to remind my nervous system I am safe. And then, if necessary, I take a look at the story. The looping fear-talk. The inner critic.
I ask: Is this even true? When did I decide that? Sometimes, the story unravels right there. Other times, it takes a more gentle dissection, a thoughtful rewrite, or a new groove carved into the neural path. And in that space, especially in moments like this one, reaching out cold on social media, now separate from the emotion, I remember:
I love what I do. And that remembering shifts everything. The story softens. The body settles. The internal state changes.
I remember what I love about the work itself. The moments of clarity. The connection with extraordinary humans. I anchor that in and there is a shift. This won’t be about polished messaging or performing for an algorithm. I’m not doing this because I should. I’m doing it because connection has always been the point. So here I am, someone who’d genuinely be happier under a tree, sending a few messages. I'm making a public post, to turn up the heat on the cringe. You’re welcome.
If we haven’t spoken in a while, I’d love to hear how your world is unfolding. And if this resonates, for the part of you that resists visibility, that recoils at the idea of putting yourself ‘out there, maybe this helps:
Start with the feeling.
Get to know your somatics intimately.
Notice what shows up in your body when fear or hesitation arises.
Then listen. Do some, what I like to call, ‘thought watching’.
What’s the narrative you’re attaching to it?
Whose voice is it?
Is it even true?
From there, you get to choose. You can keep that story. Or you can dismantle it, rewrite it, and return to your own rhythm. Because the fear is real, but fear doesn’t always mean stop. Sometimes, it’s just the sound of an old identity loosening its grip, a portal, an opportunity for integration. An invitation to reclaim your wholeness. And on the other side? There’s connection. There’s clarity. Remembering ‘I get to do this my way’.
So here I am, waving from the proverbial forest. Still here, listening to my system, rewriting the script and trusting that when I lead from an imperfect and safe place, resonance follows.
