Coached Into Silence

Learning to caution before taking up space

I didn’t develop social anxiety because I was shy.

I developed it after four years of being coached into silence.

The day was warm, and the breeze was light. Just enough to gently lift stray tufts of hair off of my cheeks as it came through. Overhead, the rays of the sun came down to heat my skin while small clouds of dust lifted off of the field. It was a picturesque day for a wonderful practice.

I was in college, and a member of a small Division III team. There was a scenario being ran, as there so frequently were.

“Next, it’s a walk-off hit. One that takes us to the National Championship. React.”

The imaginary ball cleared the fence in my mind before the teammate left the batter’s box.

So I ran.

I ran off the sideline and onto the dirt. I chased down the runner to storm the field. That was what everyone did in the movies, wasn’t it? This seemed like the appropriate response to such a monumental moment.

My choice could not have been more wrong even if I had tried. Instead of joining in on celebration, I walked straight into ridicule. In front of more than 20-30 teammates, 3-6 coaches, I was mortified.

I instantly understood that I misread the situation. My cheeks heated hot enough to melt ice. The knot in my throat was growing so large I thought my neck may burst open, all of the feelings pouring out onto the ground. My eyes were stinging and I begged them not to let the tears fall. I had no idea where to look. I wanted to crawl into one of the holes the metal of my cleats had made. I wanted to disappear.

The mistake wasn’t where the humiliation stopped, and it wasn’t why this moment hurt so much.

It happened on a quiet field during practice. The kind of quiet where everyone is waiting for someone else to move first.

My body understood the moment before I did. This was not a momentary fluke that ended in shame.

This was a contribution to a pattern.

A trend that I had not yet identified.

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The moment people might think caused the humiliation isn’t where it actually began. This embarrassment did not come out of nowhere.

It came after years of trying to figure out the rules of a room where the rules kept changing.

A day when the room was silent during a meeting, and the demand for an answer to a question was made. I raised my hand, thinking I had figured it out. I was immediately told, “Not you. You talk too much.”

This made me shrink myself a little. I leaned toward the smaller version of myself that day.

A meeting discussing progression and things to work on. I was navigating a brand new position after having played a different one for 12 years. I was told, “You’re not a terrible second baseman. You simply look like you have zero self-worth when you play.”

This hit closer to home than anyone but me realized. There was so much truth to this assessment, but it had absolutely nothing to do with athletics.

A huddle during a practice where a newcomer spoke so softly that I could not hear. We had recently been instructed on this specifically. If there was a time someone was speaking, and we couldn’t hear, we were to ask them to speak up. We were not to pretend we knew what they said because we would be quizzed and called out on it. I asked the individual to speak up, and was told, “Jesus Chey. You join the military and you think you’re a hot shot now? You think you’re big and bad now? You are no one. You have to earn your mother fucking stripes. You have zero.”

I was following instructions to a tee, and I was chastised. A very personal piece of information about me was weaponized.

A meeting with only the senior class, trying to work through the difficulty of helping the new freshmen navigate the adjustment period. Being told, “You think you were a walk in the park? Chey, you were the neediest freshman I have ever met.”

I went to the staff about something very deep and intricate as a freshman. We had received instructions to go to them if there was anything that could be impacting our practices or performance. I later learned that this direction didn’t actually apply to me.

A team meeting discussing who wanted to be captains that year. I declined, knowing this was not my role. A team captain should travel with the team to all games, having the ability to see the team dynamic and assess for its needs. I was a JV player and I would not present for all of these moments. I also simply knew there were players more fit for the job. I was told, “Why would you NOT want to be one? Why would you ever elect out of it? You’re a senior now, where’s your leadership?”

I thought I had chosen correctly because it made the most sense to me.

But in that moment I realized something I hadn’t understood before.

There was no correct version of me.

In that room I understood that it didn’t matter who I showed up as, it would still be wrong. I felt inferior and infuriated. I also felt exhausted.

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People assume social anxiety means that you’re shy. That you’re timid. That you’re an introvert.

Sometimes it means you spent years learning that speaking up could backfire.

I still replay that moment sometimes. The moment that I ran onto the field too early. For years I thought that the lesson was that I didn’t know the game well enough.

Now I realize the lesson I thought I learned was much quieter:

Be careful before you step forward. You might be wrong.

It took me years to realize that wasn’t the right lesson at all. The truth was much simpler and far less personal.

I wasn’t wrong for stepping forward.

I was standing in a room where the rules kept changing.

It is strange how lessons like that follow you long after the field is gone.

You hesitate before speaking.

You rehearse what you will say before saying it.

You scan a room before deciding if it is safe to exist.

Not because you are shy, but because somewhere along the way you learned that speaking up could hurt you.

The mistake that day wasn’t running onto the field.

The mistake was believing that the problem was me.