If you’re like me, small talk isn’t just boring; it’s torture. It feels forced, unnecessary, and exhausting.
So imagine how I felt when I walked into therapy for the first time, ready to dump all my insides on some stranger who began with, “So… how’s your week been?”
Talk about awkward.
Especially if you’re not a “talk-about-your-feelings” kind of person. You sit there thinking, if I were good at talking about my week, I probably wouldn’t be here. So instead, you nod politely, stare at the carpet, and say something totally untrue like, “It’s been fine.”
Which, let’s be real, is therapist code for: I made intense eye contact with a pigeon, and dissociated on the subway. But sure. Fine.
The Armor We Didn’t Know We Were Wearing
It wasn’t just the awkwardness of the question; it was what it represented. That tiny question felt like a wall I wasn’t ready to climb. It was the first test of a muscle I barely knew existed: the vulnerability muscle. I’d spent years training myself to stay guarded, to keep people out, and to appear fine. And now this stranger expected me to crack that armor… over something as simple as how my week went.
Because here’s the thing: therapy isn’t small talk. But it starts like small talk.
And for people like us, the ones who’ve built a whole survival strategy around not feeling too much, not needing too much, not letting people in, it’s a setup that can feel almost hostile. You’re supposed to just… open up? To someone you met five minutes ago? In a room with a clock and a weird chair?
Finding the Words When You Don’t Have Them Yet
I remember how impossible it felt at first. It was like trying to squeeze a secret through a locked door. You want to say the real stuff, the painful, messy stuff, but your mouth won’t get there yet. So you circle around it, answering in half-truths or vague generalities. You feel like a fraud, like you’re supposed to have some magic words ready, but all you have is silence.
But here’s what I learned, slowly and painfully: that small talk wasn’t meaningless. It was the opening move. The invitation to start building trust, however awkwardly.
It’s the first step in a dance you didn’t sign up for but that might just save you.
Over time, those “It’s been fine” answers get replaced by the real stuff. The stuff that’s scary and embarrassing, but also the stuff that makes healing possible.
Small talk becomes a kind of bridge. A way to test the waters. A gentle offer to be seen without judgment. And maybe, just maybe, the first proof that you’re not as alone as you thought.
From Sarcasm to Something Real
My therapist never rushed me. He allowed me to talk sports, and he let me set the pace, even when all I could offer was sarcasm and a brittle smile. But eventually, those small cracks turned into openings. And through them, I finally let out what I’d been holding in for so long.
Six years later, I can look back and see how far those awkward beginnings took me. I learned that healing doesn’t come in grand, cinematic breakthroughs. It happens in quiet, uncomfortable moments when you show up, say a little more than you did yesterday, and trust that it’s enough.
My therapist recently retired. No more Wednesday mornings, no more weird chair, no more space to spill the stuff I never knew how to say. It’s strange. Quiet, in a way that feels a little empty.
But I carry the lessons. That I can sit with discomfort. That I don’t have to be fine. That small talk, as unbearable as it feels, was never really small at all.
And maybe that’s the hardest part of healing, just having the conversation begin. Because sometimes ‘It’s been fine’ is the beginning of the bravest thing you’ll ever say.
Photo by Nik Shuliahin 💛💙 on Unsplash