The Yaghan people of Tierra del Fuego—such a beautiful name to say—have a word I’ve always loved: Mamihlapinatapai. It describes that fleeting moment when two strangers catch each other’s eye, both longing to speak, yet neither finding the courage to begin. The Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, as the philosophers say, and the moment slips away. A small tragedy.
I know that feeling well. My early childhood was spent in a kind of solitary confinement—those were the days before nurseries—and most of my hours were passed alone in the back yard. By the time I reached high school, I had already attended four different primary schools. It’s no surprise, then, that I grew up painfully shy, missing opportunities simply because I didn’t know how to step forward.
At eighteen, I bought a book on shyness, and it changed everything. So often shyness is not a lack of desire to connect, but a lack of material—not knowing what to say, not having anything to draw from. I know people who never read, who spend their evenings drifting through television or the cyber-hive of video games and social feeds. Then, when they meet others, they have little to offer beyond the same recycled lines. Conversation becomes a loop, and boredom follows.
Reading changed that for me. Books give you worlds to bring into the world.
And conversation, like any craft, can be learned. A few simple openers can unlock remarkable encounters:
“I see you’re reading a book—what’s it about?”
“That’s a great camera. Do you have a website for your photos?”
“Is this your full-time job, or are you studying as well?”
I’ve had some of my most memorable exchanges with complete strangers using questions like these. Think of the countless scenarios where a gentle prompt could open a door. Go on—bite the bullet. You never know what might happen when you do.
On Shyness and Missed Chances
On Shyness, Missed Chances, and Learning to Speak
The Yaghan people of Tierra del Fuego—such a beautiful name to say—have a word I’ve always loved: Mamihlapinatapai. It describes that fleeting moment when two strangers catch each other’s eye, both longing to speak, yet neither finding the courage to begin. The Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, as the philosophers say, and the moment slips away. A small tragedy.
I know that feeling well. My early childhood was spent in a kind of solitary confinement—those were the days before nurseries—and most of my hours were passed alone in the back yard. By the time I reached high school, I had already attended four different primary schools. It’s no surprise, then, that I grew up painfully shy, missing opportunities simply because I didn’t know how to step forward.
At eighteen, I bought a book on shyness, and it changed everything. So often shyness is not a lack of desire to connect, but a lack of material—not knowing what to say, not having anything to draw from. I know people who never read, who spend their evenings drifting through television or the cyber-hive of video games and social feeds. Then, when they meet others, they have little to offer beyond the same recycled lines. Conversation becomes a loop, and boredom follows.
Reading changed that for me. Books give you worlds to bring into the world.
And conversation, like any craft, can be learned. A few simple openers can unlock remarkable encounters:
I’ve had some of my most memorable exchanges with complete strangers using questions like these. Think of the countless scenarios where a gentle prompt could open a door. Go on—bite the bullet. You never know what might happen when you do.