The Reluctant Social Butterfly: Why Am I So Bad at Making Plans?

Well, I know I’m not doing myself any favours with this blog, considering my friends read it too. I’m basically exposing myself. And they’re about to get confirmation of what they’ve long suspected: I suck at making plans. Not just making them—keeping them. They’re going to find out that, yes, I do look for excuses. But here we are. Let’s rip the socially anxious Band-Aid off, shall we?

But first, let’s be clear about one thing. It’s not that I hate people. I like people. People are cool. From a distance. Like, over text. Or Instagram stories.

It’s not that I hate going out either. It’s just… I don’t always have the energy. Or the willpower. Or the mental capacity to leave my house and be a functioning social adult after a full day of pretending to care about emails and trying not to lose my mind in traffic. You get it.

I am that person who will enthusiastically say “YES!” in the group chat when someone suggests a plan, only to spend the next 48 hours praying for a freak thunderstorm, a mild illness, or—honestly—a blackout that wipes out the entire city’s power grid.

Not because I don’t love my friends (I do, deeply, platonically, in a would-hide-a-body-for-you kinda way), but because I am just… so bad at making plans.

The Initial Lie: “I’m Down!”

When someone drops a plan in the group, I almost always say yes. Like, without even thinking. Pure reflex.

“Let’s do drinks Friday?”
Me: “Hell yes.”
Also me: already thinking of excuses I might need in case I can’t follow through.

It’s not that I don’t want to go—it’s that I have no idea how I’ll feel by Friday. I could be drained, dead tired, mentally fried, or stuck in one of those weird moods where making eye contact feels like a chore. I can’t predict that on a Monday. But I say yes anyway, because in that moment, I want to be the person who shows up. I want to believe I’ll be that person.

And yes, saying yes feels good. It makes me feel included. Like I belong. It buys me a few minutes of social optimism and gives the illusion that Future Me will be this chill, well-rested, emotionally available human who owns multiple outfits that aren't like Bermuda triangle.

Sometimes I even give myself a pep talk mid-week, like I’m training for a big game. “This time will be different,” I whisper dramatically in the shower on a random Tuesday, “You’re gonna go out. You’ll be charming. You won’t overthink every sentence or replay conversations at 2 a.m. like a psycho.”

And then Friday comes. And all bets are off.

The Anxiety Countdown....

As the plan approaches, my internal monologue turns into a full-blown anxiety festival:

“Do I have trendy clothes?”

“Do I need to Uber there? ”

"Will I have to talk to strangers?"

“Will I be forced into small talk with someone’s work friend?”

“How long do I have to stay before it’s socially acceptable to leave without looking like someone with a secret second life?”

I start doing this ridiculous math in my head like, “Okay, if I leave my house at 7, get there by 8, I can leave by 10, be in bed by 10:30... maybe?” Meanwhile, every cell in my body is screaming Stay home and order Alfredo pasta from Pizza Hut.

Let me explain...

It’s not that I don’t want to hang out. I do. I really do. In theory. In that ideal version of life, where I have unlimited energy, social skills, and the wardrobe of a person who doesn’t panic when someone says “smart casual.” And, to actually know what “smart casual” means without googling it.

But in real life, the second someone says “Let’s meet up,” my brain just kind of freezes. I suddenly start overthinking everything—what to wear, what time it’ll end, whether I’ll be too tired by then. Making plans feels like a commitment I might not be able to keep, even if I want to.

There are times when I ask myself, “Wait… which me said yes? Was it ‘tired but optimistic me’? Or ‘delusional Monday morning me’? Because current me just wants to wear shorts and the same oversized t-shirt with holes in it and not speak.”

It’s a constant tug-of-war between my desire for connection and my deep, spiritual need to cancel without consequences. Not to mention the fact that by Thursday, I’ve already mentally aged 50 years and started referring to 9 p.m. as “late".

The Truth...

The truth is, I’m a social person with a very unpredictable social battery. Some days, I’m all in—ready to talk, laugh, hang out, do the whole thing. Other days, I would rather eat leftovers in bed and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

I’ve realized it’s not laziness, and it’s not me being antisocial. It’s just how I’m wired. And honestly, I’m kind of done feeling bad about it.

So yeah, I might be bad at making (and keeping) plans. But I’m still a good friend. I’ll show up when it really matters. My sense of empathy makes me the best person to be with when you need someone to vent to. I’ll also send a weirdly specific meme at 2 a.m. that somehow speaks directly to your soul.

So What Now?

I wish I could say I’ve found the cure. That I’ve become one of those effortlessly social people who thrive on last-minute plans, calendar invites, and bottomless brunches. But the truth is: I’m still figuring it out and I'm still working on it.

Maybe the answer is smaller, simpler plans. Less pressure. Or more honesty. Or just accepting that I am a reluctant social butterfly—the kind that sneaks in, stays for one drink, and quietly disappears before dessert.

To my friends reading this: I swear it’s not you. I love you. I just need you to know that when I bail, it’s not because I don’t care—it’s because I’ve got about two solid social interactions in me per week, and I already used one on my barber.

But if you ever want to chill at home, no pressure, no expectations, no forced small talk—just cozy, chill vibes—I’m your guy. I’ll even get you "Samosas".

Let’s plan something soon.
Probably.
Maybe.
I’ll let you know.😬