I’ve been reflecting on my own experience with social anxiety, and it reminded me of something similar someone else shared on this video . Like many others, social situations can feel overwhelming, but I’ve developed a strategy that helps me manage those moments when anxiety creeps in.
One approach I use is to mentally step outside myself and visualize how the other person might see me. I imagine my micro-expressions, posture, and overall demeanor from their perspective, almost like watching myself from a third-person point of view. It’s as if I’m trying to emulate how I perceive socially fluent people behaving. Oddly enough, this shift in perspective pulls me away from being overly self-conscious and eases some of the internal tension. It’s like someone pressed a pause button on that constant stream of self-doubt.
In these moments, I feel lighter on my feet. I no longer have to hyper-focus on how I’m coming across; instead, I redirect my attention outward to the person I’m interacting with. It becomes more instinctual, like my brain switches from overanalyzing everything (let’s call it “System 2”) to just flowing naturally in the moment. Even as I write this in a cafe, I notice the absence of that nagging inner voice that usually says, “They think I’m weird. I need to fix my expression.” It feels like a brief respite from my internal critique.
This brings me to a concept that someone else explained to me (that someone is Steven Pinker on YouTube, what do you expect?) which may explain part of what’s happening here—the Default Mode Network (DMN) in the brain. The DMN is often active during periods of self-referential thought, like when we’re daydreaming, reflecting, or—interestingly—ruminating about our social performance. It’s that part of our brain responsible for keeping the mental chatter alive, and for many of us with social anxiety, it often goes into overdrive, hyper-focusing on how we come across to others. But when I shift my attention away from myself—when I engage more with the world outside—I feel like I’m temporarily quieting the DMN, allowing my brain to switch to a more outward focus.
This outward shift also ties into metacognition, or the ability to think about thinking. By deliberately taking a step back and considering how I might be perceived by others, I’m using my metacognitive ability to regulate my own behavior. It’s like a mental trick that allows me to break free from the loop of internal judgment, replacing it with a more outward-directed focus.
Jordan Peterson ( I know ) once said something that struck a chord:
“Anxiety is all about where you direct your attention. There’s narcissism in anxiety: all you see is yourself. Look outwards, to the dragon’s eyes, observe, listen, and you will have something to talk about.”
Whether or not you agree with his broader philosophy, there’s truth in this idea that shifting attention outward can be liberating.
And this got me thinking—could this outward focus be why humans historically gravitated toward religion in such a natural, unengineered way? Even as an atheist, I can’t help but notice the benefits, the behavioral influence of believing in an omnipresent, all-seeing figure like God. If you’re constantly aware of being watched and judged by a higher power, it would logically impact how you act. Maybe it taps into the same neural networks that drive our social anxieties?
Communities like churches (or “ ekklesia ,” which interestingly translates to congregation or gathering ) often function best when people engage in self-reflection (prayer), clear communication, cooperation, and participation. It’s as if these dynamics require a delicate balance between self-awareness and outward attention. But finding that optimal ratio is challenging—especially since our brains seem to operate on complex, interconnected feedback loops.
Maybe that’s why religious texts are often these sprawling, self-referencing collections of narratives that evolved over centuries. They might unintentionally serve as humanity’s earliest attempt to tackle the problem of behavioral regulation. Some people take these narratives as “truer than true,” and I wonder if that belief is tied to how these stories interact with our cognitive networks.
For instance, in the Bible, John refers to Jesus as “the Word.” Some interpretations suggest that John meant Jesus is the physical manifestation of God, similar to how a spoken word represents our inner thoughts. Others believe this is meant to establish the foundation of faith: believe in the words, act accordingly, and do the “right” thing in self-reflection.
I might be digressing a bit, but this stuff always seems to be intertwined. There are people who strongly believe that religion can help with things like depression and anxiety. I’m not promoting any religion here, just making connections that I find interesting from an atheist’s perspective.
I’m still piecing all this together, so does everyone else. But there’s something compelling about how attention, anxiety, and these ancient narratives seem to dance together in our minds. Metacognition, the DMN, religion—they’re all part of the human condition, and maybe by understanding them better, we can find new ways to navigate our anxieties.