late bloomer

Some people seem to bloom early. They walk into a room, strike up conversations, and friendships seem to spark around them. That’s never been me.

I’ve always been a late bloomer socially. Growing up, I was more observer than participant—watching how people connected, filing it away, but not quite stepping into it myself. Even now, as an adult, I sometimes feel like I’m still catching up. I can thrive in one-on-one conversations, but big groups? The small talk, the fluidity, the knowing-what-to-say at the right time—it still feels like a second language I only half-speak.

What’s funny is that professionally, I’ve spent my career helping people find their voice—giving brands language and presence and connection. But socially? I’m still fumbling to find mine. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to helping others express themselves—it’s the very thing I’ve been learning, slowly, awkwardly, in my own life.

Boundless has highlighted this for me in a whole new way. Drop me in a one-on-one with another parent, and I can go deep fast—life stories, honest reflections, belly laughs. But drop me into a big group dinner, and I sometimes feel myself folding in, retreating to the edges.

It’s not that I don’t engage. I do say hi. But almost immediately, I shift into “doing.” Running errands, helping with logistics, checking something off the list. Partly because those things genuinely need to get done. But mostly because it’s become my safe default—my way of dodging the awkwardness I feel in social spaces. If it’s a party, I want to run it… not mingle in it.

The same thing happens back home. At school events, I’ll be so focused on my kids, on tasks, on the project at hand, that I forget to simply stand still and connect. Later I’ll think, why didn’t I just stay in that moment a little longer? It’s not shyness, exactly. It’s more like my timing is off. My social rhythm is delayed.

And I think I’m writing about this now because we’re only two days from the cohort ending, and I’m just now finding my footing. Just now finding my voice, my place. Just now moving from being merely friendly to actually building friendships. There’s something both beautiful and sad about that timing.

Maybe that’s what being a late bloomer really means: not that you never get there, but that you arrive on your own time. And when you do, the connections you make feel deeply rooted—hard-won, intentional, lasting.

So yes, I’m a late bloomer socially. But maybe blooming late isn’t a flaw. Maybe it’s just my way of making sure the petals stay open once they finally unfold. And if you see me at a party running the drinks table instead of small talking, just know—it’s not avoidance. It’s just me, blooming in my own weird way.

And as we shape Lelo, this is the lesson I will keep close: learning, like blooming, doesn’t have one right schedule. It happens in its own rhythm. And when it does, the growth is deep and lasting.