Connectaholic

My crinkled list of questions sat in front of me.

I pulled it from our kitchen's junk drawer, tucked beside a retired butter tub full of rubber bands.

In thick red marker, it read:

1. How is the weather?

2. How is Grandpa?

3. What books are you reading?

4. Have you seen any wildlife?

5. How's work at the Nearly New?

   
   

As I waited for Dad to finish talking, my heart pounded. I rehearsed the questions again. I knew them by heart, but I still needed the list.

"Jenny, Grandma's ready to talk to you," Dad said.

I took a deep breath and held my list like a lifeline.

"Okay, Dad."

He handed me the phone.

Connection has always been my favorite language. ☎️🤎

"Hi, Grandma," I said sheepishly.

Silence.

I don't know if it was the long-distance connection between Maryland and Montana or her aging hearing, but she didn't respond.

I panicked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mom mouthing, Go ahead... Go on.

Maybe she didn't hear me.

Feeling flustered, I tried again.

"Hiiiii, Grand..."

"Well, hello there! How are you?" she interrupted.

We were barely thirty seconds into the conversation, and I already felt like I was failing.

"I'm good," I blurted, before launching into the first question on my list.

"How's the weather?"

Another long pause.

"Oh, ya know, Jenny, we got about six inches of snow yesterday. The mountains are completely covered."

"Even Martha and George are white from head to toe," she said, referring to the mountain silhouettes that locals say look like George and Martha Washington lying side by side.

I immediately pictured the snow-covered peaks and remembered Grandpa pointing them out from his front porch the summer before.

Not knowing what else to say, I hurried to my next question.

"How's Grandpa?"

A few seconds felt like a few years.

"He left early this morning for an auction outside Virginia City. Who knows what he'll bring home today. Did I ever tell you about the time he bought a few dozen toilets?"

"No," I laughed.

"I sure hope he bought a few sinks to go with them," she giggled.

Then she asked how school was.

"It's good," I lied.

It wasn't.

I was struggling in dialogue group. I loved reading. I was a decent speller. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember what I'd read. My quiz scores proved it.

Grandma adored books.

The last thing I wanted was for her to think I wasn't smart enough to love them too.

So instead, I gave the answer kids have been giving adults for generations.

"That's good," she replied.

"Well, I'd better go see if Grandpa has come back with his treasures."

"Nice talking with you, Jenny."

"You too."

I handed the phone back to Dad as quickly as humanly possible.

What Wasn't on the List

Somewhere along the way, I stopped bringing lists.

Not because conversations became easier.

But because I realized the questions I really wanted to ask were never on the paper.

Neither were the answers I really wanted to give.

For years, I thought I was uncomfortable talking to people.

Looking back, I wasn't afraid of conversation.

I was afraid of being known.

Funny how life works.

Somewhere between childhood and almost forty, I became the exact opposite.

These days, I don't just enjoy meaningful conversations.

I crave them.

I've started calling myself a connectaholic. 

Not because I need more people in my life.

But because I want more truth in the conversations I already have.

It isn't that I hate talking about the weather.

It's that I'm always wondering what comes after it.

I don't mind starting in the shallow end.

I just don't want to stay there.

In fact, I've never walked away from a conversation thinking, "I wish we'd spent more time talking about how muggy (and buggy) it is outside."

I want to know what keeps you awake at night.

What you're secretly proud of.

What you wish someone had told you when you were twelve.

What you're afraid to admit out loud.

I want to skip to the part where we're real.

Being highly sensitive has made me crave depth because genuine connection gives me energy. Purpose. Hope. It's where I feel most alive.

It's why I ask follow-up questions.

It's why I lean into conversations instead of away from them.

It's why I leave feeling energized after an hour with someone who lets me see who they really are.

Teaching has only intensified that desire.

I don't just want my students to learn from me.

I want to know them.

The boy who still brings stuffed animals to school but quietly hides them in his locker because he's afraid he's too old for them.

The quiet one who writes incredible fantasy stories about Greek gods that no one else gets to read... except me.

The class clown who blurts out jokes during math but secretly worries he isn't smart.

The shy girl who always says she's "fine," but desperately wants to be seen and understood.

Those are the connections I live for.

Being a connectaholic has also taught me a hard truth.

Not everyone wants to dive into the deep end.

Some people are perfectly happy staying on the surface and talking about the weather.

And that's okay.

Me?

I’ll gladly ask about the weather if that’s where we need to start.

But I’ll always be hoping we eventually get to the storm.

Turns out, the best conversations were never on my list anyway.