I'm the person who will go to a wedding and switch the place

The words of Sharon Horgan—“I'm the person who will go to a wedding and switch the place cards around because I don't want to sit next to someone I don't know, because I'm so bad at chatting to strangers.”—at first seem like a jest, light and humorous. Yet within them rests an ancient truth about the human heart: that even in the midst of celebration, there dwells the quiet fear of strangers. For though mankind is social by nature, each soul carries its own limits, its own unease before the unknown.

This utterance is a confession of vulnerability. In it, Horgan reveals that even the joyful gathering of a wedding can stir discomfort, not because of hostility, but because of shyness, the trembling that arises when words falter and silences lengthen. To switch the place cards is more than mischief; it is a small act of self-preservation, a way of carving comfort within a sea of unfamiliarity. Thus, her words remind us that not all courage lies in speaking boldly—sometimes it lies in admitting one’s weakness.

History offers us the story of Socrates, who, despite his unmatched wisdom, declared that his greatness was not in knowing everything, but in confessing what he did not know. Like Horgan’s honesty about her struggles with strangers, Socrates showed that truth begins with humility. To acknowledge discomfort is not failure, but the first step to self-knowledge, and self-knowledge is the root of wisdom.

The quote also reflects the eternal human tension between individual comfort and communal expectation. A wedding asks that guests mingle, that laughter flow freely across tables. Yet for some, the weight of small talk is heavier than the weight of solitude. Horgan’s playful rebellion—switching the place cards—is a symbol of how individuals reshape tradition to survive within it. Her act, though small, shows the timeless need to adapt life’s ceremonies to the needs of the soul.

Let this teaching endure: do not scorn those who fear the stranger’s company, nor dismiss the small tricks they use to guard their hearts. For each person navigates the banquet of life differently—some with booming voices, others with quiet rearrangements. What matters is not how one mingles, but that one remains true. And in the end, even the simplest honesty, like Horgan’s confession, may be the spark that allows another to say, “I too have felt this way,” and thus find connection in shared humanity.