It will never be about you

The two of us stepped into the elevator from the B3 basement after nearly two hours of badminton.

"Back in the day, my hometown was such a blast. Every afternoon, we’d run out to the fields to fly kites until we were exhausted," he said, stepping forward to press the elevator button, his eyes still glued to the phone in his hand.

"Same here. Back then, there were still haystacks from when the neighbors threshed the rice. We’d climb up the longan trees and jump right into them. It was itchy as hell," I replied, scratching my wrist instinctively, as if that old itch had never really left.

"Ah, we also had this canal. Sometimes we’d catch fish and grill them right there. One time, we almost set the whole field on fire." He laughed, taking off his glasses to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.

"For us, we used to 'borrow' rice and cook it in old condensed milk cans. It’d be burnt to a crisp, but we’d still force ourselves to eat it. Anyone who complained would get their face smeared with soot," I panted, barely finishing the sentence. Finally, the elevator reached the 5th floor.

Stepping out into the office, the childhood stories continued, but they weren't much different from the exchange we just had.

Do you notice it? Each story we told was like parallel lines—just like the MADE album poster by BIGBANG. "In my place" followed by "In your place," back and forth, over and over.

No one was truly listening. Or maybe we were. But everyone just wanted to talk about themselves. Everyone wanted the other person to hear their story. I wasn't waiting for him to finish because I was curious about the canal in his village; I was too busy digging through my own memory for a "cooler" story to top his.

We Are All Lonely Protagonists

Have you ever noticed that all of us, subconsciously, want the conversation to revolve around ourselves? We crave to be understood, to be recognized, to be the center of attention. We treat our own experiences as the "standard" and constantly try to pull every topic back toward us.

"It’s not just me; it’s everyone."

You see, the trap is this: when everyone wants to be the speaker, there’s no one left to be the listener. We enter conversations like emotional vampires, just waiting to suck the attention out of the other person to feed our own starving egos.

Psychology calls this the Spotlight Effect. Professor Thomas Gilovich’s research showed that we consistently overestimate how much others notice our appearance or actions. We worry about a stain on our shirt or a slip of the tongue, but the truth is, nobody cares. They’re too busy worrying about their own "stains." We are lonely within our self-created spotlights, frantically playing a role that nobody is actually watching. Kind of embarrassing, isn't it?

The Power of "Stepping Back"

Mark Manson once spoke about the importance of not taking things personally. He suggests that our biggest trap is believing we are the center of every experience. When someone criticizes us, we feel insulted; when someone doesn't respond, we feel abandoned. We subconsciously default to the idea that every event in the world is a reflection of our self-worth.

But in reality, everyone is busy fighting their own internal battles. A colleague's words or a stranger's attitude on the street is a reflection of their world and their problems, not necessarily yours. When you realize that "it’s not always about you," you find absolute freedom: you no longer have to strain yourself to explain or prove anything to the world out there.

Instead of saying, "Same here..." (to pull the focus back to myself), I tried asking: "The wind in the fields must have been really strong, right? What color was your kite?"

This time, he seemed much more excited. He vividly described a paper kite glued together with cold rice and the feeling of the string digging into his hand as the wind roared. He wasn't "monologuing" anymore. My listening created a safe space for him to truly share. In that moment, I realized that a genuine smile from the person across from me was worth far more than just waiting for my turn to speak.

When you choose to listen and ask questions instead of reacting instantly, you officially step off the roller coaster of self-esteem. You no longer need others to hear your story to feel important. You observe, you listen, and you realize that the other person’s world is just as sparkling and colorful—if you actually take a moment to pay attention.

P.S

The urge to talk about ourselves is an instinct, but knowing how to be silent and listen is a skill. Don’t be too hard on yourself if you catch yourself "stealing the mic." Next time, simply listen and respond sincerely; you’ll see a clear difference.

Because in the end, your value doesn’t lie in how many great stories you can tell, but in whether you are generous enough to make room for someone else’s story.