A moment that changed me: I kissed a crying girl in a playground – and I overcame my crippling anxiety

I was terribly shy as a child; almost mute at school and even at university. I couldn't stand being noticed and if I spoke, people would notice me, so I spoke as little as possible. I learned to pretend to be less shy as I got older, but even in my thirties I was still horribly shy. I often desperately wanted to say or do something, but if that action made people realize that I existed, I would feel almost paralyzed with anxiety, physically unable to speak or move.

< p class="dcr-18sg7f2 "> It was a hot summer day about four years ago. I was with my partner and our toddler in a huge playground, a fantastic playground, the biggest we have ever seen; there was even a model train you could ride on. We spotted some friends who had just vacationed at the same place, which was a nice surprise. The weather was nice, there were a lot of people: there was a fun, almost carnival atmosphere.

I noticed the two little girls almost as soon as we entered playground. The oldest was maybe 10 years old leading her sister (I guess) who looked about seven years old. They were both splattered with what looked like green paint. They were alone, no relatives nearby. I lost sight of them but after a while they came to play near us. I was very aware of their presence behind us, of the elder's impatience with her sister. I had my back to them when our friends gasped; the eldest had slapped her sister. She pulled the young girl away from us but couldn't go far because her sister threw herself on the floor screaming and crying and refusing to get up. We stood in our small group and watched them. I wanted to comfort her but felt unable.

Then I thought, what am I waiting for? Why am I waiting for someone to give me permission to do what I think is right? Why don't we do something instead of just standing there scolding disapprovingly? I approached the little girl and held out my hand. I intended to help her up and reunite with her parents, but instead she pulled me down into a tight hug and wouldn't let me go. It sounds melodramatic to say that I felt a psychic connection to her, but I did. I instantly felt his emotions overwhelm me; the grief and loneliness of being criticized and belittled. Tremendous emotions that were overwhelming for a small child. We knelt on the floor hugging each other tightly for what felt like a long time; at one point i tried to pull away but she wouldn't let me go. We hadn't said a word to each other but we were sobbing in each other's arms. I felt the deepest connection I have ever felt.

The eldest daughter had run away and reappeared with a man I thought was her father. She pointed at me accusingly. He was a big guy. Tall, muscular, tattooed. It occurred to me that he would probably be mad at a stranger hugging his child and might yell at me or even hit me. The thought obviously also came to my partner and my friends: they came as if to protect me. "The kid was upset," they explained to the massive guy. None of us were physically large or very tall, and I'm only 5-foot-2: even the fridge is taller than me. I decided it didn't matter if he hit me. At this moment, the only thing that mattered in the world was comforting the little girl in my arms. I knew if the man said, "We don't want her, are you going to adopt her?" I would have said "Yes" without hesitation, no matter what my family thought.

The man was not angry. He simply nodded and extended his arms to his child. She calmed down and I felt that she wasn't afraid of him at all. We pulled away slowly and she went over to him willingly. He picked her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He took it away and the sister followed them. I wondered if the eldest daughter would have problems with the father and how was the mother. I watched them disappear into the crowd, then rushed to the public bathroom to wash the green paint off my arms and cry my heart out.

That day, I learned that I can speak, and if I can't speak, I can act, which is often easier. I still find speaking difficult and exhausting. But now I know that if I need to, I can. I no longer have to wait for “permission” (from what? From whom?) to be granted. I can give myself permission. I'd love to see the little girl again - but I wouldn't recognize her unless she was covered in green paint.

It was just an ordinary day at the playground but it was, and still is, four years later, the most profound moment of my life.