On Canceled Plans
It’s 7:32 p.m., and a notification lights up your screen. You already know. Deliverance has arrived.
“Hey, sorry something came up. Raincheck?”
Your whole body decompresses like an air mattress deflating. Plans? Canceled. The weight of having to be a person? Lifted. Your time? Yours again. Suddenly, the potential doom of a night out in the real world has been replaced with the sweet glow of your algorithmically curated For You Page.
You tap out a quick “No worries at all! 😊” because you’re playing the part of a functioning adult in this simulation. But the truth? You’ve been manifesting this for hours—hoping the social gods would intervene and free you from the burden of smiling, nodding, and pretending you have the energy for human interaction.
Instead of dragging yourself through a gauntlet of small talk, you let the dopamine flood in. TikTok’s feeding you just what you need—a seamless stream of chaotic videos with zero stakes, zero eye contact. There’s no FOMO, no guilt. You’re riding the high of canceled plans, a rare and beautiful phenomenon that almost feels illegal.
Let’s talk about the real dystopia: the group chat. That swirling black hole of indecision, filled with plans you never agreed to but somehow feel obligated to attend. It all starts with the innocent:
“Hey, what’s everyone up to this weekend? Drinks?”
And you already know what’s coming next. The replies start coming in hot, all enthusiasm and commitment you could never relate to.
“OMG yes! 🍸✨”
“Count me in!!”
It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, except the crash is your free time being obliterated. You’re expected to be there now. The social contract is binding, and it’s killing your vibe.
But you’ve learned how to play this game. You’ve got the art of ambiguity down. Your response? Classic:
“Maybe! I’ll see how things go 😊.”
Translation: I’m already planning my escape, but let’s see if y’all implode first. It’s a tactical move. You’ve bought yourself time—time to pray the whole thing falls apart before you’re forced to feign enthusiasm in person. Group chats are basically a digital standoff, and you’re the lone wolf, holding out for that sweet, sweet collapse.
It’s late, and you’re spiraling. Again. The weight of all these micro-social expectations has your brain spinning faster than a TikTok trend cycle. But you’re not texting your friends about this—hell no. They’re still waiting for your RSVP.
So, you turn to ChatGPT. Not because you’re expecting anything life-altering, but because it’s easier than throwing your feelings into the void of Twitter or dealing with a random Reddit thread.
You:
Why does every social invite feel like I’m being dragged into a survival challenge?
ChatGPT:
It sounds like you’re experiencing social fatigue, which can happen when people feel pressured to engage in activities they don’t necessarily enjoy.
You:
Yeah, cool, but it’s more like I’m prepping for an Olympic-level performance every time someone says “let’s hang out.”
ChatGPT:
That feeling could be linked to masking—when people adjust their behavior to meet social norms. It can be mentally exhausting over time.
You:
Masking? Yeah, I’ve been running that program on autopilot for, like, ever. So, what now? Do I just unplug from the Matrix?
ChatGPT:
Taking breaks to recharge can help. It’s important to find social interactions that don’t feel like performances.
You:
Recharge? I need to turn this whole system off and back on again.
You stare at the screen, not because you expect anything profound from a bot that’s essentially the world’s smartest parrot, but because ChatGPT just said the thing you’ve been trying to ignore: You’re not bad at socializing, you’re just exhausted by the constant act of it.
And honestly? The internet doesn’t demand that performance from you. It’s just you, your scrolling thumb, and an endless feed of low-effort content.
You’re deep into a mindless scroll, swiping through TikToks with that dead-eyed bliss only a personalized algorithm can provide, when it happens: FaceTime.
The screen lights up with Lexie’s name, and your heart drops. Who FaceTimes without warning? This is basically a digital jump scare, and you’ve been ambushed.
There’s no way you’re answering. You’re not ready. Your face isn’t ready. Your brain isn’t ready. The idea of a real-time, face-to-face conversation feels like someone just dropped you into a Black Mirror episode, and you are not here for it.
You hit ignore, letting the call time out like it never happened. But just to process the insanity, you hit up ChatGPT. It’s not like you expect it to get it, but it’s better than explaining to an actual person.
You:
Why does FaceTime feel like someone threw a brick through my digital window?
ChatGPT:
Spontaneous video calls can feel intrusive because they require immediate attention and create pressure to engage in real-time.
You:
Right, it’s basically an attack on my nervous system.
ChatGPT:
Setting boundaries around video calls may help reduce this feeling.
You:
Boundaries? I’m still figuring out boundaries with myself, let alone other people.
You close ChatGPT, knowing it’s not going to fix the modern scourge that is random FaceTime calls. You text Lexie the go-to “Sorry! Just saw this, what’s up?” and retreat back to your FYP. There’s no crisis here—just the sweet, comforting distance of being unreachable.
Group chats. Why are they always on? It’s like they run on some kind of cursed infinite loop, a relentless cycle of memes, plans, and low-key demands for your presence.
You don’t hate your friends, you just hate having to be a person for them. Every time that notification pops up, it’s like another reminder that you’re expected to perform. To engage. To act like you care about brunch, or memes, or whatever the latest TikTok dance is.
They’re planning another “squad night out,” and you’re already over it. The memes are rolling in, the inside jokes are flying, and all you can think is, Do I even have the energy to fake an excuse this time?
You’re about to hit ChatGPT, but pause. Nah. You know the answer already. Group chats are just social anxiety machines, feeding off your need to stay in, while you slowly wither out.
You dodged the plan. You made peace with it. But here you are, scrolling through Instagram stories, watching your friends out living their best lives at the thing you bailed on. And suddenly, FOMO hits you like a glitch in your brain.
You didn’t want to go. You knew you wouldn’t enjoy it. But now? Now it’s like you’re watching everyone else live a life you opted out of, and it stings.
You open ChatGPT, mostly out of habit, because you need to get this feeling out somehow.
You:
Why do I have FOMO for something I didn’t even want to go to?
ChatGPT:
FOMO, or Fear of Missing Out, can occur even when you didn’t want to attend. It’s often tied to the perception of missing out on social connections.
You close ChatGPT. It’s not wrong. But it doesn’t help either. FOMO is just part of the digital ecosystem now—something you accept as the cost of staying plugged in. You scroll on, reminding yourself that you dodged a bullet. Even if that bullet comes with a side of FOMO.
It’s 2 a.m., and you’ve spent the last hour deep-diving into articles about social fatigue, masking, and burnout. You’ve seen “neurodivergence” tossed around like confetti on every site, and slowly, the pieces start clicking together.
This constant exhaustion from socializing? It’s not just because you don’t like people. It’s because every interaction feels like a performance. Like you’re running a script that wasn’t even written for you.
For neurodivergent individuals, this exhaustion is amplified. Social norms and expectations can feel like an unending maze, each turn requiring a new mask, a new persona. It’s not about being anti-social; it’s about conserving energy in a world that demands continuous social engagement.
And the kicker? You’re not even bad at socializing. You’re just tired of pretending it doesn’t drain the life out of you.
Next time someone cancels plans? Yeah, you’ll celebrate like always. But maybe you’ll stop feeling so guilty about why. Maybe you’ll recognize that it’s not about hating people—it’s about being tired of the act.
Perhaps you’ll start thinking about setting those boundaries ChatGPT keeps going on about. Setting limits on group chats, scheduling downtime, and being honest about your needs can make a difference. It’s about finding a balance between staying connected and preserving your mental well-being.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll seek out social interactions that feel authentic and less like performances. Conversations that don’t require a script, connections that don’t drain your energy.
But tonight? Video essays, freeze-dried sour gummies, your cat, and the peace of not having to perform at all.