Rescue Me: A Story for the Quiet Ones in Loud Rooms.

Have you ever walked into a room and felt completely out of place?

We’ve all been there. That unsettling moment when you enter a gathering, even with an invite in hand, and suddenly feel like an outsider—like you stumbled into a space not meant for you. You feel exposed, uncertain, as if everyone’s eyes are on you, questioning your presence.

In that moment, you wish you could disappear—crawl under a rock or retreat to a lonely corner where no one can see you. You pull out your phone, pretending to search for a text or scroll endlessly on social media, anything to look busy. But let’s be honest: how long can you stay glued to your screen when the expectation is to be social, to mingle, to belong?

I’ve been there. 

That dreaded imposter syndrome creeps in. You start wondering, “How do I navigate out of this?” You look around, scanning faces, hoping someone familiar will notice your discomfort. Maybe someone will reach out with a simple, “Hey man, where’ve you been?” or a warm invite like, “Come grab a drink with us—the cocktails are amazing!” Or even better, “You’ve gotta try the sushi—best thing here.” And just like that, the heavy weight lifts off. You feel seen. You belong.

That night, I saw someone else in that position—a young boy, probably fourteen, lost in a sea of his peers.

His age group was tightly clustered in “little friend” circles, laughing and chatting. But he wasn’t in any of them. He hovered nearby, unsure which conversation to join or how to even start. It was like watching a napkin on a lavishly set dinner table—technically part of the setting, but easy to overlook.

I observed him for a while. He wasn't just shy—he was stuck, trying to decode the unspoken social cues of kids his age who hadn’t made space for him. No one noticed. No one reached out. Not one turned to say, “Hey buddy, come talk to us.”

I felt that. 

Because I’ve been that “napkin”. And I couldn’t let it get out of my mind.

I was seated at a table of adults—mostly women—and noticed the boy walk over and sit next to us. His mom, part of our group, asked why he wasn’t with the other kids. He simply said, “I just want to sit here.” That was his polite way of saying, “I don’t know how to fit in.”

Now, I could’ve left it at that, but something told me this was a teaching moment—for my son. As my boy walked toward me, I stopped him with a made-up task: “Hey, go grab me something from the buffet, would you?” Just a decoy. I pulled him aside, along with another boy, a senior, and quietly asked them to do something important.

“That boy sitting at our table—go bring him back to your group. Stick with him. He’s shy. Help him feel like he belongs.”

They agreed. And they did it. They walked over, picked him up, and brought him into their circle. From a distance, it looked like a beautiful act of inclusion. Even the ladies at my table noticed and were impressed but my heart felt warm - mission accomplished.

But here’s the twist: It didn’t last.

The boys didn't fully understand the assignment. One of them was older and about to graduate. The other was in the same class as the shy boy, but the support faded quickly. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they weren’t sure what to do next. All I know is—I’ve been there, and I could tell he still felt out of place.

Later, the boy was celebrated at the event. He was honored, much to his surprise, and for a moment, he seemed to glow with pride. But when the party ended, there wasn’t a grand gesture of appreciation or inclusion. And I couldn’t help but feel something was missing.

The next day, I had a man-to-man talk with my son. 

He had once told me he wanted to be seen as a leader—someone people could count on. So I explained what I was trying to teach him that night.

“Son, leadership isn't just about standing on a stage or scoring points. It’s about being the kind of person who looks around and sees someone in distress—and does something about it.”

I reminded him that small actions matter. Sitting with someone. Checking on them every once in a while. Making sure they feel included even if you don’t talk the whole night. I told him that people remember kindness—especially when they feel most alone.

I told him, “You’re in the same freshman class as this kid. You’ll be together for three more years. That moment you helped him? He’ll remember that longer than anything else.”

That’s what true leadership looks like. 

Not being first. Not being loudest. But leading by example—quietly, powerfully.

So let me ask you… Have you ever “rescued” someone at a party?

Have you ever noticed that one person sitting alone at a podcasting conference, or hiding in a corner at a networking event, waiting for someone—anyone—to say, “Hey, how are you? What’s your name? I love your jacket. You have to try this dessert!”

Maybe you talked about sports, maybe you complimented their vibe. But did you make them feel like they were part of your group?

Did you leave your clique to talk to a stranger? Or did you worry about what others might think?

Are you that person who can weave through a room and, by the end of the night, say you greeted 90% of the people there?

Maybe you're not built that way. That’s okay. Emotional intelligence comes in waves. But if you can do it for just one person—just once—you'll understand what I mean.

Rescue me. 

Because I’ve been there. And I know exactly how it feels.

( . . .I've read this dozens of times and each time it brings tears to my eyes.. / shhh.. Im vulnerable,too . . .)

Disclaimer: I like to think of myself as both smart and a bit lazy! With the help of AI tools, creating my posts has become much easier and more enjoyable. That said, I’ve still done my research and shared my thoughts in my own way. Technology has made it simple to present my ideas clearly, helping you to easily read and understand them without any tricky jargon or expressions.

Sambaza, a Kenyan immigrant, is deeply passionate about podcasting and public speaking. As he delves into the art of podcasting and explores its many facets, he draws on his experiences as a diasporan and Pan-Africanist to create unique content. His dedication has earned him three nominations for Diasporan Podcaster of the Year among others. Additionally, Sambaza actively collaborates with other podcasters and collectives, continuously enhancing his skills as a creator.