I don’t want to know your favourite colour. I want to know the lore.

We’re seeing a plethora of reports about the loneliness epidemic and think pieces about how we’re more disconnected than ever in the midst of a mental health crisis. 

And yet, while we're (quite rightly) encouraged to talk, be vulnerable, and build a community, we’re also developing an increasingly elaborate set of rules around how much of ourselves we are socially permitted to bring to a conversation, as though we’ve been summoned to The Hague. 

The internet hasn’t helped; it’s now supposedly cool to run with the I hate people (hehe xoxo) bandwagon as a personality trait, followed by a painfully excruciating example of why… like, someone walking slowly during rush hour. Bore off.

There is an obvious irony in all of this, because TikTok may be the greatest oversharing app ever invented. People are constantly telling hundreds of thousands of strangers about their divorces, dating disasters, finances, and family estrangements, with a ring light between them and the camera.

We have never been more willing to broadcast the intimate details of our lives to strangers, and yet I don't think that necessarily translates into being more intimate with the people standing next to us.

I simply can’t do small talk – I can see it’s raining, it is UK weather after all. 

I want to know about your first love, whether you can separate the artist from their outbursts, why you moved here, why you don’t talk to your dad, and that one scenario from five years ago that still keeps you up at night. 

Not because I am nosy, although I am, but because I think these are the things that make people interesting and ultimately, human. I yearn for mental stimulation, but now it feels like all we’re left with is surface-level BS where being emotionally unavailable is aspirational and showing passion and intrigue is somehow embarrassing. 

Some of my friends I immediately hit it off with happen to be American, despite being an eight-hour flight away. 

Within two days, the chat would be rolling in everything from IBS to SSRIs to PTSD to why it’s never a good idea to date a neighbour (which, side note, is weirdly more common than you think and not exclusive to sitcoms). Nothing is off limits, and I do think Manhattan and Manchester have some sort of soul tie. Meanwhile, I have other cross-country friends who I absolutely adore, but dropping "guys, my bowel movements have been weird" into that group chat would probably be met with an awkward silence.

So perhaps that’s why I notice it so much when I step into a new setting or meet new people, and realise that what feels completely ordinary to me and my inner circle can apparently be considered quite "a lot". I’m not particularly trying to overshare; I’m just behaving in the way that has always felt normal to me.

There is, however, an important distinction between gossiping and talking about someone else’s personal business for entertainment. I’m not about that. I’m talking about our own lived experiences and the peculiar idea that sharing them might constitute some sort of social transgression.

Before this term entered the cultural lexicon, it was a simple case of telling each other things: the good, the bad, and the ugly. The worst thing that could happen is someone chiming in, "Wow, too much detail over dinner. Jesus." 

Now, we’re left with an entire post-conversation debrief taking place in your head: Was that too much? Did I just trauma dump? Should I have given them a disclaimer first? 

That’s not to say there’s not a difference between someone opening up and using a person as an emotional dumping ground without any regard for their emotional capacity. That is a different conversation entirely.

The point is, the phrase is now being used too broadly, blurring the lines and overcomplicating something as simple as a day-to-day conversation. 

If you asked everyone I know, there would probably be a 50/50 split: some would describe me as "quiet", while others would tell you I need a gag to shut me up. Astrology enthusiasts would probably put it down to being a Gemini; I’d argue I’m simply a vibe perceiver.

If someone passes my entirely self-invented test –  same energy, humour, and everything in between – congratulations, you’ve officially entered lore-gate. 

If not, I become very good at blending into the background, which I suppose is how the "quiet" diagnosis happens.

Now, I am not suggesting we all start discussing our sex lives in meetings (though if I had my own company...), or make HR responsible for mediating an argument about whether Oasis were actually any good. I am simply asking whether we can occasionally speak to one another like normal human beings without turning every sentence into a curated press release.

I am probably particularly sensitive to this because I am, by nature, a very open person. If you ask me something, you will get an answer – and that has occasionally worked against me (note: don’t say you’re not the biggest Taylor Swift fan in front of a bunch of Swifties), but I have always found dishonesty more uncomfortable than oversharing.

I want the raw conversations back. The ones that start with "this is probably TMI" and then, naturally, is. The paragraphs and unhinged voice notes, the completely unnecessary tangents, the questions that somehow take you from your dating life to your childhood.

I want people to be curious about each other again, and to stop treating every slightly personal revelation like it requires a safeguarding meeting.

And if you’re someone who has spent the last few years wondering whether you’re too open, too chatty, too passionate, or just generally a "bit much", maybe they’re just boring, and you just haven’t found your people yet.

Because I don’t want to know your favourite colour. I want to know the lore.