I tried to tell my partner about my day—you know, the usual highlights: traffic, a weird email, leftover pasta. Forty-seven minutes later, I'm holding a cold cup of coffee while he's explaining the exact tire pressure specifications of his coworker's new van. I open my mouth. He says "wait, and then—" I close my mouth. We're both staring straight ahead now, like two people waiting for the microwave to finish.

You're mid-sentence about why your flight got cancelled when your coworker interrupts with a story about *their* flight. You try again. They're already three sentences into a tangent about airport nachos. You open your mouth. They're now doing a full impression of the gate agent. You close your mouth. By the time they finish, you've forgotten what you were saying, and somehow you're now helping them troubleshoot their suitcase lock while they never did learn why you missed the wedding.

I've learned that if you want to be heard, you have to speak faster and louder—which is why I now sound like a man trying to sell mattresses at a county fair. The irony is that the moment I adopt this strategy, everyone suddenly acts wounded that I'm "so aggressive." Apparently there's a narrow window of volume between inaudible and tyranny, and I'm yet to find it. I've started timing my contributions like a NASA launch sequence: wait for the exact three-second gap, hit the talkback button, and pray nobody's already decided it's their turn to discuss their dog's dental work.