From the Editors at Highest Fade

A study in panic, performance, and mild concussion.

It started, as many collapses do, with brunch.

Not the meal itself — the meal was fine. Eggs were overpriced. There was a rosemary sprig where no rosemary belonged. My friend kept saying "vibe shift" like it was a diagnosis.

But something about the whole affair set me off. The casual ease of it. The mimosa-fueled charisma of people who don't overthink eye contact. The subtle, unspoken choreography of functioning adults. It was like watching a musical I hadn't auditioned for.

I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror for a full minute.

"You're normal," I told myself. "You are blending."

I wasn't.

The Search

Ten minutes later, stopped at a red light near downtown, I cracked. I grabbed my phone, opened Google, and typed the words that would define the rest of my week:

"How to be normal."

I didn't hit enter. I didn't have time. The car behind me — a silver Subaru — didn't expect a full pause at the green. They tapped my rear bumper hard enough to jolt me forward and spill my coffee onto my passenger seat copy of The Denial of Death.

We both pulled over.

The driver stepped out: hoodie, sunglasses, very composed. The kind of person who probably owns houseplants they remember to water. Who seems perfectly content at parties without needing to do a tight five on anxiety. Possibly someone who actually meditates — not performatively, but correctly.

"Are you alright?" they asked.

I nodded. But what I meant was: No. I just tried to Google my way into basic human congruence and got rear-ended by reality.

We exchanged insurance information like two people reenacting a scene from a play we'd both forgotten the lines to.

The Algorithmic Spiral

That night, I finally hit enter.

How to be normal

Google did not disappoint. Neither did the Reddit threads, the Medium posts, or the PDF titled "How to Behave in Public: A Neurotypical Guide."

I clicked them all.

Here are just a few tips I collected:

"Smile with your eyes, not just your mouth."

"When someone tells a story, don't respond with a better one."

"Don't announce your emotional state like a weather report."

"If someone says, 'We should hang out sometime,' do not immediately open your calendar."

I took notes. I highlighted. I created a folder called Behavioral Refinement and added it to my bookmarks bar, right next to "Artisanal Mustards" and "How to Fake Knowing Jazz."

I began, in earnest, the project of my own normalization.

Tuesday: The Trial Run

I tried it at the coffee shop. A social lab of artisanal anxiety.

The barista asked, "How's your morning going?"

I said, "Good, thanks. You?"

She nodded. I resisted the urge to say, "I'm trying a new emotional operating system today, so if I seem weird, it's because I've temporarily overwritten my base code with polite simulation."

Instead, I smiled with my eyes.

It felt like puppeteering.

Then I stirred my coffee clockwise, like a person with habits rather than compulsions, and walked calmly toward the condiments.

Wednesday: The Malfunction

I got a call from my cousin, who I love but who speaks in long, circular monologues about kombucha and betrayal. Her life is part healing crystal, part prestige drama.

I practiced listening.

I mirrored her tone.

I gave small affirmations.

I did not insert myself.

After 32 minutes, she said, "You seem really grounded lately."

I was sitting on my kitchen floor, holding a warm spoon and stress-eating shredded mozzarella straight from the bag.

Thursday: The Rebound

I reverted.

I went to Trader Joe's, bought six different cheeses, and told the cashier, "I'm regressing on purpose."

She said, "I get it."

She did not get it. She bagged my cheeses with quiet judgment and the practiced hand of someone who sees through weak attempts at grocery-store performance art.

Friday: The Existential Audit

By Friday, I was exhausted. Politeness, it turns out, is not the same as peace. Mirroring is not connection. Normality, when forced, is its own kind of glitch.

I sat in my car, parked legally this time, and asked myself:

Who gets to decide what's normal?

The brunch people? The algorithm? My cousin's kombucha cult?

Or maybe — just maybe — normal is not a fixed point, but a local average. A comfort zone agreed upon by enough people in a given radius who silently decide not to scream.

That thought helped. A little. As did a second espresso and a brief YouTube video titled "How to Sound Grounded Without Saying the Word Journey."

My Personal Guide to Normalcy

In case you're wondering what became of all my research — the PDFs, the forum advice, the TED-adjacent YouTube videos — yes, I distilled it. I made myself a working draft. A reference sheet. A kind of laminated soul patch for social survival.

It's titled: "How to Be Normal: Protocol v1.2"

Compiled during an oat milk cortado and a personal crisis.

Here are selected excerpts:

Section I: Conversational Restraint

Do not say "I had a dream about you" to anyone not romantically or legally obligated to you.

If you interrupt someone, do it once. If you do it twice, quietly buy them coffee as penance.

Do not begin sentences with "In my personal philosophy…" unless asked directly by a monk.

Never use the phrase "late-stage capitalism" at a birthday party. Especially if there's cake.

Avoid quoting Jung. Or if you must, pronounce it correctly.

Section II: Body Language & Micro-Expression Management

Smile with 30% of your face. No more. No less.

If someone you don't know touches your elbow, do not flinch like a Victorian widow.

When laughing, show teeth judiciously. Like a well-read wolf.

Hands go in pockets or around mugs — not in the air like you're conducting an invisible string quartet.

Section III: Group Dynamics & Party Physics

If someone says "We should hang out," do not open your calendar. This is not a binding contract.

Do not take charcuterie personally.

If offered sparkling water, accept. If offered LaCroix, pretend to enjoy it.

When you arrive, say hello. When you leave, say goodbye. There are no awards for ghosting.

Never stay longer than the host's dog.

Section IV: General Conduct

It is fine to cry at the opera. Less fine at The Cheesecake Factory.

If you mispronounce "gyro," don't correct yourself more than once.

Do not announce your emotional state like a weather report ("I'm a little foggy with patches of sadness").

Don't describe your dinner as "chaotic" unless it involved litigation.

When someone shares good news, do not respond with an anecdote about a time yours went terribly.

Section V: Digital Behavior

Never react to a text with the "Haha" response twice in a row. It reads like passive-aggressive Morse code.

If you're typing a long message, reread it once. If it sounds like a hostage letter, delete it.

Group chats are not therapy. Neither is your Instagram story.

If you're going to send a voice memo, warn people. Then make it worth it.

I printed the document on heavyweight ivory cardstock and slid it into the back of my notebook like a manifesto that no one asked for.

I have never shown it to anyone. Until now.

The Final Thought

I'm not normal.

But I've met the people who are.

And honestly?

They seem tired too.

Postscript: The Subaru Driver

I emailed them. Not because I had to — there were no damages — but because I wanted to say thanks.

They responded: "No worries at all. Happens to everyone."

Everyone.

Maybe that's the only real answer.

We're all Googling something at the light.

Mine just happened to be phrased like a desperate sitcom character in a moment of crisis.

But at least I asked.

At least I'm trying.

Even if it means getting rear-ended by my own expectations.