[Un]reasonably outraged by one-sided conversations

One-sided conversations

Are we becoming social narcissists?

At a party last weekend, I met seven new people. I now know everything about them. Their jobs, their kids, their Labradoodles and their European summers.

What they don’t know is anything about me.

Not one of them asked a single question. Not. one.

Not even a polite ‘What do you do?’ or ‘How do you know the host?’ I could have been a physicist, a cult leader, or recently released from prison. They wouldn’t know. They never asked. And I was dressed as Sia (it was a costume party), so I feel like there was a clear ice-breaker ready to go. Honestly, the wig and homemade tissue-paper bow should’ve earned me at least one question.

What the hell happened to conversation?

This wasn’t some vapid influencer event. It was a 40th birthday with regular people in a cool Melbourne bar. But every single conversation was a monologue. Each one.

I left the party feeling weirdly full of other people’s lives but empty of connection like I’d eaten seven LinkedIn bios and still somehow left hungry.

It’s not just this party, though, it’s a pattern I’ve noticed over the years. Somewhere along the way, we unlearned how to have two-way conversations. We’ve become so socially self-centred that we’ve mistaken sharing for connecting, performance for personality.

A netball team of the deadly sins

I spoke to seven people that night. That’s enough for a netball team or to represent each of the seven deadly sins. Pride bragged about their promotion, their kid’s giftedness, and their Instagram following. Wrath raged about lockdowns (262 days, yes, I remember, I had four kids remote learning) with the fury of a war crimes prosecutor. Lust was a hairdresser filming his own dance moves all night (and no, not for TikTok—I asked!—just for himself). Gluttony gorged on airtime, circling back to his American road trip and cowboy boots too expensive to wear outside. The rest— Envy, Sloth and Greed— blended into one blur of school rankings and half-marathon training. You get the picture.

Costume party

That Sia wig and bow was worth at least one question. Maybe they just didn’t care?

Even with my sturdy social stamina, this party knocked me flat. Since when is it normal to leave knowing every person’s job title but no one knows my name?

Have we all become social narcissists?

We’ve turned social interaction into a performance: here’s my curated personality, my latest achievements, my thought-leader take on start-ups, parenting, or haircare.

And don’t get me wrong, I like asking questions. I write books. I interview people. Maybe I’m unconsciously probing the room for a good story or an interesting character. The tax auditor who moonlights as a drag queen. The suburban mum who only listens to German death metal. I once got accused by a friend’s new partner of ‘interrogation’ after asking two questions about his job. Later I found out he was a controlling prick who couldn’t hold down a relationship, so honestly, not my loss.

A friend has noticed this same habit of people only talking about themselves and applies a three-question rule to dating. She’ll ask three, then stop. If the date doesn’t return the favour, she calls it. No second date. The logic is solid. If someone can’t muster enough curiosity to ask one thing about you, what are they going to be like in a relationship?

After reflecting on the 40th party, I thought of my dad, who passed away eight years ago. When I wrote his eulogy, I tried to capture who he was in two words: interested and interesting. He was a brilliant conversationalist, not because he was the loudest, but because he listened. He noticed. He was genuinely curious.

Maybe we’ve internalised that being interesting matters more than being interested. Or maybe this is just social survival now? We talk and talk because we’re terrified of the pause. Fill the silence before someone notices you’re unsure or (shock horror!) ordinary.

But the irony is, silence is where real conversation starts. Ask something. Then wait. Actively listen.

If you’re stuck, my husband swears by this question: What do you do when you’re not working? It surprises them and almost always, it leads to a conversation that feels human instead of rehearsed.

Connection doesn’t equal performance

And look, I’m not saying everyone needs to be a dazzling conversationalist. But could we at least aim for basic reciprocity? Real conversation isn’t a TED Talk. It’s not a pitch deck. It’s a game of pass-the-parcel. You talk, I ask. I share, you listen. That’s how humans connect, not by reciting anecdotes but by showing actual interest in someone who isn’t you. It requires generosity, not grand gestures, and just enough stillness to let someone else step in.

If you can’t ask a single question, you’re not interesting, you’re exhausting.

Kylie

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