7 body language mistakes socially awkward people make constantly

For years, I couldn't figure out why conversations felt off even when I was saying all the right things.

I'd prepare talking points, think through responses, show up ready to engage. And somehow, people would still drift away. Cut conversations short. Not make eye contact. Seem uncomfortable.

Then someone finally told me the truth: my words were fine. My body was the problem.

I was doing everything wrong without even knowing it. Crossed arms, no eye contact, fidgeting constantly. I was broadcasting discomfort and disinterest while verbally trying to connect.

Here are seven body language mistakes I've learned to recognize and slowly correct, though I still catch myself falling into old patterns when I'm anxious.

1) The protective barrier stance

Arms crossed. Bag held in front of your body. Hands clasped together. Anything that creates a physical barrier between you and the person you're talking to.

I did this constantly without realizing it. I thought I was just being comfortable or holding my stuff. I didn't understand that I was sending a clear message: I'm closed off, defensive, not interested in connecting.

Research in nonverbal communication shows that crossed arms are universally read as defensive or disengaged. It doesn't matter what your intention is. That's how it's perceived.

The problem is that when you're socially anxious, creating barriers feels protective. It's a way to manage the discomfort of being exposed and vulnerable in conversation.

But it makes the other person feel like you don't want to be there, which makes them uncomfortable, which makes you more anxious, which makes you close off more. It's a spiral.

I had to consciously practice keeping my arms at my sides or using open gestures. It felt unnatural at first, almost like I was too exposed. But people started responding differently almost immediately.

2) The eye contact extremes

Either you're staring intensely, trying so hard to make "good eye contact" that it becomes aggressive. Or you're looking everywhere except at the person talking, which reads as disinterest or dishonesty.

I bounced between both extremes. I'd read that eye contact was important, so I'd lock eyes and barely blink, thinking I was being engaged. People told me later it was intimidating and weird.

Then I'd overcorrect and look at the floor, the wall, my phone, anywhere but at them. Which made people think I didn't care about what they were saying.

The natural rhythm of eye contact is more like a dance. You look at someone while they're talking, look away briefly while processing or thinking, come back to them. It's not constant, but it's consistent.

When I started paying attention to how comfortable people made eye contact, I noticed they weren't locked in. They were fluid, natural, present but not aggressive about it.

I still struggle with this. When I'm nervous, I revert to staring or avoiding. But catching myself and adjusting helps.

3) Taking up too little space

Hunched shoulders. Hands tucked close to your body. Making yourself as small as possible in your chair.

This was my default for years, especially at social gatherings or work meetings. I thought I was being polite, not taking up too much room, being considerate of others' space.

What I was actually doing was broadcasting low confidence and discomfort. People unconsciously read small posture as someone who doesn't want to be noticed or doesn't feel they belong.

My friend Sarah finally pointed it out at a dinner party. "You're basically folding into yourself," she said. "It makes everyone around you uncomfortable because you look uncomfortable."

She was right. My physical shrinking was making other people want to compensate, but they didn't know how, so they just avoided interacting with me altogether.

Learning to take up appropriate space means sitting up straight, letting your arms rest naturally, not tucking your legs under your chair like you're trying to disappear.

It feels presumptuous at first if you're used to making yourself small. But it signals that you're comfortable being present, which makes others comfortable around you.

4) The frozen face syndrome

Your face doesn't move. No smiles, no raised eyebrows, no nodding, no reactions at all. Just blank.

I didn't know I did this until I saw myself in a video someone took at a friend's birthday party. While someone was telling an animated story, I was just staring with zero expression. I looked bored or even hostile, though internally I was engaged and interested.

The disconnect between what I felt and what my face showed was massive.

Facial expressions are how we signal engagement and empathy in conversation. When someone is talking and your face stays neutral, they assume you're not interested or not following along.

I had to practice being more expressive. It felt fake at first, like I was performing reactions rather than having them. But gradually it became more natural. My face started reflecting what I was actually feeling inside.

The change in how people responded was immediate. Suddenly conversations flowed better. People opened up more. Because they could see I was actually engaged, not just physically present.

5) The constant fidgeting and self-soothing

Playing with your hair. Touching your face. Bouncing your leg. Clicking a pen. Picking at your nails. Any repetitive movement that broadcasts nervous energy.

I was a chronic fidgeter. My leg bounced constantly. I'd touch my face, adjust my hair, play with whatever object was nearby. I thought I was just releasing nervous energy in a harmless way.

But fidgeting is distracting. It draws attention away from what you're saying and toward your nervous behavior. It makes people focus on your anxiety instead of your words.

It also makes them anxious. Nervous energy is contagious. When you're fidgeting, the people around you start feeling uncomfortable without necessarily knowing why.

I started working on stillness. Not rigid, frozen stillness, but calm presence. Letting my hands rest. Keeping my legs still. It was incredibly difficult at first. The urge to move was almost overwhelming.

But the more I practiced it, the more I realized the fidgeting was actually increasing my anxiety, not relieving it. The movement was a response to discomfort that was creating more discomfort.

6) Standing or sitting too far away

There's a conversational distance that feels natural. Too close, and you're invading personal space. Too far, and you're signaling you want to keep distance.

I always stood or sat too far away. In groups, I'd position myself at the edge. In one-on-one conversations, I'd maintain a distance that felt safe but read as standoffish.

The psychology of proxemics shows that physical distance mirrors emotional distance. When you position yourself far from others, you're communicating that you don't want closeness.

This created a self-fulfilling cycle. I'd keep distance because I felt awkward. People would perceive that as disinterest. I'd feel more isolated and awkward. I'd keep more distance.

Learning appropriate distance means paying attention to how close people naturally stand in conversation and matching that. Not forcing yourself into someone's personal space, but not hanging back like you're waiting to escape either.

It's context-dependent. A coffee shop conversation has different spacing than a loud bar. But the key is being close enough that engagement feels natural, not like you're shouting across a gap.

7) The premature exit signals

Angling your body toward the door. Looking at your phone repeatedly. Checking the time. Gathering your things while someone is still talking.

These are all signals that you're done with the interaction and want to leave. And when you do them constantly, even when you don't actually want to leave, you're telling people their company isn't valued.

I did this reflexively when conversations made me uncomfortable. I'd start looking for exits, both physical and conversational. My body would turn away. I'd glance at my phone as a nervous habit.

People noticed. They'd cut conversations short because they assumed I wanted out. Which I didn't, always. Sometimes I was just managing anxiety, but my body language was saying something different.

The fix is staying physically present until you're actually ready to leave. Facing the person you're talking to. Putting your phone away. Not gathering your coat or bag until the conversation has naturally concluded.

It's harder than it sounds when you're uncomfortable. The urge to signal readiness to leave is strong. But resisting it changes how people perceive your interest in them.

Conclusion

None of these mistakes make you a bad person. They're just adaptations to social anxiety that end up making the anxiety worse.

The hard part is that changing body language feels unnatural at first. You're consciously doing things that other people do automatically. You're performing naturalness, which is a weird paradox.

But gradually, with practice, it becomes less conscious. Your body starts aligning with your actual intentions instead of broadcasting anxiety you're trying to hide.

I still mess this up constantly. When I'm nervous or uncomfortable, I revert to old patterns. But I catch myself faster now. I adjust. And most importantly, I'm not as hard on myself about it.

Social skills, including body language, are learnable. You're not doomed to awkwardness forever just because it doesn't come naturally.

You just have to be willing to notice what you're doing, understand what it's communicating, and slowly practice doing something different.

The people who seem naturally confident in social situations? Most of them learned this stuff too. They just learned it earlier or internalized it faster.

You can still get there. It just takes paying attention and being patient with yourself while you figure it out.