The Days I Couldn't Say "Thank You" at the Convenience Store: The Fear of Speaking Up

Introduction: My Pathetic Self, Freezing at the Register

While I am now someone who can offer my seat on the train or have a normal conversation with a shop clerk, I was once a person who couldn't even properly say "thank you" at a convenience store.

A 24-hour convenience store. A place everyone uses as a matter of course as part of modern social infrastructure. Buying coffee before the morning commute, choosing a bento for lunch, or looking for a snack to satisfy a late-night craving. Such an everyday space was a place of terror for me.

When receiving change at the register, the clerk would say, "Thank you very much." A normal person would naturally reply, "Thank you." Or perhaps they might exchange words like "That was delicious" or "Thank you for your hard work."

But the old me was different.

I would just give a small nod. Or, I would mutter "Th...anks..." in a voice so quiet it was barely audible. I couldn't even make eye contact, and once I received my items and change, I would leave the store as quickly as possible, as if running away from something. Until the moment the automatic doors closed, I felt as if I could feel eyes on my back, and my shoulders would tense up.

Just one phrase: "Thank you." Five syllables, the most basic expression of gratitude in Japan. Even such a simple phrase, which even a child could say, was an insurmountable wall to me, higher than Mount Fuji.

Thinking back on it now, it was an abnormal level of fear. But for the me of that time, it was my daily life, an inescapable reality.

Why was it so difficult? Why was speaking up so terrifying? Today, I would like to talk honestly and without holding anything back about the true nature of that fear and how I managed to overcome it.

The Beginning of a Deep-Seated Fear of Speaking Up

If I trace the origins of my "inability to speak" condition, it goes back to when I was in the lower grades of elementary school.

It was during a second-grade Japanese class. It happened when it was my turn to read the textbook aloud. I was so nervous that my voice trembled, and I got stuck on my words halfway through.

"Kenta-kun, speak louder."

The teacher's remark only increased my nervousness. The more I tried to make my voice louder, the more my throat tightened, and my voice cracked.

"Pfft."

Someone burst out laughing. That small sound of laughter spread through the classroom as if a fuse had been lit.

"Isn't Kenta's voice weird?"
"It sounds like a girl's."
"He sounds like a sissy."

The cruelty of children is sometimes greater than that of adults. Perhaps there was no malice intended. But those words pierced my heart deeply, like a sharp knife.

From that day on, I changed. I stopped raising my hand in class, and when it was my turn to read aloud, I would make up an illness to escape to the infirmary. During breaks, I would hole up in the library to avoid speaking as much as possible.

"If I speak, people will laugh."

This equation became deeply etched into my brain.

When I reached middle school, the situation worsened. Entering puberty, my voice became unstable, and I lost even more confidence in it. Sometimes it was high-pitched, sometimes low; I truly hated my voice, which I couldn't control.

In high school, I was completely labeled as "the quiet guy." I barely spoke, except for the bare minimum responses. I didn't make any friends and was always alone. But that was fine. If I didn't speak, I wouldn't be laughed at. I wouldn't get hurt.

That is how I sealed my voice deep within my heart.

A Fear That Doesn't Fade Even as an Adult: The Struggles of Working Life

I graduated from university and started working at an IT company, but the fear of using my voice had actually become more serious.

I couldn't even manage a proper morning greeting. The words "Good morning" would get stuck in my throat and wouldn't come out. In the end, I would just give a small nod and sit at my desk. My colleagues might have thought of me as "a rude guy who can't even say hello."

Answering the phone was hell. My hand would shake as I picked up the receiver, and I would always stumble on the first words, "Thank you for calling." Even when repeating the caller's name, my voice would crack from nervousness. Eventually, when the phone rang, I started waiting for someone else to pick it up.

Speaking up in meetings was a pipe dream. Even when asked for my opinion, the best I could do was answer in a small voice, "I have nothing in particular." Even if I really had something to say, I didn't have the courage to voice it.

For someone like me, the only salvation was programming. Computers don't listen to my voice. If I type on the keyboard, the code I intend appears on the screen. If there is a bug, it can be solved logically. Unlike humans, they don't laugh at my voice.

However, in order to live, I couldn't avoid using my voice entirely. And the most daily, unavoidable situation for that was shopping at a convenience store.

The Convenience Store: A Daily Proving Ground

For me, having started living alone, the convenience store was a lifeline.

Rice balls for breakfast, bento boxes for lunch, cup noodles for dinner. Daily necessities like detergent and tissues. Paying utility bills. Withdrawing cash at the ATM. A convenient place open 24 hours a day.

But in exchange for that convenience, I experienced a small hell every time.

The tension starts before I even enter the store. I stop in front of the automatic door and take a deep breath. I check how crowded the store is. I count the number of people in line at the register. If possible, I want to aim for a time when no one is there. But given my daily rhythm, that's not always possible.

Once inside the store, I first observe the clerk at the register.

If it's a young male clerk: It's relatively easy. We're the same gender, and I feel like I'm not expected to be very friendly.
If it's a middle-aged female clerk: Many seem kind, but I'm nervous because there's a high chance they might talk to me.
If it's a young female clerk: This is the most nerve-wracking. I'd be embarrassed if my voice shook.
If it's a foreign clerk: I worry about whether my Japanese will be understood.

I choose my items while thinking about these things. But because I'm always thinking about "dealing with the register" in the back of my mind, I can't focus on my shopping.

Once I finish choosing my items, it is finally time to head to the register. This moment is the most nerve-wracking. The line at the register. While waiting for the person in front of me to finish paying, my heart beats rapidly like a drum. Sweat seeps into my palms, and the hand holding the shopping basket trembles slightly.

"Next, please."

Finally, it is my turn. I drag my heavy feet toward the checkout counter.

The Battle at the Register: The Moment My Voice Won't Come Out

I place the basket on the counter. The clerk scans the items one by one. The electronic beeps sound to me like a countdown to an execution.

"Do you need chopsticks?"

The first hurdle. A simple question that can be answered with a yes or no. But for me, it was a major trial.

"Uh... n-no, I don't."

My voice trembles, and I stutter. The clerk says nothing, but I am certain they must be thinking, 'What a strange customer.' Such paranoid thoughts race through my mind.

"Do you have a point card?"

Another question. This time, I have to take the card out of my wallet. I search for the card with trembling hands. I can't find it. I panic. I finally find it and hand it over, but it is painfully obvious that my hands are shaking.

"That will be 698 yen."

I take out the money. I hand over a 1,000-yen bill. Even now, I am desperate not to let them notice my shaking hands.

"Here is your 302 yen in change."

The moment I receive the change. I am handed the receipt and the coins at the same time. Should I take them with both hands, or is one hand enough? I feel pathetic for worrying about such trivial things.

And then, the final moment.

"Thank you very much."

The clerk's standard phrase. I should reply with "Thank you" as well. It is basic etiquette as a working adult, as a human being. I know that. I understand it in my head.

But my voice won't come out.

It feels as if my throat is clogged, and the words won't emerge. Even when I try to open my mouth, my lips won't move, as if held shut by an invisible hand.

In the end, I just give a small nod. I grab my items and leave the store as if I'm running away.

The moment the automatic door closes, a deep sigh escapes me. I couldn't say it again. I ran away again. This cycle was my daily life.

An Incident One Day: Meeting a Kind Clerk

One day, while those painful days were continuing, I had an encounter that changed my life.

It was a June evening, signaling the start of the rainy season. I noticed a new clerk at my usual convenience store. She was a woman in her 50s, a bit plump. She had an impressive, kind smile.

At first, I lined up at another clerk's register as usual. I wanted to avoid the new person. I didn't know what kind of person she was. But that day, as luck would have it, the other registers were crowded, and only the new clerk's register was open.

I had no choice but to head to that register.

"Welcome. It's started to rain, hasn't it?"

As soon as I reached the register, she brought up the weather. Normally, this kind of small talk makes me nervous. But there was a strange warmth in her voice. It had a natural resonance, as if she were talking to an old acquaintance.

"Oh... yes."

It was a small voice, but I was able to reply.

"Do you have an umbrella? If not, we have plastic ones."

A kind offer. I shook my head slightly. Meaning, I'm fine.

She smiled kindly and began scanning the items. Her movements were careful, and I could tell she was treating the products with care.

"Would you like me to heat up your bento?"

"Oh... yes, please."

I was able to answer a little more clearly than usual. Her demeanor seemed to be easing my tension.

While she was heating the bento in the microwave, she put the other items in a bag. Even during that time, she never stopped smiling kindly. It was as if she sensed my tension and was trying not to put any pressure on me.

"Here is your bento. Please be careful, it's hot."

A heartfelt word. There was a warmth that was clearly different from the manual-based customer service of a major chain.

The transaction ended, and the usual moment arrived.

"Thank you very much. Please come again."

Her voice sounded as if it were truly filled with the sentiment of wanting me to come again.

Today, today of all days...

I summoned all my strength. As if pushing a trembling voice from the depths of my throat.

"Th... thank... you."

My voice was small and trembling, and the end might have been almost inaudible. But I had certainly said, "Thank you."

She did not miss that small voice. She smiled gently and,

"Yes, thank you. Take care."

she replied.

At that moment, tears almost welled up in my eyes. I had only managed to say one phrase, "Thank you." But for me, it was a feat comparable to climbing Mount Everest.

Leaving the store and walking through the light rain, I was enveloped in a strange sense of exhilaration. I did it. I finally said it. I was able to voice those cursed words.

The Big Change Born from a Small Success

From that day on, something began to change within me.

The next day, I went to the same convenience store. And when I confirmed that the kind clerk was there, I lined up at her register without hesitation.

"Oh, it's you from yesterday. Did you bring your umbrella today?"

She remembered me. That fact gave me a little bit of courage.

"Y-yes. I brought it."

I was able to answer a little more clearly than yesterday.

On this day too, I was able to say "Thank you" at the end of the transaction. My voice was still small, but it was a little louder than yesterday.

As the days went by, my voice gradually grew louder. At first, it was only to her, but eventually, I became able to say "thank you" to other clerks as well.

Once, when I said "thank you" to a young male clerk, he looked a bit surprised. He must have been startled that I, who always left in silence, had suddenly spoken. But he immediately replied cheerfully, "Thank you very much!"

Seeing that reaction, I realized something. The clerks were happy to be thanked by customers. It might be obvious, but for me, it was a major discovery.

The Process of Regaining My Voice: Step-by-Step Challenges

Using my success at the convenience store as a stepping stone, I began to challenge myself to use my voice in other situations, little by little.

Stage 1: Starting with Set Phrases

First, I practiced using patterned phrases.
"Thank you."
"Excuse me."
"Please."
These are convenient phrases you can use without thinking. My goal was to first ensure I could say these reliably.

Stage 2: Being Conscious of Intonation

Next, I learned that even with the same words, changing the intonation allows you to convey your feelings.
A cheerful "Thank you."
An apologetic "Excuse me."
A polite "Please."
At first, it felt awkward, like acting, but as I continued, it became more natural.

Stage 3: Adding Extra Words

Once I could say the basic phrases, I gradually increased the number of words.
"Thank you" -> "Thank you. That was a big help."
"Excuse me" -> "Excuse me. Sorry to bother you while you're busy."
"Please" -> "Please. Would that be alright?"

Stage 4: Challenging Spontaneous Speech

The most difficult part was initiating conversation myself. But I started with small things.
"It's hot today, isn't it?" (Talking about the weather)
"This looks delicious." (About a product)
"Thank you for your hard work." (Showing appreciation to the clerk)

Changes at Work: Being Able to Use My Voice

The results of my convenience store training (?) began to show at work as well.

I became able to say my morning greetings in a slightly louder voice. What started as a broken "Good... morning" became a smooth "Good morning."

My phone etiquette also improved little by little. It wasn't perfect, but I became able to handle the bare minimum. "Thank you for calling. This is Kenta from Company XX." I was surprised myself when I could say that first line without my voice trembling.

And the biggest change was speaking up in meetings.

During a regular meeting one day, my boss asked for opinions. Usually, I would have ended it with "I have nothing in particular," but this day was different.

"Um... I have one suggestion."

The meeting room went silent. It was because I, who usually never spoke up, had suddenly started talking. My voice was trembling with nervousness, but I was able to express my opinion to the end.

The content wasn't anything major. Just a small suggestion for system improvement. But for me, being able to voice it was a revolutionary event.

After a look of slight surprise, my boss said, "That's a good suggestion. Let's consider it." Some of my colleagues were nodding as well.

In that moment, I realized something: speaking up is how you show your existence to the world. If you stay silent, no matter how good your ideas are, it's as if they don't exist. Only by voicing them do they become reality.

The Impact on Romance: The Importance of Being Able to Speak

Being able to speak up has also had a major impact on my view of romance.

I used to give up on romance because I thought, "I can't talk to women anyway." Even if I could exchange messages on a dating app, I couldn't even imagine meeting and talking in person.

But now that I can hold everyday conversations, that fear has gradually faded. It's okay if I don't speak perfectly. It's okay if my voice trembles. What matters is whether I have the desire to convey my feelings.

I remember my voice cracking from nerves during my first date. But by honestly saying, "I'm nervous," the other person laughed and said, "Me too." Being accepted for not being perfect—that experience gave me a great deal of confidence.

Challenges That Remain, and Why I Still Look Forward

To be honest, there are still times when I feel anxious about speaking up.

Presentations in front of many people. Phone calls with strangers. Conversations with people I'm meeting for the first time. In those situations, the old fear sometimes rears its head.

But I won't run away anymore. Even if my voice trembles, even if I stumble over my words, I will still try to communicate. Because I have learned how wonderful it is to speak up.

The smile on someone's face when I say "thank you."
The sense of accomplishment when my opinion is acknowledged.
The warmth of exchanging words with someone important.

These are all treasures that can only be obtained by speaking up.

Gratitude to That Kind Clerk

Even now, years later, I still go to that convenience store sometimes. The kind clerk still works there. Seeing me now, able to hold a normal conversation, she always smiles happily.

The other day, I worked up the courage to tell her.

"Um... actually, I used to be a person who couldn't even say 'thank you.' But thanks to your kindness, I gained the courage to speak up. Thank you so much."

After a look of slight surprise, she said with tears in her eyes.

"I see. But you were the one who worked hard. I was just treating you normally. Seeing you now makes me truly happy."

Hearing those words, I almost felt like crying too. One person's kindness can change another person's life. I experienced such a miracle.

Conclusion: To You Who Are Afraid to Speak Out

If there is anyone out there who, like the old me, is afraid to speak out, there is something I want to tell you.

It's okay. Your voice is not strange. It's not weird. It is your own unique voice, the only one of its kind in the world.

At first, a really small voice is fine. A whisper that you can barely hear is fine. What's important is trying to make a sound. Trying to convey something.

"Thank you."

This phrase has a mysterious power. It is a magic word that makes both the person who says it and the person who hears it feel a little happier. When you become able to use that magic, the world will surely look kinder and warmer than it does now.

It doesn't have to be perfect. It's okay if it trembles. It's okay if it's small. Your voice will definitely reach someone. And that voice might just make your own life, and someone else's, a little brighter.

Today, I say "Thank you" again. At the convenience store, at work, to the people who are important to me. The voice that used to tremble now comes out naturally. But I haven't forgotten the fear I felt back then. That is precisely why I savor the happiness of being able to speak every single day.

Now, take a deep breath. And, even if it's small, try to let your voice out.

"Thank you."

From that one phrase, your new story might just begin.

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