How a Simple Touch Validated Years of Shame

The Lifelong Embarrassment of "Wet Hands," and the Generosity of a Hand-Grab

Last night, I attended a Connection workshop, hosted by my friends Dan and Vivien, whom I thank for creating spaces for human connection. During the workshop, I was paired with someone I’d just met, Shrey. He turned to me and asked a simple but powerful question: “When did someone’s kindness catch you off guard?” As I shared my answer, I realized how much emotional weight I’d been carrying. It wasn’t a story about an expensive gift or a grand gesture. Instead, I thought about a girl named Sarah, and the day she simply grabbed my hand.

The Humiliation of “Wet Hands”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived with palmar hyperhidrosis, a condition that causes excessive sweating in the palms. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s been a lifelong source of deep-seated social anxiety.

The condition was a constant, embarrassing presence in my childhood. Growing up in the hot summer weather of Hong Kong made it worse; if I sat in one spot for too long, I’d leave a small puddle. I remember the confusion on my teachers’ faces when I handed in homework or tests—the ink was often smudged, the paper damp and limp. My nickname was “wet hands.”

My most painful memory of how it amplified my insecurities with women dates back to high school. We had a mandatory partner-dancing unit in a class I hadn’t even signed up for. The class required us to rotate partners, holding hands with a new girl every few minutes.

This setting was my worst nightmare—the rotation meant constant, fresh exposure to judgment. I can still vividly recall the sting of rejection: “Ugh, it’s my turn to hold Adrian’s hands,” or the more direct, “I don’t want to touch Adrian’s hands.”

To this day, partner-dancing remains a trauma-inducing experience for me. This fear taught me to associate my hands with disgust. This insecurity followed me for decades, particularly as I started dating. The fear of that moment—the hand-hold, the slight grimace, the awkward wipe on a napkin—created a hurdle that made me dread intimacy and connection.

A Simple Act of Validation

After I finished school, the social landscape changed. As an adult, people were mature enough not to openly mock my hands, and moving to the cool, dry climate of San Francisco meant the hyperhidrosis was less of a daily bother. I honestly didn’t think about it much anymore, or so I thought.

Three years ago, I was on a date with Sarah in New York. The conversation was flowing well, and we got onto the topic of why I lived in San Francisco. I mentioned how much I appreciated the cool, and dry climate, which led me to an explanation:

“The humidity in New York is brutal for me because of something I have called palmar hyperhidrosis—it makes my hands sweat constantly,” I explained. I was just sharing a fact about my life, a piece of trivia that explained a personal preference.

I finished explaining the condition and how it affected me, mentally bracing for the expected response—something like, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” followed by a quick topic change. That would be the standard, polite response I’d grown used to.

What happened next was anything but.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t mind at all.” Since we were sitting next to each other, she immediately reached toward me and took my hand from my lap.

It was the simplest thing in the world, yet it was one of the most comforting and validating experiences of my life. In that instant, she didn’t just prove she didn’t mind; they unleashed the child inside me who had felt so mocked and embarrassed. This time, that child felt seen, and loved. For the first time, my hand felt like a normal hand.

Paying It Forward

Sarah and I only went on a couple of dates, and we aren’t in touch anymore. But the power of her words and her simple, kind action remains. It validated a deep part of me, proving that a perceived flaw doesn’t have to be a barrier. It reminded me that kindness often speaks louder than clinical fact.

After hearing my story, Shrey said it was such a heartwarming story and suggested something wonderful: we should pay it forward. It was a powerful idea, and it immediately motivated me to publish this essay the very next day.

We all carry deep-seated insecurities, often over things that seem trivial to others. Whether it’s a condition like mine, a scar, a stutter, or a fear of public speaking, these things can isolate us. But the antidote can be a simple, and genuine act of acceptance.

I hope this story can be an encouragement for someone to recognize the tremendous power of their words and actions. You have the ability to be someone’s “Sarah”—to offer a spontaneous moment of acceptance.

Use your power to heal. Grab someone’s hand.

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When did someone’s kindness catch you off guard?