Sitting in the parked car for a minute before walking in isn’t weird. It’s collecting yourself.

Walking straight out of one part of your day and into the next carries the leftover state with you. The shift, the argument in the car, the exam you ran on adrenaline all come through the front door unless something stops them. A minute of sitting still is that seam, and it is why you can greet people instead of unloading on them.

Give yourself sixty seconds between things on purpose. In the car, on the steps, in the hallway outside the room. Then go in, and notice that you arrive as yourself rather than as the last thing that happened to you.