I stared at the dance floor. Clearly, there was no place for me here. Just coming to this conference was outside my comfort zone.
I used to push my way into a circle of talkers and try to fake like I was actually participating, all the while wishing I could disappear.
“Okay, I get it — you are an introvert,” she said with an emphatic eye roll. “But can you at least talk to your family?”
I used to think introversion was a disease that needed to be cured. Today, I’ve never been more thankful to be an introvert.
I used to think I was weak. Thoughts raced around my head, telling me I wasn’t good enough, I had nothing to offer, and no one cared about me.
My parents were social butterflies. Their existence was a constant stream of get-togethers, dinner invitations, and guests at all hours.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the people who shower us with love. I just found it uncomfortable having my health become such a hot topic of discussion.
One professor understood, and the remarkable example she set showed me that there was no reason for introverts to struggle so much in the classroom.
There are times I call Quiet Euphoria. In these moments, I’m blissful. Quiet Euphoria is when I find myself driving alone on a gorgeous June day.
If you are an introvert and you don’t talk a lot, people will automatically assume that you are a very meek and mild-mannered person.