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.
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.
I know I was withdrawn and quiet, and overall, I was unappealing as a college roommate. I hated who I was and why I was that way.
Extroverts could walk into a room and everyone would eagerly await their humor. I, an introvert, just sat there thinking, like always.
Do not let the past dictate who you are or what your future will be. I spent my teens and early twenties buried in books and television shows.