Introversion

Here’s how most conversations used to go for me: Just say something. Now. Wait, nevermind. Now. Come on, just say it! And when I finally gathered enough courage, the conversation was over. I probably looked kind of weird, silently sitting there with my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. I became so frustrated that I decided I should simply become an extrovert. Surprise, surprise. Trying to change a major personality trait didn’t work. However, in my quiet plotting, I came to a realisation. It wasn’t a grand “ah-hah” moment. It was more like something that had always quietly and patiently been there, but I hadn’t noticed before: the countless ways my introversion had already helped me.

As an extrovert, I wouldn’t have found baking, which helped me understand happiness–both what it means to me and how to share this with others. My first baking effort (on Mother’s Day 2006) yielded a lump that overjoyed my mom for reasons I didn’t yet understand. Here’s the scientific reason: dopamine in the brain activates when looking at a loved one or at your favorite food. My reason is the warmth that blooms in my chest from showing affection and strengthening my connection with my friends and family.

My introversion also drew me to music, which helped me find self-respect and confidence. When I started the flute seven years ago, my brother “coincidentally” played his saxophone no matter when I practiced. He blared so loudly that I couldn’t hear myself playing. Asking him to be quiet only demonstrated that words would not work. So I took extreme measures, in the form of the next biggest instrument from his: the tenor saxophone. It felt like a sack of bricks on my neck, but blasting sobbing duck noises through the house clearly said to him, “I live here, too.” The expansiveness of taking up space through my music – although only in the safety of my home – sure was worth it.

That unapologetic self-respect I found in sibling vengeance gave me a new way to be in the world. Before, I disliked raising my volume because I shied away from attention. Even at basketball games, where my friend encouraged me to shriek “WHOOO,” the best I could muster was as pitiful as the cry of a newborn kitten. But by leaving the anonymity of the flute section and becoming comfortable filling the concert hall with the sound of my saxophone, I also became more confident. Now, I can “WHOOO” with the best of them.

Don’t get me wrong; the world of quiet, where I listen thoughtfully to others, has its perks. However, when combined with anxiety, I feel like I’m stuck in a self-conscious hidey-hole. But I’ve learned to break through, turning up the volume to embrace confidence. This, in turn, makes it easier for me to live in the moment and to share myself more openly with both strangers and loved ones.

Besides affection-baking and confidence-boosting music, introversion has most importantly deepened my self-acceptance.

Although the ways I communicate in public continue to evolve, they’re all anchored in the language of home: laughter. In my brother’s snicker, I listen for the remnants of the little boy who used annoying saxophone antics. In my dad’s laugh, I feel the irrepressible urge to smile. In my mom’s explosive chuckle, I know everything is going to be alright.

But my laugh tells you I am one-hundred-percent comfortable. I don’t care where I am or if people stare. I could be driving with my friend through Pike Place blasting Yackety Sax; or at Pacific Science Center, playing Amoeba Tag just as enthusiastically as my elementary school campers. As I feel warmth fill my chest and the howling laughter in my lungs, I know it was my introversion that got me there.