I’ve always been an introvert, in the sense that my energy is rooted in solitude. Crowds and small talk drain me. Silence and reflection restore me.

Growing up, I thought there was something wrong with me. Why didn’t I crave the noise, the constant company, the buzz of being “in the mix”? I’d see friends thrive in groups while I quietly counted the minutes until I could go home, slip into my own space, and finally breathe.

Now I see it differently. Being an introvert isn’t a limitation, it’s a way of moving through the world with intention. It means I notice the little things others might overlook, the pause before someone speaks, the tone behind their words, the way the sky softens just before it rains.

It also means I need to protect my energy. I’m still learning to say no without guilt, to leave a party before I’m running on fumes, and to choose depth over breadth in my relationships. I may not have a large circle, but the connections I do have are rooted, strong, and real.

I used to feel like my introversion was a shadow I needed to step out of. Now in my 50s, I see it as a light, a quieter, steadier flame that burns in its own rhythm.

Being an introvert doesn’t mean I’m antisocial. It means my social battery has limits, and I honour them. It doesn’t mean I don’t love people. It just means I thrive on presence, not performance.

If you’re an introvert too, maybe you’ll understand this, our quiet isn’t emptiness. It’s fullness held gently inside.