For a long time, I felt like there was something wrong with me. I didn’t always want to be around people. I didn’t always have something to say. I always envied the people who seemed to effortlessly float around the room and be the light of the party. The ones that could start a sentence and capture everyone's attention in the blink of an eye. But for some reason, in those small moments when I would start to speak only to be cut off by someone louder and more charismatic, unnoticed by anyone in the room, I didn't feel how I thought I would. Instead, I realized I didn’t want the attention.

Maybe I never did.
There is a difference between introversion and shyness. I’m both. I prefer silence and solitude and feel self-conscious around other people for fear of judgment. If I had a nickel for every time I missed a call while staring in horror at the screen wondering why on earth they couldn't have just texted me, I’d have two nickels. It’s like a boulder has been lifted off my back every time a friend carries the conversation for me. Put simply, I like to listen. I can’t remember the last time I wasn't actively listening or taking an interest in what the speaker was saying, whether it be lunchroom conversations or class lectures (I hope my teachers read that). Other times, I either need to process my thoughts and feelings or turn my gears to come up with a polite way to end the conversation quickly so I can recharge my social battery. When I’m alone, I’m essentially hanging out with my soul.
Most introverts tend to be deep thinkers, observing and analyzing every detail. Sometimes this is me. The rest of the time, I’m just lost in space or thinking about that cat I saw on the roof last week. This is normally when people ask, “Are you ok?” “Are you tired?” “You seem very quiet today.” Not that I don’t appreciate their concern. It’s honestly quite nice to know someone cares. But it’s those tiny questions that somehow spiral into a hundred questions: “Is there something wrong with me? Am I really antisocial?” Then during the pandemic, the death of a loved one finally triggered me to question what I wanted out of life. That night I lay awake thinking to myself, “If I died today, will I be able to look back and feel satisfied?” At that moment the answer was a loud and deafening “no.”
After some time of my anxiety kicking into a red alert anywhere with more than a handful of people, I realized I would never get anywhere if I kept shutting people out. I’ll never fit in if I force myself into a mold I wasn’t made for. I’ve always been a perfectionist--the kind that started projects over from scratch when I missed even one minute detail. Because if I wasn’t perfect, I was useless. If I ate more than X amount or weighed more than Y lbs, then I was taking up space a better person could fill. The fear of failing, of failing to please everyone, had caused me to stifle who I was to the point I had become no more than a moldable empty shell. I’d stopped being my own person and had become everyone else’s.
Self-reflection is painful, but it’s necessary. Now I almost feel embarrassed that I needed someone to explain to me that there was nothing wrong with being an introvert. Once I had found people who didn’t mind my quirks (if your friend group is small, it just means you value quality over quantity), I was suddenly more comfortable in my own skin. I stopped caring about what people thought of me. It had become habitual to let everyone know I was “nice” to make up for being so quiet. But if they think I’m weird or awkward, it doesn't matter anymore. Sometimes it's more important to be fair than to seem nice, and that fairness needs to extend to yourself.
Now don't get me wrong-- my blood still turns cold at the thought of public speech. The difference is that now I’m willing to try (rather than come up with a terminal affliction that conveniently prevents me from speaking in front of crowds). But how do we love ourselves in a world designed for self-judgment? After all, when you're living a life jam-packed with expectations, it’s hard not to criticize yourself. It becomes difficult to see yourself as good enough and worthy of acceptance. I’m telling you now that it’s a fundamental truth. You are good enough exactly as you are. Every one of us has parts of ourselves that we struggle with, but when our response is to take love away from those parts, they are cut off from the creative, compassionate, curious elements of ourselves. These pieces are meant to work together.

​Picture dividing puzzle pieces into two groups--acceptable and unacceptable--then wondering why you can’t make a whole picture out of them. All parts of you are there. They are your reality. One of the greatest rewards of embracing them is that those wounded, unsolved bits of yourself get pulled out of the shadows and into a loving, healing light, where they can grow into something beautiful.

Stephanie Murillo