Jennifer Oldham

It has been years since I planted a garden. Maybe five or more.

“This year,” I thought, “I’ll make space to do this.” My quest for a garden started in the winter when I asked my husband to build me some raised garden beds. He surprised me on my birthday by spending the day building three-tiered, raised beds for me. I was thrilled.

In my previous gardening life, woodland creatures had eaten a part of my harvest before my family and I had gotten a chance to pick my vegetables. I felt cheated and disappointed by the discovery and I was determined that this time would be different. I spent days searching for the perfect plants and I finally decided that I would plant tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and beans. Every morning I would anxiously check on my seedlings.

Are they growing?

Are they OK?

They started to sprout and I started to get nervous. Would they make it? Would my family actually get to enjoy the literal fruit of our labor? One morning, my husband sent me a picture of deer in our backyard. “Noooo,” I thought to myself. The deer were stunning but I didn’t want them messing up my garden. I couldn’t wait to get home to assess the damage and immediately started searching online for some kind of a protective measure. When I got home, I saw that my garden was fine, but I still wanted to guard it in some way. I decided on a mesh net that would drape over PVC pipes. It seemed perfect. It would still allow rain and sunlight to get in, but would keep animals out.

My husband installed the mesh and I breathed a sigh of relief. Weeks passed and I continued to check on my garden after work. I noticed that only one of my tomato plants was blooming, despite numerous tall vines. The cucumber vines were flowering, but none of those flowers were producing fruit. I watered more frequently for weeks, but that didn’t seem to help. I searched online and everything I saw pointed at a lack of pollinators (bees or butterflies).

I was in disbelief. There is a tree directly above my garden that is full of bees. The bees and the location of the garden should have been a perfect match. Why weren’t they pollinating? All they had to do was fly down and do their thing. And then it dawned on me. The mesh. I was keeping them from producing by prohibiting their access to the flowers. I nervously removed the mesh. Within weeks, things started to grow. I immediately saw the similarities between what I’d done to my garden and what I’d done to myself at times.

As an introvert, I have sometimes shied away from opportunities that pushed me outside of my comfort zone. In doing so, I have sometimes stifled my own growth. There were times when I chose to hide myself in a cloak of invisibility because being seen by others felt too risky. Visibility includes the potential for embarrassment or being misunderstood.

But there is also risk in living an invisible life. When I keep my ideas to myself or skip chances to meet new people, I deny myself opportunities to learn and connect with others. Now when I’m tempted to “stay behind the mesh,” I check in with myself.

Is there a growth opportunity?

Will I have this chance again?

Is there a threat? Is it real or just perceived?

We have already harvested the beans and the cucumbers will be ready to pick any day now. The tomatoes are growing and the garden is now filled with bees. I haven’t seen any animals out there, but even if I do, the risk is worth the harvest.

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The Power of Quiet Friendship

Quiet Revolutionary Diana Lin’s Story

It wasn’t until after the blind date that I heard the news through a mutual friend. The guy was unsure about a second date because he “couldn’t tell whether I was having fun or not.”

This wasn’t the first time someone had taken it personally when I chose to immerse myself in the movie we watched instead of cracking jokes and making hushed small talk throughout. This wasn’t the first time someone took it personally when I felt like going home after 3 hours of hanging out. And when I didn’t have anything interesting to say, or the conversation wasn’t stimulating, I just didn’t say anything. I should have put in more effort, I thought.

I mean, who could blame him for taking it personally when I was being myself? I was flawed: able to look normal enough at first glance, but, when you looked more deeply, seriously unable to function in social settings.

Flash forward ten years.

I’m sitting in my friend’s backyard, eating barbecued chicken. I listen to my friends telling stories and cracking jokes, and I laugh with them. I catch up with one of my girlfriends in a quiet corner. Every once in a while, I walk to my car alone to get something, or I check my hair in the bathroom–mostly for a quiet break. No one sends out a search party or asks if I’m okay, because they already know that I’m just doing my thing. Sometimes they join me next to the fire pit, and we watch everyone enjoying themselves. I leave the get-together a bit early, saying I’m tired. They’re sorry to see me go, but they give me a good night hug and say goodbye. It’s a good night, all around.

These wonderful people don’t take it personally when I seek alone time or choose to people-watch instead of making small talk. There’s no need to “protect” them from my introversion. What a relief!

I’ve finally found “my people”. I’m the one they turn to when they need a listening ear, want to discuss a really sensitive topic, are feeling vulnerable, or simply want company for a quiet night with wine and Netflix. I’ve become their secret keeper, their trustworthy sounding board, their fully-present witness as they celebrate, grieve, and grapple with life.

I’ve always been introverted, but it wasn’t until I befriended folks who truly saw my “thoughtfulness” (as they call it) as an asset that I came to see it as an asset, too. It was so easy to see myself as a weirdo when I was surrounded by folks who saw me as strange and aloof. All I needed to do to access my quiet strengths was to surround myself with people who celebrated this core part of who I am.

Now, I’m paying it forward in my coaching practice, where it’s basically my job to celebrate my clients’ quiet strengths. Thanks to the support of my loving circle of friends, I can now pass along this truth: “flaws” are relative. Surround yourself with people who truly value your quirks, and you will learn to thrive. You will learn to live loudly in your own quiet way. And your so-called “flaws” will disappear.

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Stephanie Lam

Quiet Revolutionary Stephanie Lam’s Story

When I was a junior in high school, I met the love of my life. People said that I was too young to know what love felt like, but I ignored them. I knew that I had found the one for me, the one that I would love for the rest of my life: journalism.

However, I quickly found out that good journalists were expected to think and act a certain way: journalists were expected to be extroverts. They were supposed to be outgoing, talkative, and willing to be the center of attention.

I realized that I didn’t have these qualities, and to be frank, they were qualities that I didn’t really want to have. I was an introvert. I didn’t have conversations with strangers, I didn’t like asking for what I wanted, I didn’t even speak at normal hearing volume.

I began to think that my introverted personality hindered my growth as a journalist. For example, I feared the idea of talking to strangers, and always pushed off talking to them until the very last minute. I never looked forward to my daily checkups with my editors, who would ask, “Did you interview all your sources? Why couldn’t you get your story up sooner? What was taking you so long? I tried to come up with reasonable excuses, but in the end, all I wanted to do was cover my ears and scream to them (quietly), “I JUST COULDN’T DO IT.”

After many late deadlines and angry confrontations with my editors, I soon realized that my negativity and put downs about myself weren’t going to get me anywhere. Acknowledging what I thought were my “flaws” wasn’t going to make me a better journalist.

Accepting my so-called flaws and figuring out a way to deal with them would.

Slowly, I began to accept that I was going to be an introverted journalist. I began to accept that I sometimes needed others to help speak up for me and needed more time to do interviews and contribute to group discussions. As I grew to accept this, I realized that being an introverted journalist wasn’t a bad thing. In those rare moments when I sacrificed my personal comfort in order to get a story done, I became more dedicated and devoted to my work. The ability to be alone allowed me to finish my work faster. Choosing to speak up only when I believed it would benefit a story or story idea made what I said more meaningful, and people paidmore attention to it.

There are still many moments when I let my shyness stop me from getting that last source, or let my passivity stop me from being assigned a story. There are still many moments when I get angry at myself for being myself. But in the end, I knew that being an introvert isn’t my weakness. It’s an identifying feature that makes me who I am. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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A Young Introvert Finds Her Way

Quiet Revolutionary Kim Crabbe’s Story

I brought my 4-year-old granddaughter, Cora, to a birthday party on Saturday while her mother was in school taking credits for her graduate degree in education administration. The party was at the dance studio where Cora takes classes, and the birthday girl was Madison, who is in Cora’s preschool class. We filled out Madison’s birthday card together: I wrote the words, and Cora signed her name and drew a picture of herself and Madison dancing. Cora, with her long, blond curls and bright, blue eyes, looked adorable in her tights and gold-studded tutu.

We got to the studio early, and Madison and one other girl was there. I hugged Cora goodbye and watched her walk into the studio through the big glass window. Cora looked uncomfortable. She and Madison exchanged glances, then Madison and the other girl twirled around the studio. Cora stood there watching.

I left the studio to get some coffee in the shop down the street. When I came back ten minutes before the end of the party, the waiting room was filled with moms talking to one another. I walked to the window and watched as 14 girls and one boy were huddled in the corner watching Madison open her gifts. Cora was right there watching too.

I couldn’t hear what was happening, but I saw the dance teacher motion the children to form a circle in the center of the room. All the children fanned out and held hands. Two girls found themselves outside the circle. One was Cora. I watched as the other girl tapped on the arms of two girls in front of her, then tapped a little harder till they released their hands and let her in the circle. Cora walked up to the locked hands in front of her and tried to get in, but they did not let go. The teacher saw this and said something to the girls. Cora tried again, but they still did not let go. The teacher said it again, louder this time. But still the circle was closed. Cora stepped away and just smiled politely and shrugged, as in “it’s okay, I don’t mind.” But the teacher let go of the hands she was holding, then physically broke apart the hands of the girls in front of Cora, and beckoned Cora to come into the circle. Then, they all just danced.

This might have taken only 75 seconds, but in those 75 seconds my heart broke. My heart broke for the hurt my little, sensitive, and kind granddaughter had felt. My heart broke with the understanding that this, the life of an introvert, was only the beginning of moments spent standing outside the circle.

Like her mother and grandmother, Cora is an introvert. She is thoughtful, creative, smart, mature, sensitive, and quiet. She loves books and words and loves to watch movies. Cora is a great friend to Roslyn, who moved away in September but still sends cards and pictures. She is delightful and engaging and loves to spend time with her family. Cora is our girl, and we love her dearly.

I didn’t say anything to Cora about what I saw. She was quiet in the car but perked up when I told her we were going to the library. She picked out six chapter books, one book on tape, and one movie. We stopped at the frozen yogurt shop and had a sundae. We went back to the house and watched the movie. We had a great afternoon.

One day, I will share with Cora what I know: that sometimes it is hard to fit in, that we don’t always think or act the way others do, but we are talented, deeply committed people who are vital beings in a world that needs kindness, creative thought, quiet reflection, caring, and listening. But most importantly, I’ll tell Cora that being her whole amazing self is much better, much more fulfilling, than fitting into the circle. I will tell her that she will form a different circle, holding the hands of those who get it, those who dance with confidence to the music made by their own glorious sounds.

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Life in the Quiet Box

Quiet Revolutionary Tamar Charney’s Story

I first declared myself an introvert when I was a child. I was too young to know the technical term and honestly, it wasn’t a label that anyone used back in the 70’s. But as a little girl I did something to signal what it was I needed.

I created a quiet box.

It was a cedar cigar box. I wrote the words “quiet box” on the top in my messy block letters. Inside I made little beds with sheets and pillows fashioned out of folded up tissues. I placed a couple of my favorite small plastic animals into the beds so they could snuggle up in the peace and silence of the quiet box.

By virtue of how often I played with it, the quiet box was my favorite toy. It sat front and center on my night table and I took it on lots of family vacations. Clearly I was making a statement. I was also creating for myself a symbol of the quiet space I needed to recharge.

I was the child that struggled with sleepovers because it was too much socializing. I’d always hit a moment where I just wanted to be alone.There’d be a point where it was no longer fun being with my friend or friends regardless of how much I liked them or how much fun I’d been having and I’d want to be at home, in my own room, with a book, or my music. I also failed at college relationships because the fun sociable person they knew from the night before was not the person there in the morning. Again, after some unpredictable amount of time with others I’d need to not talk, not perform, and not be seen through anyone else’s eyes.

My need to retreat to my quiet box didn’t go away when I grew up. Instead I built a real life existence for myself that had many of the quiet cozy elements of my childhood toy. Yet it took a couple more decades for me to become comfortable with what my 6 year old self intuitively knew. I need quiet, I need to periodically withdraw from the world, I am a quiet box kind of person.

One of the problems with being an introvert is that you obviously don’t see loud displays of introvert happiness very often. We can be having fun, but others don’t see it. Which makes it easy to think you’re the oddball, since your life isn’t like the groups of extroverts around you who are loudly laughing, partying, and yucking it up.

This has meant that I’ve spent decades convinced that things would be so much better if I were an extrovert. I’d be self assured. I’d be at ease with people. I could go to parties and enjoy myself. In other words I’d be a successful, fun loving person, living the life!

An extroverted friend said something that extinguished that belief.

For years I’d been so jealous of his ‘the more the merrier’ approach to life. He is always up for almost anything. He seems to be able to be friends with anyone. And how many times have I shown up to have a drink with him to find a table full of people.

Being part of his social circle means I’m regularly taking a deep breath and steeling myself for interacting with more people than I prefer. If left to my own devices I’d never interact with more than one person at a time. But, for limited amounts of time his big gatherings can be fun, though they leave me exhausted and drained. This of course I have taken as proof that there’s something defective about me. If only I could be more like him, I thought — until our conversation that changed my view of the extroverted life.

He mentioned one day that he was thinking about going for a walk, but added “I can’t get motivated to do it, you know how it’s just so depressing to walk alone.”

I was stunned by that statement. Depressing to walk alone, what???

“Oh wow, you really are such an extrovert” I blurted out, and explained that while I enjoy walking with a friend or family member, I love to walk alone and that I often need to walk alone. It’s how I think, it’s how I relax, and I just plain old like going for a walk by myself!

I realized my friend was missing out on one of the things I enjoy the most – my time alone. He did not find joy alone. I understand now why he often calls while he’s driving. I now get why he never wants to stay home and instead makes so many social plans. Solitary walks, drives, and evenings alone are all things I treasure, but things that leave him feeling sad and isolated.

His remark made me instantly aware that I actually wouldn’t trade my comfort with myself as company for any amount of comfort with others. I’d rather have to steady my nerves at a party than fight demons when alone.

Extroverts live so loudly and visibly, which makes it easy to think their way of being is the normal and preferred way to be. Life in public might be easier for extroverts, but the private life of an introvert has its own benefits that I’d taken for granted. As an introvert it’s easy to say, who needs a party, a big group of friends, or a night out, when there is a cup of tea, a blanket, and a purring cat waiting for me. It just never occurred to me that the refuge of my childhood quiet box would be a torture chamber for someone like my friend.  

By day, Tamar Charney is a managing editor at National Public Radio. On the side, Tamar writes about all sorts of things, including horses, monsters, social media, and things Icelandic for a variety of outlets.

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Ebbe Sweet

Quiet Revolutionary Ebbe Sweet’s Story

When I was twenty-two years old, I was thrilled to land my dream job straight out of college working at a dance photography studio. My first few days were a blur of introducing myself to everyone in the studio, interacting with clients, and meeting all of the artists who came through the studio to be photographed. The energy of the studio was so different from anything I had experienced at my small college, and I lived for the challenge of it all.

But a challenge it certainly was: between all of the new people, new tasks, and constant need to be “on,” I was inwardly cursing my introverted nature and wishing that embracing so much change and commotion came naturally to me. My boss so effortlessly possessed the extroverted temperament that seemed to be required in such a fast-paced environment. He was the life of the party, calling out directions over the blaring music; the subjects of his photos seemed to feed off his energy, leaping high into the air with exuberant facial expressions to match.

The more time I spent in the studio, the more I doubted myself. My ultimate career goal was to start my own photography business and I worried that if I couldn’t keep up in someone else’s studio, I would never be able to start out on my own. I worried so much, and I spent so much energy trying to reshape my personality to match the high energy of the studio, that I lost touch with the reason I worked at the studio in the first place: my love of photography.

So I quit. I took a job working with young children, where a patient temperament was valued over an extroverted one, where being excessively thoughtful was seen as a strength, not a waste of time. Unsure of how to incorporate photography into my new life but confident I didn’t want to give it up, I started photographing my environment: a school field trip here, a child’s birthday party there, with the occasional family portrait session in between. Since I was the one running the show, I could focus on what I do best: quietly observing details, then using my camera to commit those fleeting childhood moments to forever memory.

Almost immediately, the feedback came pouring in: “you captured exactly who we are,” “my kids loved you,” and “I told all my friends about your photos, and they want to shoot with you too.” Portrait sessions became more and more frequent, and finally my subscription-based family portrait business was born. I am so grateful to have found a way to succeed at something I love without having to change the core of who I am. In the right environment, my introverted temperament became, instead of a hindrance to overcome on the path to my dream career, the very thing that made my work stand out.

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Mindfulness and Memory

Quiet Revolutionary Pamela Moore’s Story

The traffic never seems to stop. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s still going fast and furious, racing towards the next destination. I want to bury my head under a pillow, but it would take a lot more than that to drown out the traffic. Occasionally there’s a collision, causing panic and confusion, but most of the time it’s a low level unremitting drone. I’ve become so accustomed to it that the sound of silence is now almost inconceivable.

I expect you’re wondering why I don’t relocate somewhere quieter. Somewhere away from heavy traffic, a little bolthole in the countryside perhaps. That wouldn’t make the slightest jot of difference because it’s not road traffic I’m describing. It’s thought traffic. That incessant stream of consciousness which, regardless of my will, so often propels me on emotionally fuelled journeys to places I don’t want to go. Backwards to past pains, fast forward to future fears. Anywhere, any place, any time, except the here and now.

When I first heard about mindfulness, I thought there might be hope on the horizon. But my attempts at practicing it  were woefully disappointing. Sitting still and trying to concentrate on my breath unnerved me no end. It didn’t root me in the present moment at all. It made me even more introspective. Far from being able to step back, observe, and accept, I would find myself distracted by a voice which drew my attention ever inwards to scrutinise every physical sensation it could flag up. Instead of my worries ebbing away gently, waves of anxiety would flood over me as I silently obsessed about the rate of my breathing, a tingling in my foot, the ringing in my ears. After several attempts, I concluded that mindfulness just wasn’t for me because I couldn’t see any way of silencing that wretched internal chatterbox.

Until last year–when it dawned on me that focussing on my breath was merely a means to an end, and that engaging my senses outwards offered another way to be fully present in the moment. Hand-in-hand with this insight came an even more powerful realisation, the discovery that even in the absence of mental silence, I could still practise mindfulness. The key was to play my chatterbox at its own game by distracting it with a different dialogue of my choosing. This dialogue concentrated more on the external environment and less on what was happening inside my body.

These nuggets of wisdom fell like manna from heaven whilst I was participating in a session at The National Gallery in London. The advertising literature had promised to help participants use mindfulness techniques to “reignite a childlike sense of wonder in art.” As someone who yearns to appreciate art but finds it hard to muster sufficient concentration, I couldn’t resist finding out more.

Sitting quietly in a part of the gallery reserved for our exclusive use, we were invited to explore an eighteenth century Dutch still life painting. To stop our attention from wandering off, the facilitator guided our thoughts by asking us to consider certain aspects of the work. To my delight, the strategy worked, forcing my pesky chatterbox to engage fully with my senses and sit up and take notice of what my eyes could see. And what a lot they could see!

By some quirk of fate, only days before I had been standing in front of several similar paintings by the same artist at Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum, but I’d have been hard pressed to have described them in any detail. I’d been left with a vague, blurry image of some brightly coloured blooms in a vase. Suddenly I found myself looking intently so that the profusion of indistinct flowers gradually separated into individual species. I noticed a tulip, slightly bowed by the weight of its swept back pink variegated petals, ruffled peony heads, pert narcissi, and, almost centre stage, a single blue iris. Adjusting my focus, I became aware of the way in which the shapes, textures, and colours of these flowers and their foliage, ranging from spiky to rounded, rough to frilly, cool to hot, blended together to create a harmonious whole. Concentrating further on the details of the painting, I picked out a bee and a tiny ant, as well as three butterflies and an improbably placed nest.

Being able to bring to mind this level of detail and share it with you so long after I last saw Flowers in a Terracotta Vase has made me realise that as well as deepening appreciation, mindfulness also has the potential to prolong that sense of appreciation over time. It’s like a dye that embosses experience deep within the memory rendering an experience prominent through the passage of weeks and months – years even – so that it’s possible to recapture a sense of wonder and joy long after the original event has receded into the far distant past.

The value of being able to rekindle memories in this way was extremely powerful earlier this year when I visited my elderly father in hospital. I had asked him whether he would like me to bring him a magazine or even a small radio so that he could keep abreast of world events, but he refused. Concerned that his mental capacity might fade without some form of external stimulus, I asked him how he occupied the long hours and, without hesitation, he replied that he went on walks. For a second I felt a shot of panic race through my body fearing that, in addition to all of his other health problems, he’d now developed dementia. I need not have worried because he proceeded to explain that he was referring to his recollection of the all countryside walks he’d enjoyed over the 14 years of his retirement. He cheerfully told me that he’d been to Cumbria earlier that day. This speaks volumes about his mindful way of walking, and about the wholesome discipline he exercises over his mind so that he walks, and indeed lives, in the moment, collecting fragments of memory which he will revisit at some later date.

This, I think, a lesson for us all. You will be storing up riches for the future if you are able to corral rogue thoughts and free your mind to use all your senses to absorb that which is good and beautiful and unique in the present moment. When a rainy day comes, you will be able to unfold each of those moments, as if they were treasures wrapped tenderly in tissue paper, and savour afresh the delight of days long past. Indeed, the heart-wrenching poignancy of witnessing my father, at that time bent double and rendered almost immobile by Parkinson’s Disease, in his mind’s eye still striding tall and straight and strong through hill and dale, has made me understand that mindfulness is a discipline well worth mastering because the legacy it offers to each and everyone of us is that of the most profound and long-lasting enrichment.

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Winter Is the Season for Introverts

Quiet Revolutionary Jamie Kocur’s Story

I love the feeling of coming home after being out in the cold. Cheeks and nose numb from the bitter sting of the elements. Then the front door opens, and there’s that blissful feeling of warmth slowly returning to your extremities. Top it off with a snugly blanket and a cup of hot cocoa. Absolutely perfect.

Although not my favorite season, winter is a close runner up. Unfortunately in Florida, there isn’t much winter. The term “snow day” evokes a feeling of envy. When I hear of people being snowed in, having school canceled, I feel serious jealousy.

Each winter, I long to move north to a snowy winter land. I grow weary of mild Florida winters. I get giddy when we have that rare cold snap and temperatures plunge to the 20s. I eagerly pull out my scarves and boots and soft sweaters.

Northerners are probably rolling their eyes as they shovel their driveways. I get it. Snow isn’t as fun and magical as I envision. It would probably take only two weeks in a real winter scenario to send me back to my flip-flops, crying.

That still doesn’t stop me from feeling serious envy toward beautiful snow-filled Instagram feeds. I want a snow day. In Florida, the closest we get is torrential downpours. I do love them, but they lack the magic that snow days seem to possess.

When the days grow short and the temperatures plunge, I long to curl up. Disappear under a blanket. Make crockpots full of warm soup. Drink hot coffee. Get lost in a good book. Binge-watch Harry Potter.

Being snowed in sounds glorious. Staying put and hunkering down. A day to hibernate in your home and a reason to leave the rest of the world out in the blizzard. Nowhere to be. Time to watch the gentle flakes fall to the ground and marvel at the frozen beauty surrounding you.

I think winter is the season for introverts. It’s the time of year when Mother Nature begs us to slow down and curl up. The world around us seems to take a collective breath. Winter is a good time for reflection. It feels like the only time of year when humanity says it’s okay to hole away at home.

As much as I enjoy the vibrant colors of spring, I’m always disappointed when the temperatures begin to rise. Warmer days mean it’s time to come back outside. Rejoin the world. The time of rest has come to an end.

I may never have the snow day I’m dreaming of, but I do get brief moments of hibernation: cozying up at home on the weekends or, during workdays, coming home to the smell of soup, simmering in the crockpot all day. Those moments warm my heart and refresh my weary, introverted soul.

But I still say: Old Man Winter, bring it on.

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Snow Day Tips for the Introverted Parent

Quiet Revolutionary Rachel Meyer’s Story

We moved to the Pacific Northwest two years ago, and for the first time in my adult (read: parenting) life, I had to deal with snow days.

Snow days were so much fun when you were a kid, right? For me, growing up on the Great Plains, they were such a rare treat. We were hardcore, man. Fierce pioneers, braving the prairie blizzards. I remember going out during recess in South Dakota even when the wind chill was below zero: you just wore your snow pants and hung on for dear life.

But this, friends, this is a different beast. Folks around here aren’t used to snow and ice. Cities don’t have the same kind of infrastructure for dealing with such calamities. So last winter, as we were having an unusual amount of ice and snow, the school systems were buckling. Buses were stuck and delayed; roads were too icy to get kids home from school; days off right and left. And that’s rad when you’re a kid who can hang out and play all day or a solo adult who can chill on the sofa in front of the TV. Not so cool when you’re an introverted work-from-home mama, trying to figure out what the heck to do with tiny energetic humans all day long.

Here are a few reasons why snow days are introvert-mama hell:

  1. You’re stuck inside with small children, whom you love absolutely, enormously but whom you can’t escape. Can’t leave the house, can’t go for a walk, can’t head to the children’s museum. Trapped with tiny talkative people, all day long. Perpetual company. Perpetual playing. So much talking. So little quiet. There is not enough coffee in the world.

  2. You thought you were going to get some amazing alone time and poof!—just like that, it disappeared. You pay for three mornings’ worth of precious work time (a.k.a. preschool) every week. That sacred four-hour chunk of quiet in which you’re supposed to accomplish 15 hours of professional work for the week, go to the post office, clean the toilets, fold the laundry, pay the bills, and plan the next month? Nope. Think again. The planet had other plans.

  3. You are not in control. Even of the weather. Especially of the weather. Or whether your child will put pants on. Or whether the ice will melt in time for school tomorrow. Or whether you’ll be able to rustle up frantic last-minute childcare so you can still make that important meeting. Here’s the universe to remind you, just in case you’d forgotten, mama: you are NOT in control.

  4. Trying and failing to avoid screen time. In the last three housebound days, you’ve already baked all the muffins, kneaded all the Play Doh, read all the library books, done all the puzzles, drawn masks with all the markers, whacked the T-ball in the bedroom, played Keep Away in the basement, rocked Hide and Seek in the closets, and glued pasta onto crusty modern art masterpieces. You are goddamn tired. You just want to sit on the couch and be quiet and watch the snow falling. Instead, you’re vrooming around the living room like Lightning McQueen while your 3-year-old rams into you as a ferocious Chick Hicks.

So, what to do?

  1. Go play outside—if you’re brave enough to bundle the little boogers up before someone inevitably has to pee. The snow can admittedly be pretty charming. And the peaceful heavy quiet that comes with that magical blanket of snow is music to the introvert’s ears.

  2. Read, read, read. All day long. Read out loud. This is not such a bad option, as long as your voice hangs in there. Just make sure you hit the library before the forecast calls for a snowstorm, or you’ll wind up reading Strega Nona for the 45th time.

  3. Bottomless coffee. Stimulants will give you more energy to talk, right?

  4. Hide in the bathroom. You can steal at least two minutes of solitude hiding behind the door before they find you, no? And sometimes two minutes of stillness is all you need for a quick energy fuel-up.

  5. Play quiet games, like Doctor’s Office. “Oh, you need me to lie on the floor and close my eyes so you can listen to my heart? No problem.”

  6. Do a yoga video together. No guarantees about how much yoga will actually get done, but at least you’ll get to take a few deep breaths together before the cat curls up on your mat or the toddler falls out of Tree Pose.

  7. Stand at the window and look at the snow. My preschool son and I did that this morning as the sun was coming up outside our window. It was gorgeous. The pinks and oranges left us both silent with wonder. We shared a few precious moments of stillness.

  8. Listen to audio books together. You don’t have to talk. You can just listen, turn pages, and snuggle. WIN.

  9. Take naps. Snow days necessitate naps. Curl up together and turn off your phone. You’ll have plenty of time to get your work done next week when they’re back in school. And they won’t always want to snuggle with you.

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Supper Club, Introvert Style

Quiet Revolutionary Sabrina Simpson’s Story

In my second year of university, I joined a supper club to meet some new people. I joined mid-year, so by then all the table groups had formed, and the only space left was at a table of people who hadn’t really jelled into a talkative group. There were long painful silences each night.

One of my dorm-mates sat at one of the other tables, and although he often dominated the conversation, he also managed to keep it lively, seeking out participation from everyone at the table. Eager to have more fun at my table, I observed his methods in the hopes of trying to learn how he did it. I realized his initial running banter provided a starting point, something for others to respond to, and by drawing in others by calling out their names, he allowed people to join in, keeping the conversation lively.

As an introvert, I felt the idea of trying to start a conversation at a table full of very quiet people seemed impossibly difficult, but on the other hand, sitting at a table night after night with a group of people who didn’t talk was pretty miserable too.

One night, I plucked up my courage and told a funny story about something that had happened in one of my classes. I can’t remember what it was about, but everyone listened, and I think someone even laughed. I told another story and asked questions, addressing a couple of individuals by name. Eventually, the group was talking, albeit a bit awkwardly. But there was also a sense of relief around the table: not only was someone making the effort to have a conversation, but maybe there was a way out of the nightly awkward quiet.

Before I went to dinner the next night, I planned a couple more stories I could tell, and I did that on my way to dinner each subsequent night. Soon, someone else joined in, and because I do like a good laugh and generally am not shy about laughing out loud, our table got a bit louder, and slowly, over a period of a week or so, our discussions became more fluid. And it wasn’t always me who started the conversation!

It turned out, of course, there were some really interesting people at the table who just needed someone to start the conversation.

Eventually, we had our own fun table gang that I looked forward to spending time with each evening. I felt really proud when my talkative friend from the dorm eventually came and sat at our table because, clearly, we were having a whole heap of fun that he didn’t want to miss. And his moving to our table actually precipitated other people moving around the table groups and mixing things up every night. It had become clear there were interesting people at all the tables, and we all wanted the opportunity to spend time with each other. Which was the point of the supper club to begin with.

I want to encourage you to remember that sometimes it is worth the temporary discomfort of pushing yourself out there a little bit, especially when the rewards can be so huge. My efforts could have flopped if no one laughed or engaged in conversation at my table, but since we were all there to meet people, the risk was pretty low, and the “do nothing” alternative was pretty bleak. Plus, the result was really amazing! We ended up not only gaining a whole group of people to enjoy, who had been unengaged, but also changing the way the supper club was organized: each member got more access to everyone else and with a lot more fun along the way.

Never underestimate the power of your introverted skills to quietly create change in your organization for the better—for everyone.

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What Dating Taught Me About Introversion

Quiet Revolutionary Santiago Robledo’s Story 

I’ve always been very reserved with my feelings. I don’t consider myself shy, but when I date a girl, I always regret not being more extroverted. I admire my friends and how they can go out on a date completely relaxed and sure of themselves. Even if things don’t go as planned, the situation doesn’t affect them at all. I’ve seen a few of them being rejected, and straight away, they were asking another girl for dinner. Maybe this is normal, but I was shocked. I need a lot of time to get ready and to think where to go. As an introvert, I have to analyze everything to prepare the perfect plan.

Even if I calculate everything, I stress a little bit. Sometimes, I felt tempted to call the girl and cancel the date with a stupid excuse. My mind feels like it’s working against me. I sometimes think that my date wouldn’t enjoy the things I planned to do, that she wouldn’t like my deep conversation, or that I would ruin her weekend. I worry about her talking to her friends about our date even if I’ve never met them before. I have a lot of negative thoughts that discourage me.

In my hometown, I had different groups of friends: from my school, my football team, and my work. At that time, meeting new people was easier and more natural. But I didn’t know too many people when I moved to the city, which only made things worse.

My first idea to meet new people was to use the social networks, specifically the dating networks. It was the first time I used them. I always thought only desperate people go on those kinds of sites. I felt so embarrassed that I didn’t tell my friends about it so they wouldn’t be able to make fun of me.

I registered on one of these dating networks, and I started to look at the pictures. As an introvert, I didn’t feel comfortable talking about my life on these sites, so I decided to leave a few comments on interesting-looking profiles. Two days later, I checked my messages. Most of the people didn’t answer me, and the one who did asked me for a picture because I hadn’t put one up. That’s when I realized that this kind of site wasn’t for me. I think my introvert character had a lot to do with that.

My introvert personality wanted me to come back to the traditional way of dating girls. I like to meet for the first time in a quiet cafeteria to find out more about the person in front of me. I do my best to bring up interesting subjects so she can enjoy the conversation. A lot of my friends tell me that going to a concert or a night club and drinking a lot works better for them, because they feel uninhibited. But they are extroverted people.

As a result of my experiences, I’ve created a blog, called mundointrovertido.com, to help introverts like me to find their place in the world, because there is not too much information about introversion in Spanish. I hope it will help some others who feel like I do.

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What Paul Newman Taught Me About Introversion

Quiet Revolutionary Beth Rhines’ Story

The moment had arrived. I was standing in front of my supervisor, my coworkers, 150 children, and Paul Newman. Yes, THAT Paul Newman. The actor and salad dressing guru. You see, his foundation had decided to fund the youth development camp I was working for. And he had stopped by to see how the program worked.

In that moment, I had one job. Standing on a riser in the middle of the dining hall, I was to lead a silly camp song, complete with loud animal noises and body movements. I had to lead this song with so much gusto that Mr. Paul Newman would see how amazing this program is and what a difference camp has made in the lives of children. I wanted him to know that he had not made a mistake donating his money.

I stood up on that riser, started the song, and suddenly my brain stopped working. I mixed up the words and sang it all out of order, which confused the kids and prompted the staff to shout out the words until I got it right. I managed to pull it together, but I felt discouraged.

I had been through enough years of camp to know there was something a little different about me. I wasn’t as loud as the other counselors. I preferred to hang out in the woods with a small group of kids instead of leading huge group songs. My favorite moments of the day were often found within the 20 minutes of quiet group reflection after dinner. I managed to find my place in the camping world, but I still held on to the false belief I wasn’t good enough—because I wasn’t like the other counselors who could shout, play, smile, and be noticed so very easily. This mixed-up performance in front of Paul Newman just added to the growing list of reasons why I wasn’t good enough.

As the meal ended, I heard the whisperings of the staff around me. “Where’s Paul going? Is he going to stick around for the campfire?” I looked around and couldn’t find him. I switched my attention to the dizzying sea of campers, who needed to clean their tables and move to the campfire. On my way out the door and with campers in tow, I heard a voice behind me as I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, “Great song.” I turned my head and saw Paul looking at me, smiling.

Wide-eyed and awestruck, I said nothing as he turned and rushed outside. I tried to catch up with him to thank him, but when I got outside, he was gone. My coworkers were upset that he did not join us for the campfire, but I heard someone say that he took a turn on the playground slide on his way out. The disappointment I had felt in myself had melted away, and I was left with a good memory of a fun evening.

Years later, I learned that Paul Newman had a reputation as an introvert. I had never considered that I could have had anything in common with this successful and famous person. I never knew him personally, so I couldn’t confirm this rumor, but once I considered the idea, it made perfect sense. If I were him, I would have rushed out the door after dinner to get some space from the hordes of children too. I would have had done something spontaneous and fun, but on my own. And I would have been observant enough to notice that there was one person in the crowd who needed a little encouragement and, in my own understated way, would have done something to help them.

This story isn’t about Paul Newman. It’s about the parts of myself that I saw reflected in him. The parts that others may not have noticed. But I did. And Paul did. Maybe being an introvert isn’t so bad. The world may not always notice or understand us, but the world needs us. Silly singers, solo sliders, and all.

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You Must Keep Your Pace Even

Quiet Revolutionary Rupa Pereira’s Story

While working overseas in Singapore over the last 2 years, I had quite a full plate. As a hands-on mom of high-energy girls—and between balancing a post-MBA career, expressing my altruistic self as a volunteer at church and school, and fundraising for social justice—I could barely catch a breath.

My social interactions took a hit. I would get snappy, irritable. I was in the driver’s seat and driving everyone up the wall. Not pretty, to say the least! The outcome? You guessed it: burnout. The introvert in me screamed, “You need to get away from everything.” But I couldn’t just pack my bags and say goodbye—it’s just not socially acceptable for a driven, working professional. Instead, I chose a safer approach: getting away every day, running for 30-45 mins, my running shoes on and earphones plugged, lost to the world and immersed in my iTunes playlist and TED podcasts.

Initially, my runs started as a physical workout with an outward focus on improving my fitness and stamina and releasing those endorphins. But slowly, as I started to relish the solitude, focus switched inward, and I learned to be aware. What did I become aware of?

My breathing: Regulating my breath and watching my strides helped me go the distance in my running goals.

My surroundings: This meant literally stopping to smell the roses, soaking in awe-inspiring sunrise/sunset views, and feeling a sense of kinship with my fellow pedestrians, bikers, runners, or just about any human being.

The music: Every track spoke to me, be it Pink’s “You’re Perfect,” One Republic’s “I Lived,” or Demi Lovato’s “Confident.”

Listening to myself: I was finally paying heed to my introverted self and the voice of reason.

Once I became more aware, I discovered the following about myself:

  1. I’m no energizer bunny.

  2. I’ve accomplished a LOT, but I’m not savoring my victories.

  3. My inner critic is on overdrive.

  4. Life is short, and time is the only currency that matters.

  5. I have to change course, and I have to do it NOW.

I recall the time when I got my “wake-up” call while running through Singapore’s picturesque Marina Barrage, stopping in my tracks to make sure I wasn’t hearing voices.

Here is what ensued post my wake-up call: pausing my career, resettling family back to the US, resting the mommy-guilt, and adopting a minimalistic lifestyle.

Running at an even pace, on my terms, while not competing for the top prize, gave me a chance to discover my true calling and embrace my human, vulnerable side. Running with a purpose gave rise to a movement RunForHOME, supporting the efforts of HOME—an NGO that attends to the needs of migrant workers in Singapore. This year alone, RunForHOME raised $15K as more runners joined the tribe.

Much like an energizer bunny’s, my battery would run out some day, so I’d much rather conserve energy for causes that really matter than regret that I never could.

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I Tried to Fool the Myers-Briggs Test

Quiet Revolutionary Daniel Ochoa’s Story

I tried to fool the gold standard of psychological assessment tests, as well as my teacher and classmates, into thinking I was an extrovert. I tried answering the questions as if I was some sort of charismatic showman character—a Muhammad Ali type—fully capable of fast-talking, colorful rhetoric.

My cheating attempt failed. I was unable to crack the standardized test. My true identity was exposed with test results returned to me, displaying a simple four-letter acronym that will forever cling to me like a scarlet letter: I-N-F-P. The dreaded “I” for introvert. You know you are a true introvert when you can’t even fake being an extrovert.

The classroom was split in half: introverts on the left, extroverts on the right. Our four-letter identities were handed out to us on a piece of paper accompanied with a list of careers. A librarian, writer, programmer, and housekeeper were some of the careers I was told I could have when I grew up. I felt as if a judge was handing me down a prison sentence. I wanted nothing more than to be sitting on the right side of that classroom with the future actors, lawyers, television broadcasters, and comedians. I wanted to be Fonzie instead of Richie Cunningham, Peter Venkman instead of Egon, and Han Solo instead of Luke Skywalker. Fonzie, Venkman, and Han are the outgoing, extroverted personalities that, it seemed, everyone looked up to and aspired to be. The shy and quiet kids were thought of as weird and quirky.

I would have to settle for Luke Skywalker. This would explain why I chose to be Luke when playing Star Wars during my childhood summer days. My best friend was always Han Solo. My little brother played Chewbacca, and we would not allow him to speak. He could only let out Chewbacca moans while we would pretend to translate each moan into words. The girl next door was cast as Princess Leia, sporting her mother’s brown earmuffs in the blazing summer heat.

Han, Chewy, and Leia would wander off together for the day to fight battles with the Galactic Empire. I, on the other hand, would depart alone into the suburban back alleys of Detroit to fight an imaginary Darth Vader and train with an imaginary Yoda. A green spray-painted teddy bear, bungee-corded to my grade-school backpack, would serve as Master Yoda.

My imaginary battles with Vader were epic. Any neighbors nearby, peaking out the back windows of their homes, would have witnessed a beautiful display of choreographed swordsmanship, featuring a boy and his yellow wiffle ball bat—all alone—gracefully and exuberantly swinging away into thin air.

I was a shy kid and always thought there was something wrong with me for choosing to be alone with my own thoughts and imagination. I would not accept my genetic predisposition of being the quiet one. Later in life, I learned to accept my introverted tendencies. I learned how to maximize my strengths and manage my weaknesses. I learned to take on passionate projects that pushed me to another level.

The wall between introversion and extroversion completely crumbles when you stand behind something that has purpose and meaning. We introverts tend to shine the most when talking about ideas and concepts held true to our hearts. I now accept my INFP result as a gift instead of some kind of disease.

Much like Luke Skywalker, we all have introverted Jedi powers that can be used for the greater good of mankind. Our powers include being highly idealistic, imaginative, and creative. We are strong-willed with an interest in helping people and humanity. We are driven by our own set of core values and remain laid-back unless these values are challenged or threatened. Our chameleon-like ability to adapt to people and situations allows us to establish deep-level connections with others. We are perpetual dreamers. The Force is strong with us.

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Daring Greatly

Quiet Revolutionary Christan Causey’s Story

Have you ever had that horrible, awful dream where you are on stage or standing in the middle of a room when you look down and realize, “Dear God, help me—I forgot to put clothes on!”?

I liken my current state of existence to that dream.

Earlier this year, my husband and I took a leap of faith with declarations of dreams and calling. We are starting a nonprofit. We sold our home, resigned our current positions, and we our taking our three kids into the unknown.

This melancholy introvert is screaming inside, but I know this is what we are supposed to do. The risk of failure is worth doing what is in our hearts. But really, the pressure’s on.

And as excited as I was a few months back, whenever we sat in the stillness and chatted quietly of all the dreams, hopes, and what-ifs, as it has been taken from the quiet of our home and our hearts and made public for all the world to see, the predominant feeling now is that of being fully exposed.

Yeah, I know. I’m weird and too melancholy. And I wish I could say I feel giddy, excited. I mean, I am excited. But it’s a reserved, quiet excitement. The last 6 months have consisted of wrapping up jobs, moving to our new town, working on the foundations of this non-profit. Just yesterday we said final goodbyes to our friends and family, and to the tight knit community we have belonged to for 8 years. Up to this point, we have only scratched the surface of this adventure.

I found myself waking with tears behind my eyes and fresh feelings of panic. And sometimes, I want to run in the opposite direction, before everyone gets wind of impending failure. I’m just being real here.

I so wish my melancholy self could respond differently, and don’t get me wrong—I try. But I’m weak. Weak when it comes to change. Weak when it means being vulnerable to failure. Weak when others might get to see that potential failure. Weak in worry, concern, or fear. Weak because I am angry that I am weak.

BUT, then, so what if this new season holds a scary uncertainty—a complete unknown? I have faith (I say this with a bit of a queasy stomach).

I have learned much about vulnerability in the last 3-4 years. I have come to believe wholly and completely in living with vulnerability. And while I focused on living vulnerably in how I express myself, sharing my soul with others, and in how I allow myself to emotionally invest in community – I’ve recently discovered there is another level of vulnerability I have yet to live: vulnerability not just in expression, but in action.

Stepping out to follow a dream, taking that whisper of a hope in our soul and turning it into a loud shout off the rooftops—that’s a vulnerability I haven’t experienced. Taking risks and chances that might turn to failure. Naming a calling that others may not understand. These are it for me.

Maybe for you it’s doing something you have never done before, dealing with a relationship you have ignored, reaching out to build a friendship, starting a diet, etc. But it’s vulnerable, and it makes you feel exposed.

I love all things stable and safe, but I don’t actually want to live my life that way. I am willing to pursue the dreams in my heart wholeheartedly even if it means “standing in the arena naked” for all to see.

I am reading a book that is challenging and encouraging me on this right now. In Daring Greatly, Brene Brown states this:

Perfect and bulletproof are seductive but they don’t exist in the human experience. We must walk into the arena, whatever it may be—a new relationship, an important meeting, our creative process, or a difficult family conversation—with courage and the willingness to engage. Rather than sitting on the sidelines and hurling judgement and advice, we must dare to show up and let ourselves be seen. This is vulnerability.
Vulnerability may seem weak, but it’s boldness, courage, and strength all wrapped in an unexpected package.


Call me melancholy weird, but this is where I get excited. Acknowledging my weaknesses, boldly naming them, and then waiting to see how my faith proves itself true.

I am scared out of my mind as we step cautiously, yet boldly into a month that often signifies for many a fresh new start to the current year. September. New schedules, new schools, new community. All unknown. What will happen, what will change? There will be failures and disappointments along the way.

Yet, I know deep in my heart there will also be miraculous provisions along the way, deep abiding joy in doing what I’m called to do, and celebrations of dreams pursued. My confidence comes from my faith, my belief in my family and I, and the knowledge of a community in need of this calling we have been given.

Some of you know exactly what I am talking about as you stand on the precipice, waiting-deciding. Think about it. What if you jumped all in? What if you did all the things you thought you could never do, small and big? What causes you to fear? What quiet hope are you holding onto? Please don’t be afraid. No one likes fear, yet it’s part of living a real life in a real, big way: being all in and wholeheartedly committed. And, it’s always worth it! Have courage in the midst of the fear, and go for it!


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Running Outside of the Pack

Quiet Revolutionary Antje Fiebig’s Story

During the last six months of my PhD, I was very stressed, worried, anxious, and anti-social. It was mainly because, even though I believed in my ability to get the PhD, it was very hard for me to deal with all the pressure. Sometimes, I just could not see the finish line.

To distract myself from all of it, I started running. With running, I suddenly found a finish line. One that kept increasing. I started with running 4 km, then slowly increased to 5, 7, 10, 12 km. After four months, I managed to run a half-marathon distance, though at a very slow speed. I’ve never minded that because the main goal was to get away from my computer and having to write that thesis. Running cleared my mind, and even though I wanted to have a break from the PhD, I usually had my best ideas for my thesis during my long runs.

I successfully submitted my PhD thesis, received my PhD, worked for another six months as a post-doc, and then traveled around the world for eight months. After getting back from my trip, I started running again. And suddenly I was thinking: Could I actually run an official half marathon competition? The main reason why I hadn’t thought of it before was because I love running alone. I’m a lab manager and students’ coordinator, so people come into my office all day long. I love running because it gets me out into the nature and because this is the time I can focus on myself—being an introvert, this is an essential part of my daily life.

I signed up for the Cologne Half Marathon, just to see whether I could do it and because once in my life, I wanted to experience a competitive atmosphere (even though it scared me more than the actual mileage). I continued with my training, and even though I had a few minor health issues, I always managed to get back into shape, mainly because I didn’t follow a strict training plan but rather listened to my body. I tapered, ate well, and was hoping to not get ill.

And then the race day came. I just loved it. When I lined up in my starting block, waving at my friends alongside the street, I was ready to run. The atmosphere was thrilling. I had chosen one of the biggest events in Germany (mainly because it’s close to where I live), and I didn’t regret it. Yes, I love running on my own, but it’s wonderful to have somebody cheer for you. It gave me such a kick, I cannot even describe it. My goal was 2:05:00—from my training, I knew I could do it. I finished in 1:57:38 and could not believe that there was a “1” at the front. I will never forget this day.

A few more things I would like to add: I don’t look like an athlete or a model. Most people would not think I am fit. But it’s not about appearance. I am also a vegetarian and have a gluten sensitivity. In addition, I never joined a running club—as I’ve mentioned, I just love running on my own. To me, the most important thing about training for the half marathon was my strong willpower. Running the half marathon was my dream, and so I did it, all because I listened to my body and my mind and because I never forgot how much I love running.

Don’t let other people tell you what you can and cannot do. Be proud of yourself and what your body and mind can achieve. Hopefully, my story can help motivate others to fulfill their dreams too.

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