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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An Introvert Finds Her Voice… in French

Quiet Revolutionary Shreya Iyengar’s Story

I remember the day I had to fill out a form for my third language in school. It was sometime in mid-February; the year was 2005; and I was all of 10 years old, my child-mind oscillating between the choices I had: Sanskrit or French. What was it to be?

After a lot of indecision, I finally made up my mind and carefully, painstakingly wrote my choice in blue ink. And that was that. The deal was sealed. At that time, I felt a sense of relief that I’d made my choice. Okay, then, I thought to myself. Now what? Little did I know that choice would turn around my entire universe in ways I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

In the beginning—the first year or so—I was a little disoriented. What was this beautiful but totally unfamiliar language, with all its unheard-of sounds? And why did each noun have a gender? It seemed unsettlingly alien and foreign in every sense of the word. It had funny rules. Why do we put the adjective after the noun, in certain cases, and why is the plural form not restricted to nouns alone? I had lots of questions and was, at best, an average student. Every time I felt uneasy, I shrank a little deeper into myself.

And somewhere along the way, between feeling slightly overwhelmed and trying to cultivate a basic liking for French, the unthinkable happened. I fell in love. It was not so much a fall as it was a crash. My normally steady and placid temperament was in an ecstatic turmoil. In a matter of months, I went from merely tolerating French to adoring it with a scary sort of intensity. And I think it was this all-consuming love that made the usually volatile terrain of adolescence significantly easier to negotiate.

I loved sitting in my class and absorbing whatever my brilliant and wonderfully gentle teacher had to say. Although I rarely participated—and even if I did, I had to be asked (which, to my introverted self, was a bit of a nightmare, of course)—I started feeling like I knew something that my peers didn’t: I had a special secret, which I guarded with my life. Learning French for five immensely gratifying years, I felt…protected. I felt a deep, enduring joy that went far beyond the classroom and the curriculum—and that feeling lights me up to this day.

I devoured French verbs like they were the yummiest chocolate-chip cookies. While most of my classmates seemed frustrated, I quietly blazed through grammar exercises and writing assignments, excelling at each one. At every chance I got, I submitted my pieces to the school magazine and was praised year after year. The shy, awkward little bookworm had found her place under the sun—and how! In my own quiet way, I shone. I had found my joy.

The feeling is indescribable: suffice it to say that part of you feels like your heart is going to burst. I felt a past-life connection with the language and the culture. With that sense of intuition that we introverts pay such close attention to, I knew that this is what I’m destined to do in some way or another.

As the years have passed (it’s been more than a decade of wonder, surprise, and fulfillment), my irrepressible love for the language has only deepened. It has enriched my understanding of myself, made me more accepting of myself and others, and taught me how to dream big, every day. Above all, it has taught me to accept myself just the way I am because with this precious gift that I have, I now know that I can be fearless. It is the gift of language, of understanding, of a love that transcends words or geographic boundaries.

For me, French is not a mere language, it is a way of life. It gratifies my old-world soul like nothing else in this world does.

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What the Tao of Pooh Taught Me About My Extroversion

Quiet Revolutionary Allysha Roth’s Story

“Inner Nature, when relied on, cannot be fooled. But many people do not look at it or listen to it, and consequently do not understand themselves very much.” – Benjamin Hoff

I used to read myself to sleep so I wouldn’t lie awake in the dark, thinking about every embarrassing thing I had said that day. I hadn’t always been this way. As a young child, I was very good at being alone. I started teaching myself to read when I was 3 years old. I watched musicals on VHS that sparked my imagination. I sang ad-hoc songs to go along with the story I was living that day. Once I started reading books, I read them to my stuffed animals.

When I started primary school, I was rewarded for my participation (a.k.a. talking) every day. So, I talked a lot. And, as years went on, I talked more and more. I started to dread both school and being alone because my over-participation constantly mortified me. I described myself as “painfully extroverted.” I walked through life embarrassed to be myself. Once alone, I would replay awkward interactions in my head. That’s when I started to use reading as a coping mechanism—to block the memories of the day.

Years later, after college was over, I spent over a year mostly alone, in quiet, and learned to love being alone again. I taught myself to play guitar. I started jogging, at first for exercise, then because it stimulated my imagination. I read articles and reflected on how they fit with or contradicted what I thought I knew. I started to religiously read and re-read The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff. Instead of shutting out painful experiences, I pondered them, writing over and over again about why they hurt until I understood them. And understanding led to healing, acceptance, and growth. I grew to understand myself in a more complete way than ever before. And still, I hadn’t let go of my identity as an extrovert.

Then, I went back to school. I was very suddenly re-immersed in the world of participation, and it was perhaps one of the most excruciating social experiences of my life. Every day, I drove home mortified by my compulsion to participate, sobbing intermittently in rush hour traffic. I just kept wishing I would keep my mouth shut. Why am I so loud? Did I really need everyone to hear that thought? Those habits no longer felt like I was expressing myself accurately. I thought, “This isn’t me.”

I learned a lot from the contrasts of those experiences. That tool of self-reflection that I learned in quiet was much more powerful than reading away the memories ever was. I realized that the source of my pain during overwhelmingly social situations, like school, came from how outwardly focused I was. I was always thinking of what the right thing to say was. I was thinking of how to respond. And that was exhausting all my energy, which led me to be less thoughtful in how I engaged. I wasn’t taking care of myself in social situations, so I wasn’t representing myself very well either.

I’m not actually “painfully extroverted.” And I’m not totally introverted either, as anyone who knows me will tell you. But through listening to my pain, I learned that I often get a lot more out of listening than participating. Sometimes, I’m the center of attention. And sometimes, I keep more thoughts to myself than I share. And I don’t have to read myself to sleep anymore.

“The Way of Self-Reliance starts with recognizing who we are, what we’ve got to work with, and what works best for us.” – Benjamin Hoff

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The Benefits of Making Mistakes

Quiet Revolutionary Gayle Aggiss’s Story

I think I have made a mistake. And I really don’t mind.

I am an extreme introvert. Even compared to that of other introverts, my level of introversion stands out. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I ended up on a mountaintop in the middle of nowhere, unravelling the secrets of the universe or something. But I digress…

A couple of years ago, I decided to change my life. I went from being a university drop out, working a dead-end job that paid badly and made me feel even worse, to being a graduate working on a master’s degree and teaching English in China. It was a big jump.

A lot of people told me I couldn’t do it in the first place. As introverts, we’re taught there must be a lot of boundaries around the things we do. We aren’t supposed to like being around people very much. We’re timid and quiet. We don’t like being the center of attention. We’re nervous, slow to adapt to new situations and places. And most of all, we will always be upstaged by the louder extroverts that run the world.

Before I decided on this course, I thought about all of these guidelines. And I decided I would do what I wanted anyway. I studied, studied some more, researched my choices, and finally ended up teaching, first in Vietnam and now in China.

I’ve learned that even though I don’t like public speaking, I am perfectly comfortable talking in front of a class. I’ve learned that I adapt very well to new places and people, thank you very much. I’ve learned that I love sitting in cafes in new places, drinking tea and watching the sun set over alien towers of glass and stone.

And I’ve learned that I am still an introvert.

Although I can talk in front of a class and I can interact with my colleagues, parents, and the administration at my school, I can’t do all these things at the same time. My energy levels don’t allow it, and my social energy doesn’t allow it. After a week at work, I want to be by myself for my two-day weekend, and even that time isn’t enough to recharge my batteries to normal levels.

I made a mistake when I chose this job.

And that’s a truly wonderful thing.

Because even though it is a mistake, it has taught me so much that I can’t bring myself to be angry or regretful. My journey to this place has transformed me from a scared, battered mouse into a confident, accomplished woman, who dreams of more and knows she has what it takes to get it. That woman would never have existed if not for the mouse who dreamed of teaching overseas.

Once I left my home, the changes in me and around me accelerated. Learning to get by in a country where I didn’t speak the language, in a completely different culture, taught me confidence and boldness and self-sufficiency that I don’t think I could learn any other way. Not to mention that living overseas was always a dream of mine. The mistake in my path doesn’t take away from the value of living out a dream like that.

I’m nearing the end of my contract now and preparing to go home. And as I look at my life, the one I have now and the one that is stretching out in front of me, there is only gratitude.

Thank you so much, my very beneficial mistake.

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The Introverted Yogi

Quiet Revolutionary Steph Ruopp’s Story 

It’s a warm Thursday night at 5:30.

I’m sitting outside the yoga studio, legs crossed, taking a few deep breaths. The previous class is letting out. It was well attended.

The inner dialogue broadcasts throughout the metropolis of my mind. It’s a familiar broadcast as I hear it before nearly every yoga class. It’s something to the effect of, “Well, that was a popular class. Yeah, it was. The one after this will probably be popular too. Yup. It usually is.”

It seems innocent enough. Silly even. But if I allow, it could be damaging to me. I’m not a student preparing to enter the class, but rather the instructor. I’m also a card-carrying introvert. And the implication of this dialogue, a dialogue I created, is that my class will never be “popular” because I just don’t have what it takes.

Of course, the instructors who teach the respective classes before and after mine have personalities that could be described as bubbly, effervescent, and sparkling—descriptors equally well-suited for champagne. And students feel good in the presence of these affirming teachers, much as they would after a few sips of the bubbly. Naturally, they drink them up. And I get it. Hell, I love champagne. The teachers who sandwich my class are extroverts who meet the ideal to a tee. I, on the other hand, do not.

This is not to say that I am the polar opposite. I don’t spend my days closed off in my house, reading books to my three cats and making my own clothes—though, admittedly, that sounds like a damn good day. Nor do I cower in the corner, casting disparaging looks on students. And while there’s no disputing that I’m guarded in social situations, I am not what anyone would call soft-spoken. In fact, I can be rather loud and outspoken.

Early in life, I realized that I do not possess the “tell them what they want to hear” button that seems to come standard on others. I loved my inner world and being alone. I had few friends. Feeling shame around this as a teenager, I made the lofty commitment to “speak only the truth.”

Twenty years later when I began teaching yoga, I saw this commitment as a thinly veiled defense mechanism to shut people out before they could do it to me first. And what I was attempting to pass off as moralistic “speaking the truth” was far more often nihilistic “talking smack.”

This was not an endearing quality for a yoga instructor. And it certainly wasn’t going to draw students to this practice, which I longed to share. It took a while for me to realize the difference between being genuine and being unkind. It also took some time for me to embrace that popularity does not a better teacher make.

One of the beautiful things about teaching is how completely you have to put yourself out there and be willing to see where the cards fall. Not an easy feat for an introvert. Another is that it’s ongoing. And while I did receive my certification to teach, I don’t think anyone ever becomes a teacher. If those of us who call ourselves teachers are paying attention, we are just continuing students, moving constantly toward a keener sense of awareness. I’ve yet to meet anyone who can teach that. Popular or otherwise.

It’s a warm Thursday night at 5:35.

I’m still sitting outside the yoga studio, legs crossed, nodding and smiling now at the regular students coming through the door. Their numbers do not matter. What does matter is that many have been attending my classes for a decade. They embrace the highly sensitive and empathic person that I am. And they appreciate my honesty. It’s what resonates with them, and they prefer to have their champagne elsewhere.

Still, the inner dialogue continues. But it’s merely ambient sound now. Teaching has helped me recognize that it’s “old speak,” triggered by one of many memories of feeling singled out and unpopular at a time when I didn’t value being an introvert, being myself. And it rarely, if ever, troubles me anymore.

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Taking a Look Back

Quiet Revolutionary David Wiggin’s Story

Since the age of 5, when I started school, I’ve known I was an introvert. I was the only boy in kindergarten who cried most of the first day of school. I grew up being regarded as shy, quiet, and a bit slow. As an introvert, I take time to respond to people who throw new ideas or comments at me. I am the person who always thinks of all the good comebacks hours later.

Despite these feelings, I’ve gone through life making myself face situations that force me to be more open and expressive. In college, I didn’t force myself to participate in activities, like debate, because my fear of speaking in public pushes my brain into a panic mode, blocking thoughts. In the proverbial “fight or flee” situation, I usually choose the “flee” option. The reaction causes my thought processes to shut down until I can get my emotions under control.

I chose teaching as a career because I wasn’t sure what else I wanted to do and because I love literature and the arts. I also admired the best teachers I had in school. After several years of teaching high school English and French, I decided to become a school principal and later a superintendent of schools. Obviously, these professions attract extroverted people. To succeed, I had to overcome my reservations of speaking in groups. The challenge was immense, but I succeeded because of my ability to empathize with young people and adults in the school community. One of my most rewarding moments occurred when a colleague mentioned to my wife that I was known as the “go-to” person in the school because when anyone wanted to find out information or to get help with a problem or a situation I was the trusted administrator they would seek out.

As a superintendent of schools, I found myself speaking before many different groups. Perhaps the most daunting were large town meetings when I was presenting and defending a proposed school budget. These events almost always went well because I’d prepare clear audio-visual displays, print budget info, and provide lucid explanations of the budget process and the effects of budgets on school programs and local communities.

Other, even more difficult, situations occurred behind closed doors between me and teacher representatives in contract negotiations or when I was dealing with student/teacher conflicts, often involving several parties. I found these situations emotionally draining, but I also found that an important key to success was building mutual trust by understanding all parties’ positions and knowing when to give something in return for something else.

When I got ready to retire as a superintendent, members of the school board came to my office individually and in groups to try to dissuade me, but I knew when the time had come to move on; however, on a couple of occasions, I was coaxed to return to a position I had left because of the difficulties the schools faced at the time. In looking back, I sometimes marvel at the successes I achieved, but I understand that my thoughtful demeanor and ability to empathize with others were great assets in resolving conflicts and leading diverse groups. Although I would never be the life of the party or the most popular person, being an introvert was not a deficit because I learned that people would trust me when I listened and cared deeply about their concerns.

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Overcome Feeling Like a Fraud

Quiet Revolutionary Melissa Renzi’s story 

A couple of months ago, it dawned on me that I could be a fraud.

I was asked to teach a workshop at the Lotus Rising Women’s Celebration at Stonehouse Farm, west of Chicago. Lotus Rising draws roughly 150 women together for an annual weekend of camping, yoga, meditation, dancing, singing, art, and connection.

I immediately said yes.

My experience that weekend was incredible. I departed that Sunday with my windows rolled down, chanting “om namo bhagavate” with an ear-to-ear smile.

I was fully energized and rejuvenated. As soon as I realized this, my smile dropped. You see, my partner and I recently launched InnerConnected Retreats. As self-proclaimed “introverts,” we offer group-travel experiences specifically designed for individuals that lean toward this side of the personality spectrum.

Introverts supposedly get their energy from being alone—this is one of the defining features. Meanwhile, I spent a weekend being almost constantly with others, and I left buzzing with barf-worthy joy.

A few years ago, I began to understand introversion better and identified with a lot of traits (a need for alone time to recharge, distaste for small talk, preference for small groups over parties, social time limits, etc.). It gave me a place where I fit, where I could understand myself better and feel comforted that there are others like me.

But a lot of people in my life don’t see this part of me, largely because I have done a good job of hiding it and disguising myself in a way that fits into the extroverted world. I remember an ex-boyfriend saying, “What? I can’t understand this. When I met you, you were so full of life and dancing.” He constantly thought I was depressed when I retreated into myself—classic.

But I got to thinking: maybe I’m not so introverted. I mean, I have been known to break into interpretive dance all by myself at a wedding (alcohol changes lots of things for introverts). Maybe I don’t know myself. Have I glommed onto this label in an effort to connect more with my deeply introverted boyfriend or to create a passion project together? What if I don’t know myself well enough and I am not who I say I am?

I thought back to the weekend and the moments leading up to it. There was a part of me that was excited and a part that was hesitant. I was nervous about teaching a workshop to a large group. And a bit of anxiety crept up as I thought about who would be there, if I’d fit in, how much engagement would be required, etc.

When I arrived, a wave of social anxiety washed over me, and for the first hour or two, I thought I made a huge mistake coming there. I began thinking up all the ways I could get out of leading my workshop on Saturday morning and go home. But I was stuck.

I even texted my boyfriend, saying that I didn’t know what I was thinking. He firmly said, “You belong there just as much as anyone else. That’s your place, and you just need to give it time.”

Most women that weekend didn’t know the thoughts that occupied my mind space. They didn’t know I considered what kind of ailment I could come down with to avoid teaching. They didn’t know that this woman who appeared social was also very insular at times and needed copious amounts of alone time. They didn’t know it took effort to find the energy for Bollywood dancing after dinner when I initially just wanted to retreat to my tent. They didn’t know because I barely showed it. I socialized. I participated. I danced. I sang. And I left with a new network of sisters who lift one another up. I ended up loving it. 

So, how introverted am I really? And why do I feel a need to claim this label? What do labels really do for us? Am I an ambivert—partly introverted and partly extroverted, depending on the context? I don’t know, and I’m okay with that.

I guess I am a woman with diverse aspects of her personality, which gives me a great ability to understand those of others. And maybe that’s all that matters.

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An Introvert Speaks Up

Quiet Revolutionary Kevin Crowley‘s story
 

So this was it, the moment I had been simultaneously fearing and looking forward to in equal measure ever since I accepted the invite to speak at a conference. The fear I had was because I had no idea how I would perform, but I was excited to know that in less than an hour it all would be over and I would never have to do this again.

I had arrived in London 2 hours before I was due to speak, exactly according to my plan. London is a busy city at the best of times, but I managed to find a quiet area at the train station, where I could listen to my talk through my headphones. I had planned to arrive at the start of the lunch break, not to get a free lunch but so I could see the conference set up while the room was empty and gather my thoughts, away from any hustle and bustle.

I had prepared meticulously for over a month, for this one 20-minute slot. For me as an introvert, preparation is everything, and I left no stone unturned to ensure all would go well. But as my time approached, I felt like I’d forgotten everything I’d practiced.

As I sat nervously in the reserved for speakers row, I watched the speaker before me regale the audience confidently and with authority, and I wondered why on earth I had signed up to this. The usual flurry of thoughts filled my head: What if they put the wrong slides up? What if my microphone doesn’t work? Should I stand behind the podium or walk around? What if everyone walks out?

Everything was going according to my carefully constructed plan, but I still questioned why I ever chose to do this. Here I was—the “shy kid” in the school class, the “quiet one” who didn’t like to speak—and I was about to have hundreds of pairs of eyes focused solely on me as I would stand completely and utterly outside of my comfort zone in full view of everyone.

I don’t remember too much about the 20 minutes that followed, but I do remember the overwhelming sense of relief as the audience gave me a very warm round of applause. As I walked off the stage with a huge weight lifted off my shoulders, I was greeted by a smiling lady, keen to discuss the content of my talk in more detail. As I finished speaking to her, a gentleman caught my attention while two others were keen to give me their business cards for further conversation.

I didn’t need to talk at a conference, and I didn’t really want to either, but I wanted to prove to myself that as an introvert, I could do something more typically aligned with extroversion—I guess to prove that my introversion was a strength to build on, rather than something to hold me back. And as I sat on the train home, enjoying music rather than listening to my talk for the first time in a month, reflecting (as introverts do) on the day, I afforded myself a smile reflecting the fact that, for once, rather than being the one listening to others, I was the one being listened to.

As for never having to do this again, I just signed up for another conference next year…

Do you have a story to share with Quiet Revolution? Click here to view further information and submit your story—we’d love to hear from you.

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The “Right” Personality for a Job

Quiet Revolutionary Rachael Trigg’s Story

“You just don’t have the personality for that,” a surly boss once told me when I inquired about an associate producer job on the show I was currently crunching numbers for. A few months later, a dear friend and roommate suggested I try out production and offered me the job of assistant production coordinator on a food show in a wonderful Pacific Northwest city.

Here I was, going on the road with a show for a few months. Since I had never done anything on set before, didn’t go to film school, and definitely didn’t know how to book travel for 100 people, I had no idea what I was in for. I just knew my life had to change.

Being a hardcore introvert would prove to be a lot more work for me in the wonderful world of Hollywood. Once we got to Seattle, I was thrown into the production side of TV. I sank for a hot second, but then I fell in love. I remember trembling when, for the first time, I had to say to a crew of 60 plus people “go for Rachael” over the walkie.

Watching the producers in their brainstorming sessions, I quickly realized that producing was what I wanted to do. I was a creative type and believed I could finally become the person I dreamed about. I told everybody what I wanted to do. The problem was: being more of a listener than a talker made things a little trickier. However, after landing my first associate producer job for National Geographic, it occurred to me that being a listener first didn’t actually matter. I was who I was, and I had to own it. Despite the fact that I wasn’t that stereotypical overzealous LA producer, the cast and the talent all trusted me and my calm demeanor.

While I still have a bit of work to do on myself and for my career, I have learned that being an introvert who works in television is not an obstacle—it’s a blessing. Since that day of being told I didn’t have the personality for it, I’m here to tell you that, ten credits on television shows in, I’m here to stay.

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What a PowerPoint Presentation Taught Me About Myself

Quiet Revolutionary Spencer Wells’s Story

It was a bright and cloudless August afternoon of cross country practice, and I was anxiously sweating as the sweltering heat seemed to grow more and more intense by the minute. Everything should have been fine; I had been hydrating well all week, and the coaching staff were always very cautious not to push us too hard in the hotter temperatures. As I scanned the grassy warm-up field though, my anxiety intensified as I saw some of my teammates taking off their shirts to cool down. Ordinarily, this should’ve been something that somebody in my position would have quickly joined in on. Unfortunately for me, there was a big catch that changed the notion of going shirtless at cross country practice from a convenience to a nightmare.

Since birth, I have been afflicted with a chest condition known as Pectus Excavatum, commonly dubbed the “funnel chest” syndrome. Simply put, while a normal chest wall is flat, mine is sunken in, creating the appearance of a hole in my torso. I assumed that such a deformity would draw shock, ridicule, and even disgust from those who saw it. As an introvert who cannot bear the idea of being singled out, the sort of attention I would have drawn to myself by exposing my chest in public was absolutely horrifying.

So, that day at cross country practice, I endured the scorching hot run as one of the only guys on the team who kept a shirt on while running. The teasing I received for being “self-conscious” (the assumed explanation for why I remained fully clothed) was depressing, but I endured it to avoid the exhausting explanations and stunned expressions I would have had to deal with if my secret was let out.

My whole life I have been continually dealing with this struggle. At the pool, l would always wear a shirt and use not wanting to get sunburnt as my excuse. In the locker room, I would hide in the corner, turned away from everyone as I frantically changed. On some days, I would even wear the clothes I was going to change into under the outfit I wore to school. In my introversion, I kept closing in and isolating myself from others to avoid the embarrassment that seemed like the end of the world.

That day in August, I went home and spent the evening loathing myself because I believed my chest made me unable to ever fit in with other guys. At one point, these thoughts drove me to think that quitting the team was the only solution. I was submitting to my condition, letting it take control of my emotions and actions, and I went to bed with a deep sense of despair.

A few weeks later, I was sitting in speech class. And although my chest was not at the front of my mind, the weight of all the cross country practices I had endured that season was heavy. As one of my classmates loaded a PowerPoint presentation to accompany his speech, my heart immediately started to race. I was stunned to see my chest condition projected in bold white letters across the front of the room. For the next ten minutes, this classmate described how he has dealt with the deformity that has been backing me into a corner most of my life—in front of an entire room of people. The entire time, I kept thinking to myself, “Wow, somebody else in my own grade has the same condition as me!” And then, “There is no way I could be doing this… This is incredible.”

The presentation took a long time for me to fully appreciate, but the lessons I learned from it were very important. I realized I am not alone in my struggle. Part of me had convinced myself I was the only person I knew dealing with this. My introverted nature had made the prospect of talking to other people to solve my problems seem impossible. My classmate proved me wrong on both of these points. He not only showed me there were others with the same affliction but seemed to be at ease with it. I think this was because he reached out to others for help instead of closing in on himself out of fear.

After his presentation, nobody in the class seemed grossed out or repulsed, and some people even talked to him afterwards in support. This made me finally believe that instead of seclusion and ridicule, I could receive support from people I opened up to.

I cannot say I totally overcame my discomfort and started going shirtless at cross country practice, but I finally realized that making sacrifices to my happiness to avoid potential embarrassment was hurting me more than protecting me. I stopped feeling that my chest would embarrass me or that I could not deal with the reaction people might have to my chest. I regained some control of my actions, and suddenly my chest did not generate the despair it once did.

Finally, I could stand on the cross country warm-up field with a confidence I never had before and realize that I was going to be fine, really.

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The Best Gift Can Be Not Having to Open One

Quiet Revolutionary Lara Vukelich’s Story 

My birthday was last week.

I received two thoughtful gifts from two dear friends. I was grateful they thought of me. They were kind to commemorate my latest trip around the sun.

But here’s the thing: I am a bad gift opener. I have literally practiced my gift-opening face in the mirror with the type of acute examination that should be reserved for preparing to evade a lie detector test. If I put my eyebrows up too high to show surprise and elation, I look…how can I put this?…totally insane. If I focus on crafting a perfectly casual smile, I am convinced I look insincere. I prefer to open my gifts under cover of darkness or, at the very least, alone in my living room.

Gift exchange games aren’t my Super Bowl; they are my metaphorical firing squad. So, yes, I was the only person not to participate in my company’s White Elephant celebration last year. If you’re not familiar, this is the game where everyone brings a wrapped item and then each person, one at a time, chooses a random box to open. In front of everyone. As in, lots of people stare at your face as you unwrap a gag t-shirt or pair of Star Wars socks. If another party-goer steals your gift, you get to relive the fun (read: horror) of publicly selecting and reacting to a new mystery package all over again.

How does one decline to participate in such an event? If you’re graceful, you probably approach the party-thrower discreetely beforehand and let them know you have chosen to abstain for a myriad of reasons. You forgot; you got a flat tire on the way to the store; your debit card got stolen. If you’re me, you wait until they are selecting the order in which people will open their gifts and then say, “I DIDN’T BRING A GIFT, THIS IS TOO MANY PEOPLE” at an octave just north of appropriate.

Look, gift givers are excited to see my reaction. I get it. When I choose a fun present for my friends and family, I too gaze upon their faces with hopeful anticipation. I want them to love it! But as an introvert, being on the receiving end of such a gaze makes me feel like I am putting on a performance. Even when I really love a gift and I’m not mustering an artificial smile, the Spotlight Effect is in full force.

Post my White Elephant debacle, I started asking myself how to embark on a future filled with stress-free gift openings and devoid of the anxiety currently associated with trying to master a “love it, mean it” smile.

Here is what I’ve come up with. It may not be foolproof, but it’s a start.

Step One

Start saying: “Thank you so much! How thoughtful, I will open this later.” See how that goes. If it gets you out of unwrapping said gift with an audience, always follow up with a meaningful mail/text/phone call to offer specific gratitude (“I can’t believe you remembered I wanted a Bill Murray candle!”).

Step Two

Be better prepared for possible gift opening situations. I always forget it’s my birthday and am therefore unprepared for being handed a gift bag. It’s not the best strategy.

Step Three

Avoid White Elephant parties with more than 10 people. Maybe drink a glass of wine before gift opening begins.

Being a bad gift opener doesn’t make me an unappreciative one. Nor does it make you one, fellow attention-loathers. If all else fails, we can always keep practicing our reaction faces in the mirror. Hey, practice makes improvement. 

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The Secret to Being a Great Conversationalist

Quiet Revolutionary Gregory Peart’s Story

Eight years ago, I attended a small gathering at a neighbor’s house. Before long, I found myself standing in a group of four guys whom I just met at the party. One of the guys was talking about his occupation—automobile engineering. Another guy was very interested because he too was an auto engineer. The third guy knew a lot about car design so he was engaged as well.

My knowledge of auto engineering is about as great as my knowledge of the history of cheese—almost non-existent. All the guys went back and forth in rapid-fire succession. I found myself quietly listening, nodding my head, and feigning interest for at least 10 minutes. Then it hit me: I was subtly being nudged out of the circle. I could have just walked away, but I wanted to get to know them. I wanted to be social. However, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I also didn’t want to appear too naïve before they knew anything about me.

And then it happened. I saw an opening. One of the guys transitioned from engineering to the design of the house he just purchased. I know a lot about real estate, so that was my open window to jump through. Instead of sitting on the sidelines, I decided to take control of the conversation and asked when he bought the house. Then I transitioned to the local housing market. Another guy was interested in selling his house. Then I talked about mortgage rates and the best time to sell. I was contributing. I suddenly found myself in the driver’s seat. They were playing in my sandbox.

If you’re reading this, you’ve probably wondered how it is that exceptional conversationalists always know what to say. You may have asked, “Why don’t they ever struggle? Why do I take longer to respond than they do?”

The answer is: They aren’t any smarter than you—they just put themselves in positions to succeed. No one can always have a good response ready for any topic. But the best socializers understand one very simple concept: if you’re in the position of responding to someone else’s question or topic, you’re at their mercy (at least during that moment in the conversation). Conversationalists who initiate the conversation topic always have the advantage over people on the receiving end.

If I called you on the phone right now—right this very minute—I can guarantee myself a major advantage from a conversational perspective. I would plan on telling you my plans to go sailing this weekend. How is that an advantage? you may wonder. By introducing sailing, I’m taking control and kicking off the conversation with one of my own topics, forcing you into a more passive position. You will have to respond and make a connection to my topic and to my statements. It’s not easy for your brain to sort through sailing-related memories in a matter of seconds, especially if you don’t have much to offer on the topic or are thinking about or doing something else, totally unrelated.

I, on the other hand, may have had minutes, hours, days, or even weeks to think about what I wanted to say and how I wanted to initiate that conversation with you. I may, in fact, be a professional sailor. Or I may have had many previous conversations about sailing that helped me develop a giant arsenal of sailing anecdotes, facts, and opinions ready to “float” into any conversation.

The comfort level I have with the topic will manifest itself as confidence. Because you have to react and exert energy, searching for related material on the spot, you will naturally be at a disadvantage and may project a lack of confidence.

Pay close attention next time an exceptional conversationalist converses with you; they are probably initiating most of the topics! The best conversationalists usually direct the show. They aren’t caught off guard or left without anything to say. In those rare cases where they are speechless, they can still ask poignant questions and eventually steer the conversation ship back to where they want it to go.

My life changed when I realized the power of this active mindset.

We all desire more confidence. A shortcut to immediate confidence is simple: go first. Be the first to ask, “Hi, how are you?” Acting first in any situation instantly boosts how confident you appear to others and, in turn, boosts your feeling of confidence. Poor conversationalists are normally reactive as opposed to proactive. They wait for something to happen to them. Exceptional conversationalists go after what they want.

Of course, action comes with risk. Staying passive is much safer and easier. Most people spend time deliberating over the negative possibilities of a potential action. But be careful: too much deliberation leads to overthinking and paralysis by analysis. Many more good things come from trying something as opposed to trying nothing. If you currently lead a passive lifestyle, you may feel that you lack control over your fate and that life happens to you instead of because of you.

It took me years to realize how often I instinctively waited for the other person to go first as if I were not allowed to dictate the conversation. After taking that initial step of acting first, you’ll feel not only an extra boost of confidence but also an infusion of happiness. Because when you act first to direct the conversation, you feel a sense of control. Shifting from a passive to an active mindset can truly change your world.

Do you have a story to share with Quiet Revolution? Click here to view further information and submit your story–we’d love to hear from you.

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What Paul Newman Taught Me About Introversion

The world may not always understand introverts, but it still needs them.

Daring Greatly

What quiet hope are you holding onto?

Taking a Look Back

How your superpower—deep listening—can earn you respect.

The Secret to Being a Great Conversationalist

How to take the bull by the horns when conversing.

Nancee Cline

When surprising others can be a pleasure.

Mary McKnight

Letting go is never easy, but it can be liberating.

Amanda van Mulligen

Quiet doesn't always mean okay.

Megan Anderson

30 seconds—a life changed.

Kayla Taculog

Fish out of water—yet thriving.

Nicole Scott

Words are like butterflies; catch and release.

Jane Babb

On the gift of stories of quiet.

James Horton

If you were a tree, what would you be?

Thomas Deakin

Introversion is not to be wished away. Embrace it.

Michael Duffy

Is your true self challenging your way of life? Are you listening?

Lisa Harding-Bond

Think an introvert can't be an outstanding salesperson?

Courtney Rosebush

The littlest of human beings can beat you at your game... if you care to listen.

Subha

When the world is talking, do you feel left out?

You Must Keep Your Pace Even

Your battery will run out—use it wisely.

Running Outside of the Pack

Even an introvert can find it thrilling to be slightly part of a crowd.

Overcome Feeling Like a Fraud

Throw away labels, and be yourself!

Ferry Meewisse

Finding personal in the seemingly impersonal.

Alex Pappas

"I might be quiet, but I am not incapable."

Cristina Gomes

Where do you experience belonging?

Hana Tiro

An extroverted introvert? It's not an oxymoron.

Siti Naquia Abdul Rahim

A stranger + proximity = comfort? It does happen.

Sneha Menon

Quiet perseverance pays big dividends.

Carolyn Kiel

Have you heard of a "gym-trovert"?

Nina Jervis

The tale of a "pushy" introvert.

Jaclyn Desforges

How do you handle the question, "Why are you so quiet?"

Marielle Caballero

Speak up quietly but firmly, and change the world.

Heeju Jang

Sometimes, the gift of newfound confidence comes in a strange package.

Ann Zimage

How a hard goodbye can turn into an uplifting thank-you.

I Tried to Fool the Myers-Briggs Test

Purpose and meaning can sometimes erase the distinction between introversion and extroversion.

An Introvert Finds Her Voice… in French

When you find your bliss, you become fearless.

The Introverted Yogi

Forget popularity; invite authenticity.

An Introvert Speaks Up

When you are the one being listened to.

Michelle Rockwell

The quiet strength to pull it off.

Sidra Montgomery

Little ways to start deep connections.

Manuela Ribeiro

Never underestimate an introvert.

Sandra Younan

When the going gets tough, the introvert gets thoughtful.

Tariq Mustafa

The internet: the savior of the quiet soul.

Neha Mandhani

Are you an introverted parent? You can save your sanity.

Zharif Badrul

Tongue vs. pen: what wins in your universe?

Jamie Jakubik

Hi! I am an introvert. Wanna date?

Nathan Haley

How far did you have to travel to find yourself?

Michelle Buck

"You are not alone. You have a voice in this world."

Lauren Brown

Remembering who you are can give you wings.

Jeneen Floyd

Your body's always trying to tell you something.