When I was a kid, teachers wrote on my report card, “Quiet in class.”
Which basically means, “Doesn’t cause problems or stand out, so I’m not sure what else to write.”
In middle school, I tried being more social by sitting near people and hoping they noticed me. I can’t help it—I’m awkward.
In fact, I’m so awkward that my high school P.E. teacher gave me a D.
Yes. A D.
In P.E.
I was an A student and a perfectionist, so my mom asked her why. The teacher said, “Jamie mocks me during aerobics.”
No, no, I wasn’t mocking her. I am really just that awkward.
Once my teacher realized this, she decided to “help” me by making me walk laps around the gym while everyone else played dodgeball. Turns out, part of why I looked like I was mocking her was because I genuinely didn’t know what to do with my arms. They always seem to be in the way, and I can never tell how fast or slow they’re supposed to swing. Eventually, I just stopped swinging them.
So, while my classmates laughed and ducked flying balls, I was walking in circles while my teacher yelled, “Jamie, swing your arms!”
It definitely helped my reputation. Have I mentioned that I was voted Biggest Introvert four years straight?
By adulthood, I had accepted that my superpower was strategic invisibility.
I love being invited to events. It hurts my feelings when I’m not—even if I have no intention of going. I want the invite. I want to know I was thought of.
And when I do go, I’m perfectly content standing at the edge of a small group, snacks in hand, people-watching like it’s a nature documentary. I’m a social scientist. People-watching is my hobby.
The problem comes when the crowd crosses my invisible threshold—from cozy group to human mosh pit—something inside me short-circuits. My bubble becomes invaded, the laughter gets too loud, and I start calculating escape routes.
I don’t dislike people; I just need a certain ratio of bodies to acres. I was raised in the middle of nowhere—a town of 700 with a graduating class of 23. I like small groups and fading into the background.
It took me years to realize my silence wasn’t shyness. It’s just me. And it’s as cozy as my Minky Couture blanket. I love small circles where connection feels safe and spacious. Conversations feel more intimate there, and I feel like myself.
By the end of the workday, I crave quiet like caffeine. By the end of the week, my social battery is utterly dead. I start to glitch. You might even see an eye twitch or two.
So if I seem distant, I swear it’s not you. It’s just that my internal Wi-Fi signal has dropped. I need to go plug myself into my bed—with a book—for a few hours of buffering.
Not everyone’s introversion looks like hiding under the bed. Some people just need to leave the concert early, drive separately so they can dip out, or take “a quick bathroom break” that lasts the rest of the night.
However it shows up, introversion isn’t avoidance—it’s calibration.
Five Behavioral Health Takeaways for Introverts (and the People Who Love Them)
1. Silence isn’t rejection.
Introverts often process internally before speaking. If we’re quiet, we’re probably thinking—not judging.
(Okay, maybe a little judging, but mostly thinking.)
For an introvert like me who also has anxiety, I’m likely overthinking. Give me a minute to find my wise mind, and then we can talk.
2. Social interaction has an energy cost.
Extroverts get charged up by people; introverts get charged down.
It’s not personal—it’s neurological. And forcing your introvert friend to “be more social” will just piss them off.
Example: When I was a senior in high school, my mom forced me to attend a school dance. I was drained. I didn’t want to go to a stupid Snowball dance. It’s not that I disliked my friends—I loved them very much. You know… in small clusters, for short periods of time, on my terms.
Not in a stupid dress. And dancing? I can’t even swing my arms and walk!
Here we are, twenty-five years later, and I’m still bitter.
3. Recharging is emotional hygiene.
Alone time isn’t selfish; it’s maintenance.
Just like you plug in your phone, introverts need solitude to reboot their nervous system.
4. Preparation helps connection.
Give an introvert a heads-up, and they’ll thrive.
Spontaneous drop-ins messing with their recharge schedule? Emotional terrorism.
Scheduled coffee with one or two good friends? Delightful.
Case in point: in college, the guy I was dating once dropped in unannounced to bring me breakfast. It wasn’t part of my routine—which, since college, has been: wake up, yoga, coffee, shower, get dressed… then people may speak to me.
So what did I do? I hid under the bed and didn’t answer the door. Works every time.
5. Authenticity beats performance.
When introverts feel safe to show up as themselves, they can be some of the most loyal, observant, and empathic people you’ll ever meet.
We’re not quiet because we don’t care. We’re quiet because we’re listening.
Understanding how we’re wired isn’t an excuse—it’s a kindness.
It lets us stop apologizing for our energy and start managing it with compassion.
Closing Thoughts
So if you ever meet someone like me at a party, sitting alone at the snack table, smiling politely, considering an Irish exit—don’t take it personally.
We probably like you.
It’s just very people-y in here.
Introversion is about knowing yourself and respecting what you and your introvert friends need to feel safe and sane.
Everyone is different and an expert on themselves. So show kindness however you do, and accept kindness however it’s given.