[Author wishes to remain anonymous]
Age 8:
I’m in the backseat of my mom’s Volvo. A Beatles cassette plays and I rest my cheek against my seatbelt as my gaze drifts out the window. My eyes go out of focus and I slip into a safe place: my own mind, imagining warm, nostalgic scenes—kindergarten graduation in the park, baking cookies with my grandmother, raindrops making ripples, the red walls of our cabin.
Age 10:
One day my teacher keeps me inside during recess to ask why I don’t have many friends. I’m confused—I have a couple friends and my sister—then leave feeling shaken. she thinks there’s something wrong with me.
Age 12:
My fourteen‑year‑old sister doesn’t understand my habit of retreating into my own world in the car. She sometimes shouts to get my attention: “MEL,” or asks, “What do you think, Mel?” I reply, “I wasn’t listening.” “Why not?!” Even trying to join conversations makes my mind antsy; I need that time in the car to focus on my own thoughts—it nourishes me.
Age 14:
In graphic arts classmates’ noise grinds at me. I open my notebook and write; everything else falls away. One day the teacher yells at me for writing: “You think this class is a study period!!” I can’t process his yelling and begin avoiding the class where I don’t know what to do with my brain.
Age 16:
I keep a thick blue binder full of story ideas, journal entries, lyrics, poems, and sketches. I stop writing openly and try not to zone out in public. As classmates dive into parties, I prefer staying in with a few close friends and quiet spaces where my mind can breathe.
Age 18:
In my first semester of college everyone, everyone, seems to be out partying every weekend. I tell myself it’s okay to be introverted and that I’ll find friends like me. A floormate pressures me: “There’s going to be something seriously wrong with you in the head if you don’t come have fun every once in awhile. Come on.” She holds out her hand. “You have to shake my hand and promise me you’ll come out and party with us at least once.” To get her to leave me alone I shake her hand; she laughs it off, and I feel picked on for being different.
Age 20:
I’m living with friends who write quietly; we type away in low warm light. I met some through a National Novel Writing Month page—our writing parties grew into nightly rituals. We lent each other books, baked cookies, binge‑watched TV, walked in the snow, and watched the Aurora. Our version of partying meant staying in and watching Avatar: The Last Airbender all night, with tea instead of alcohol. My writing stopped being a private affair and became a shared ritual. Sitting in the calm hush with these friends, I realize there’s nothing wrong with me—my introversion has blossomed into joy. I’m an introvert, and proud.
