I am an introvert. No wait. I am an extrovert. No, introvert. Ugh. Can I just be both? They say – “they” being whoever titled the characteristics of human behavior into something we can study and ponder – that an introvert is rejuvenated or refreshed through time alone. An extrovert, on the other hand, finds energy through interaction with people. For myself, I think I find both to be the case. How about you?
When I was young – we’re talking little girl young – I was extremely shy. My name in school was often associated with phrases such as “teacher’s pet” or “goody two-shoes” or “dictionary” (although that last one was short lived and somewhat random, so please don’t expect too high a level of vocabulary in these ramblings!). Although I didn’t seek out those names, they fell on me for reasons of being a good student, respectful of my teachers, but mostly because I was quiet. Although like any young girl I had my fair share of energy. Quite a bit of energy! Mainly derived from my beautifully loud Italian family, and squirrely, chocolate-driven girlfriends. Around most others, I was shy. Never ran with the “cool” kids in high school, not because we didn’t like each other but because I was intimidated by their ability to be so natural and outgoing with everyone around them. My insecurities flared up and I found it more comfortable to simply remain quiet.
College was somewhat transformative. Having grown up in the same house, and having carried on with the same friends for the extent of my eighteen years, such a past meant that college was an ushering into the unfamiliar. Very unfamiliar. Being in a surrounding that I had never experienced before, I moved forward with what I knew best. I remained quiet.
Though eventually I found myself deeply connected to young men and women who shared my passions, yet quiet spirit, and new friendships were born. In that same context, I found that being at a Christian university meant my core values were shared – for the most part – by those around me and it made an out-going ideal seem a bit more realistic, as I wasn’t constantly needing to live against the grain. That was comfortable, so I became comfortable. Even still, the core of that young, shy girl stayed with me. I remained quiet.
Oh sure, I may have talked more. (To people, mind you, just in case you were at all concerned.) As a matter of fact, I ventured even further than expected, becoming acquainted with very different circles, and what a grand old time it was being known by so many! In some ways, my struggling confidence flourished, but I still held onto my heart. My most intimate moments and tears were shared in deep conversation with dear friends. Occasionally my emotions flung themselves a bit wider, writing ‘en mass’ to several college mates when a particular heartache overwhelmed my every moment. Still, the secret corners of my heart remained reserved for those nearest to me; the moments I would simply well up with tears or the mornings where I woke up joyless. Not everyone I knew heard of those moments. I remained quiet.
Life continued. There was joy again, and I found myself on the remarkably breath-taking Martha’s Vineyard, an island off of the Massachusetts’ coast, set to study songwriting and music business for a semester. Amazing, right?! The first two weeks were exhilarating. College had helped me to understand the forming of new friendships outside of childhood, and though still intimidated by unfamiliar places and unknown faces, I was eager to put my newfound confidence to the test. For two weeks I relished in the excitement of the island, the people, the industry, and it all felt – as they say – “too good to be true.” Then I got a phone call. My grandma died. I absolutely adored her. My return to the island simply wasn’t the same. Having missed several days of new budding relationships, meanwhile ready to burst into tears at any moment, I retreated willingly to sacred ways. I remained quiet.
Chicago. Oh my how quickly the day came that I was to pursue life independently. Chicago became that token of self-reliance, and the unknown became an ever more exhilaratingly present. I lived on an air mattress in the middle of a friend’s suburban living room for months until I found a job that could move me into the city and allow for movement forward in music, in relationships… in life! Only a few months in I met Jordan, my now ever so dashing, courageous husband, and he soon found himself walking with me through yet another season of grief. A few precious relationships flourished, but even in the current joys, life was difficult. With those close, I shared both bliss and sorrow, and so we grew even closer. Though to most, I remained quiet.
The city life came and went, and a new most unexpected adventure was in store. The same weekend we celebrated our one-year anniversary, Jordan and I moved to Rockford, Illinois to each take on full-time jobs at the same local church. We were nervous. We were excited. We bought a house. We had people over. We struggled with our abilities. We struggled with expectations. We sought out friendships, but we struggled with those too. Mainly me. I was told many things about myself, and my heart was often scrutinized. So I shared what I could, or rather, I shared what I chose. Though I found it most often best to swallow any creeping insecurity – and I can assure you it was given plenty of opportunities to rear its ugly head – and lead with the passion by which I was so deeply driven. Although certain corners of me were suffering, so I in turn found it best to simply … remain quiet.
Two years into our time in Rockford, my older brother was found to have two large brain tumors. At first hearing the news we thought there was nothing the doctors could do. I cried out to God with every ache that shuttered vehemently through my bruised body. Although friendships were found to be much harder to come by then I had yet experienced, I still shared the heartache with a trusted few. Though for everyone else, and by that I mean the rest of the church that we had come to know and love, the burden felt too heavy to share broadly. I was never one to desire attention be pointed towards me, whether that came out of insecure dealings or introverted roots. In either case, I knew how my heart needed to respond to the hurt, and it was not to spread my broken soul too thin. I remained quiet.
My mom and I had the most lovely of conversations just a couple of days ago. Granted, we chat on the phone quite often, but this time I had the serendipitous pleasure of chatting with her face to face. And I must say, it’s a beautiful face at that! Now to paint an accurate picture for you, and one that Jordan can very easily attest to, our conversations usually look something like this when indeed there are two bodies to look at. She is bustling around the kitchen with her hair plopped adorably on the top of her head, and myself sitting indelicately at the kitchen counter, spewing stories and thoughts and reflections about life and character and Jesus. She listens, and nods, and gives the occasional “Mmhmm”, though ever so appropriately interjecting with delicate compassion or resonating agreement. Oh I just love it. Now, I know I’m the daughter here, and therefore feel from that a freedom to share with my mom as though she is the mentor and I am her apprentice. Although I do love discovering the depths of her own heart, and so I curiously inquired. “Mom, do you find yourself sharing your heart with many people?” If I may set the stage once again, my Mom is incredibly strong, immensely gracious, and perfectly bubbly. My sister and I just recently said to each other that we long to be even half the woman that she is in our years to come. My mom was plainly simple with me in her response. “Not really.” She shared how she does a lot of listening, but when it comes to matters of her own heart, she is very private. “If you have even just two or three close friends with which you can share, then you are all set.”
My little hometown of Cambridge, New York is a safe haven of love and intimacy. Though the return to its rolling, snowy hills comes this time in part with sorrow. Aaron has yet another brain tumor, and so I am here to help my family as best I can in the days to come, and stand by him – or rather sit nearby in the waiting room – on his operation day. That is the only side of this story that you will see. Oh sure you can ask me how the operation went, and depending on when you catch me, I could be as happy as pie – a warm apple pie with whipped cream on top – or desperate for a hug. But I don’t have an obligation to share beyond the borders my heart has set. Come to think of it, in every season of life of which I’ve just reflected with you, I never did have that obligation. I had every right to remain quiet.
And yet, we expect that of each other so often… don’t we? We say that when someone shares their brokenness it inspires us, for by seeing heartache, even imperfections, we are given the opportunity to tend to our own hurts and not be ashamed of personal breaking points. Let me say resoundingly that there is certainly truth in this! However, somehow we have taken that truth and found it to be the imperative standard to which we should all live up to. Worse yet, we tend to base someone’s character and maturity on their willingness to disclose emotion. No one wants a “fake”, and there is great value in consistent sincerity, but when did our willingness to reveal emotion, and a widely spread divulgence at that, become the marker to show that we are alive; That we are real; That we are genuine. Perhaps we need to point the finger back towards our individual selves and ask a potentially daunting question: “What have I done to be privileged with the joys and brokenness of those around me?”
On a number of occasions, individuals have let me know how much they appreciate my willingness to share, and are struck – particularly in the context of the stage – with how I can be so open towards a room full of strangers. Yet I have also found myself challenged rather forwardly for not revealing enough of myself, or for coming across as disingenuous. Strange perhaps. Until I realized that the latter only ever came when I found myself in a position of expectation; A dangerous paradigm that can turn the essential need for open-hearted relationships into a posture that says, “I am owed the right to see your heart, not because I have gained your trust as a friend, but because I too am a broken being.” The privilege we have in seeing the scope of one’s heart can only come when we make an effort to know that heart. Even then, each individual has a choice as to who becomes their “two or three” and beyond.
My friendships are precious. My conversations are deep. My brokenness is my strength. My heart is my own. I am an introvert.
Nah, forget that last part. At times I simply am, though by my own discretion, quiet.