Breathing Room
There’s a thing nobody tells you about being an introvert. It’s not just that you “like being alone.” That sounds optional, like a quirky preference, the way some people like pineapple on pizza. No. It’s more like oxygen. If I don’t get enough of it, I choke.
People mistake this for shyness, or worse, arrogance. As if I don’t want to be around them. But it’s not about them. It’s about me, gasping under the weight of too much conversation, too much noise, too many expectations pressing in at once. I smile, I nod, I play the part, but inside my body is screaming: Get me out. I need space.
Alone time isn’t a luxury, it’s survival. It’s the pause that lets me breathe again. It’s the quiet that stitches me back together after being pulled in a hundred directions. When I close the door, sit in silence, or just exist without anyone else’s eyes on me. That’s when my heartbeat slows. That’s when I remember who I am.
Of course, the world doesn’t make this easy. We glorify constant availability. Green light on instant messengers. Open offices. The unspoken rule that if you’re not “on” all the time, you’re lazy, boring, or antisocial. But here’s the truth: without alone time, I’m none of those things. I’m worse. I’m restless. Irritable. On edge. Like a phone left on 1% battery, vibrating its last gasps before shutting down.
So, yes, I disappear sometimes. I cancel plans. I don’t answer calls. I take long walks with only my own thoughts for company. Not because I don’t care, but because I care too much about staying whole. Alone time isn’t me rejecting the world. It’s me making sure I can actually show up in it.
And if that sounds selfish to you, maybe you’ve never known the panic of suffocating in a crowded room with a smile plastered on your face. Maybe you’ve never needed to breathe in silence just to stay alive.
What I don’t need, is permission to breathe.
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