Introvert Power: Why Your Inner Life Is Your Hidden Strength - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Laurie Helgoe, PhD, is a writer, psychologist, part-time actor, and model―and introvert. This is her fifth book.

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INTRODUCTION

“Re-examine all you have been told. Dismiss what insults your soul.” —Walt Whitman

If you haven’t been to a mosh pit, you’ve probably seen one in movies. A mob is crowded together, body to body, dancing and slamming into each other, usually at a live music club or concert. Occasionally, someone dives into the pit from the stage and “surfs” on the upraised arms of the crowd. The challenge of “moshing” is to work your way as close as possible to the band while avoiding getting trampled. Security guards keep watch in case such a thing happens, but any mosher will tell you that the pit is dangerous.

I’ve come to see the mosh pit as an apt description of American society—and of my childhood home. I was number nine of ten creative, mostly LOUD kids competing for airspace. My dad, a pastor who built pipe organs as a hobby, had wall-sized speakers in the living room that blared out classical music. When the family sang together, we sang five-part harmonies of the uncompromising Handel’s Messiah. On Christmas Eve, we had a talent show and family service, and later tore into our presents all at once, paper and ribbons flying everywhere and voices crisscrossing the room shouting out “thank you!” and “just what I wanted!” These are happy memories, because there was a part for each of us. But instead of ripping paper and shouting, I sat in my corner with my pile of gifts and handled each as a treasure, slowly and carefully opening them, preserving the paper and lingering in the delight of discovery. I was meditating in the mosh pit.

However, when there were no gifts to open and everyone was competing for airtime, I felt invisible and became over-stimulated and anxious. My anxiety was not about the pressure to socialize; there were more than enough bodies to take care of that. I became anxious because I couldn’t think, and, without my own mind, I felt like I was disintegrating. My solution was to retreat to my room and write. In my solitude I could regain contact with myself and become solid again.

I had a vivid imagination; I wrote science fiction and developed secret codes with my little sister and a neighbor girl. Though the mosh pit was stressful, I knew that retreating was an option.

I lost this freedom when I entered school.

In first grade, I got scolded for hiding out in the bathroom with a couple of girls during recess. We were sprawled out on the floor, quietly engaged in the subversive practice of—yes, coloring. That’s when I learned that my desire for quiet and solitude was bad.

I adapted. Years later, as a PhD candidate in clinical psychology, I didn’t tell anyone that I was intimidated by the prospect of sitting in the room with a stranger. I wanted to be under the surface—not to have to get there through social exchange. Again, I adapted, found success as a psychologist, and had practiced for almost ten years when I first admitted to my analyst (and myself) how taxing the “social exchange,” particularly with new clients, had been for me. This was the first time I had acknowledged the simple truth: I am an introvert.

My confession of introversion allowed me to rediscover the treasured self I had buried when I first stepped on the school bus. My analysis provided me the time and space I had craved, and I entered a personal renaissance. I took my first-ever personal retreat, letting my husband and little boys handle things while I indulged in the privacy of a remote B&B in the woods. I began an active period of writing, learned to craft candles, discovered poetry, and, for the first time, saw a world beyond the constrictions of my profession. Predictably, as I came alive, people around me—even my closest family members—got worried. What if I relinquished my hard-earned career to sell candles on the art fair circuit? What kind of crazy ideas was I getting from my analyst? It hurts when the self you most value becomes a source of worry. But once you tap into that self, the worry won’t stop you.

What kept me going was the energy I discovered. For the first time since my carefree childhood days, I experienced flow. When I took my solitary walks, I felt I could walk forever, basking in the ample space for thought and imagination. I discovered the sky and drew on its vastness as a source of comfort.

The world opened to me during these walks, and I began to envision new possibilities for my life. The image of a piano keyboard came to my mind, and I recognized that I had only learned one note—I was an expert on that note, but there were so many more to discover. The sky reminded me that there was so much more than the limited corner of the world I had come to know. I was filled with desire, and that desire led me to new notes and new places.

I had befriended my introversion and was transported by its power.

Since that opening, I have tasted the novelty of working as a model, savored the power of holding an audience captive as a stage actor, written and directed mixed-media performances, and discovered a more energizing focus for my therapy skills—helping writers excavate their “inner book.” Most satisfying of all, I have realized my desire to become an author, which has allowed me to connect with introverts—privately and quietly—across the globe.

Here’s a well-kept secret: introversion is not defined by lack. Introversion, when embraced, is a wellspring of riches. It took me years to acknowledge this simple reality, to claim my home, and to value all it offers.

Perhaps you also feel most at home within. But you’ve probably also felt the pull to abandon this home—to set up house in the world of social interactions. Even if you only enjoy an occasional visit inside yourself, you may struggle to justify such an indulgence. Because extroversion lines up so well with American values, we introverts often deprive ourselves of what we most enjoy and thrive on. So, for all of you who draw energy from inside, behind, underneath, or away from it all, welcome home.

AMERICA THE EXTROVERTED

There’s a lot to love about America—freedom, the melting pot of diversity, individualism—all attractive concepts, especially to an introvert. In fact, the introverts were probably the first to feel crowded in England and to daydream about all the space they would find in the New World. Peace! Quiet!

Fast-forward to the new millennium—and it has been a fast trip forward—in which we are more likely to associate America with office space than with “spacious skies.” We have become an outward and upward society, conquering, building, competing, buying out, improving—extroverting. The squeaky wheels get greased, the ones who snooze lose, the best team wins, and the winner takes all.

In this culture of competition, it is no wonder that those of us who prefer introversion feel anxious. We are expected to “think on our feet,” but we think best when we’re still. We’re pressured to join and keep up, when we’d rather follow an inner guide. And with the ever-multiplying multimedia—and smart phones we can access anywhere, bathroom included—the competition finds us where we live. After a day of fending off intrusions, even a friendly greeting or eager query can leave us feeling like Dr. Seuss’s Grinch (whom I’m convinced was a misunderstood introvert), covering our ears and bemoaning the “noise, noise, NOISE!”

When introverts sense invasion, we instinctively shut down to protect our inner resources. We’re no longer “all there,” but we still have to manage the incoming stimuli. We feel...