How I learned to accept my introversion

You know the hot blooded Latina stereotype? The passionate, impulsive and intense Latin American woman, who curses in her native tongue when she is angry (which is often), and has no trouble expressing her emotions at all times? That is not me.

These days, I am fine with being quieter, more reflective and deliberate than what the Latina stereotype calls for. My calm, even-tempered demeanor is perfectly suited for my career as a healthcare chaplain. I remember that, during my first professional interview, I was asked if I am an introvert or an extrovert. “I am an introvert,” I affirmed confidently. One of the interviewers was surprised. “You are? I wouldn’t have thought that. You came right up to me and introduced yourself when you walked in.” “Well, I am not shy,” I said. “I am a sociable introvert, but I am definitely an introvert.” The second interviewer said she thought that might actually be an advantage as a hospice chaplain, because it meant I would likely be a good listener. I agreed.

I didn’t always see it this way, though. It used to bother me that I didn’t fit the Brazilian stereotype, which included being an extrovert. Growing up in Brazil, I felt I was a little less interesting than everybody else. Anyone who’s been to Brazil will tell you that it seems to be full of extroverts. In fact, a 2013 CNN Travel article actually claimed there are no introverts in Brazil. Another traveler to Brazil said in his cultural piece, “Brazil’s pushed me towards being an extrovert where I was not as much before. I’ve met a few Brazilians who claim to be “shy,” and I would put them in good competition for the life of the party compared to other Westerners.”

So, yes, I am a sociable introvert, and perhaps my sociability comes from growing up in such a “vivacious” country (to copy from the CNN article terms). But, can you imagine growing up an introvert in a country where everyone is expected to be an extrovert?

It wasn’t only because of my culture that I pressured myself to fit the extroverted mold. Looking back, I see that I have always wanted to be like my dad: always happy, always cheerful, always the life of the party. His family was like him, times ten. Family parties with my dad’s siblings and their children were loud and full of laughter and people talking over each other. My mother, on the other hand, is extremely introverted. My poor mom must have felt like the guy in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” film when she met my dad’s family for the first time, or any time we went over for parties.

While I have always admired my mother in many ways, there were several times growing up that I thought she just didn’t seem happy. I remember looking around the dining table and seeing everyone laughing and having a good time, while mom was quietly staring at her dinner. In hindsight, there was probably more going on with my mom at the time than simply being an introvert. But, at the time, I equated the two in my mind: introversion = sad. Extroversion = happy. I didn’t want to be sad.

Deep down I knew I was an introvert. But I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to accept it. I was finally confronted with that fact when I enrolled in divinity school and took a personality test, which was part of orientation. I got a call from the person who evaluated the test a couple of days later. He said, “This is really unusual. You scored as a perfect extrovert. I’ve never seen anything like this.” I knew then that this was a big lie. There was no way I was a “perfect extrovert.” I must have gone to such great lengths in my mind to convince myself that I was more extroverted than I am that I manipulated the whole test – to extroversion perfection! I had to laugh at myself.

But, that began the work of accepting myself and my own introversion. And, in the process, I began to see the gifts of introversion. I stopped wishing I were an extrovert and started to appreciate the introverted people in my life.

A couple of years after I claimed my introversion during that hospice chaplain job interview, I found myself in Brazil after dad had been urgently hospitalized. Dad had been diagnosed with ALS, and at that time he was living independently. But, he had a fall and hit his head on the pavement. After he got out of the hospital, my dad and I stayed with his sister for a while.

One night, she started telling me all kinds of stories about my dad, most of them familiar. Then she told me something I had never heard. “Your dad,” she said, “is so smart that he answered one of his medical school exams in poetry form.” “Poetry form? My dad wrote poetry?!” “Oh, yes!” she said. “He used to write poetry when he was young. He even had some of them published somewhere.”

I was shocked. I had never heard of my dad writing poetry and couldn’t really imagine him doing so. I decided to ask him about it. Why hadn’t he ever shared his poetry with us? And did he still write poetry? “I gave that up years ago,” he said. “I realized I only wrote poetry when I was sad. And I didn’t want to be sad.”

I realized then that all of this time, I really was just like my dad. Avoiding my sadness. Avoiding my introversion. And missing the gifts in the process.