As I sit at my kitchen desk, typing on my laptop, I hear my 11-year-old son, Jake, engrossed in a book in the living room. He expressed a desire for some alone time, and I couldn’t be more pleased. We used to live in a house with an open layout, where the living room, dining area, and kitchen blended seamlessly. For a family of introverts, having a home with distinct rooms now provides us with the perfect escape when we need it.
I recall a faded photograph of myself at the age of 10, washing dishes. Back then, I had never heard the term “alone time,” but I instinctively avoided crowded spaces and small talk. As an introverted child, my sanctuary was the kitchen. I wasn’t aware of the term “introvert” until much later in life. Learning about it helped me understand my tendencies; I no longer felt ashamed that social interactions drained my energy while solitude recharged me.
A few years back, a babysitter called to say, “I can’t find your son.”
“Lost him?” I replied, panic creeping in.
After several anxious minutes, the sitter discovered him tucked away in a cabinet under the bathroom sink. While she was understandably flustered, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jake, too, shared my inherent need for solitude.
As Jake grew and engaged more in social activities, it became clear that he required time to decompress after preschool, sports, or any event that necessitated socializing. My partner and I made a conscious effort to create space in our schedules for his alone time. Our introverted child craves his personal space just as much as we do.
When I was Jake’s age, I would walk to my grandparents’ house, clutching a blanket and a jar of peanuts. I found solace hiding among the trees in their yard, feeling recharged even if I didn’t have the words to describe it. Knowing I needed solitude was instinctual; I would return home without anyone noticing my brief absence.
In seventh grade, while my classmates headed to the cafeteria, I chose to stay behind in the classroom. I hid beneath a table, hoping my teacher wouldn’t find me. When he did, he reprimanded me for sneaking around. If only he’d asked me why I sought refuge, perhaps he would’ve understood.
The other day, I asked my partner, who is also introverted, “When did you learn about the term ‘introvert’?”
“Probably not until college,” he replied.
“Same here,” I agreed.
“People didn’t discuss feelings back then like they do today.”
“That’s true,” I said.
Unlike Jake, I never voiced my need for solitude to my parents. My childhood was less hurried, filled with unstructured time that allowed me to explore my need for solitude naturally. My sister and I spent our days playing, biking, or reading while our parents enjoyed their hobbies. This environment may have contributed to our family’s unspoken understanding of solitude.
Even today, I’ll often excuse myself from social gatherings, sneaking off to wash dishes or tidy up. When the host insists, “You don’t have to do that,” I want to explain, “Oh, but for my sanity, I really do.” I cherish the moments spent with others, but sometimes I need to recharge alone. When Jake expresses the desire for solitude, I completely understand.
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In summary, giving my introverted child the space he needs is essential for his well-being and growth. Understanding the importance of alone time has shaped our parenting approach, allowing us to foster an environment where he can thrive.
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