As I sit at my kitchen desk typing away on my laptop, my 11-year-old daughter, Sophie, is cozied up with a book in the living room of our cozy home. When she expressed her desire for some alone time, I felt a sense of relief. We previously lived in a house with an open floor plan, where the living room, dining area, and kitchen flowed into one another. For our introverted family, having separate rooms offers us essential spaces to retreat and recharge.
A faded photograph from my childhood shows me at 10, washing dishes. Back then, I had no concept of “alone time,” yet I knew that mingling in a room filled with chatter was not for me. As an introverted child, my only escape was to slip into the kitchen, away from the noise.
I was unaware of the term “introvert” until much later in life. Learning this word helped me understand myself better. I never considered that there was something wrong with me; rather, I realized that social interactions drained me, while being alone revitalized me.
A few years ago, I received a call from a babysitter who was in a panic because she couldn’t find Sophie. “You lost her?” I asked, anxiety creeping in. After a few tense minutes, the sitter discovered her tucked away in a cabinet under the bathroom sink. While the sitter was understandably upset, I couldn’t help but wonder if Sophie had inherited my need for solitude.
As Sophie grew and engaged more in social activities, I noticed she needed time to unwind afterward, whether from preschool, gymnastics, or any other interaction. My husband and I made a conscious effort to schedule time for her to be alone. Just like her, we also need our personal space.
When I was Sophie’s age, I would walk to my grandparents’ house, bringing along a blanket and a jar of peanuts. I would hide behind trees in their yard, feeling rejuvenated, even if I didn’t have a name for that feeling back then. It was instinctual for me to seek solitude, and I often returned home unnoticed, my escape a secret.
In seventh grade, while my classmates headed to lunch, I hid in the classroom. I crouched under a table, hoping my teacher wouldn’t find me. When he did, he scolded me instead of asking why I felt the need to hide. Had he asked, I might have explained my need for solitude.
Just the other day, I asked my husband, also an introvert, when he first learned about the term “introvert.” “Probably not until college,” he replied. I agreed. Growing up, we didn’t discuss feelings the way people do today. Unlike Sophie, I never told my parents I needed alone time. My childhood was slower-paced, filled with unstructured moments that allowed for solitude. My sister and I had the freedom to play, ride bikes, or read, and my parents embraced their own hobbies, creating an environment rich in individual space.
Even now, I find myself instinctively seeking moments of solitude. At social gatherings, I’ll often sneak away to the kitchen to wash a dish, even if the host insists I relax. I want to say, “For my sanity, I need this,” or “I enjoy your company, but sometimes I must recharge alone.” When Sophie asks for her alone time, I understand completely.
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In summary, providing my introverted daughter with the space she needs to recharge is essential for her well-being, just as it has always been for me. Understanding and respecting this need not only nurtures her individuality but also strengthens our bond as a family.