Your Compass

Your body is your compass.

That little knot in your stomach?

That’s your body telling you something is amiss.

The moments when your body is still and relaxed, your limbs lose and easy, when you don’t have to remember to take deep breaths? That’s telling you something to.

it knows when you’re at peace.

Pay attention. Pay attention to your body.

It knows when you’re in alignment with where you’re meant to be and who you’re meant to be.

It knows when you’re out of alignment too; when you’re trying to fold yourself into a role that doesn’t fit. Or trying to expand into a place that isn’t yours.

The next time your mind or the rest of the world is insisting one thing, but your chest feels tight, at the thought, take note. Pay attention. Listen.

Your body is a compass. Trust its direction.

Let Go

Dear Intorvert,

Let go.

Of the guilt of letting a message linger while you read a book, took a walk, watered your plants, or just existed. Of the guilt for letting the call go to voicemail.

Let go of guilt for saying no to brunch. For leaving the party early. For sending an email to the person who loves to gab on the phone. For passing on the big family reunion because you connect better one-on-one, or in writing. For having one friend instead of twenty. For being the quiet one at the table or meeting because you were thinking instead of talking. For not visiting, not stopping by, not speaking up, not performing.

Let go of the narrative that connection only has one definition. You are allowed to choose honesty over performative presence, and clarity over obligation. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for the people you love is to show up only when you can show up fully and in the way you can show up fully.

Not half-there, not because it’s expected, not stretched thin, not wishing you were somewhere else.

And the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to stop apologizing for that.

The good stuff

The good stuff.

A passport full of stamps. Big family gatherings. Kids on the honor roll and varsity soccer team. Brunch plans. Dinner parties full of laughter that last until midnight. Book club, the New Year’s Eve party, the weekly Friday pizza after the softball game. Getting the promotion, hosting the fundraiser. A full holiday table. The annual beach trip with your best friends, the surprise party for the milestone birthday, the backyard barbecues, the tickets to that concert. Catching up with someone over coffee, trying that new restaurant everyone’s talking about, baby showers, bridal showers, themed costume parties …

These, we are told, are the moments. The ones to savor, chase, cherish. The ones that go on the holiday card, the social media posts. The ones you rattle off when asked “what have you been up to?”

You know. The good stuff.

And maybe you enjoy some of these, or all of these.

Or maybe your favorite moments, the ones that you savor, chase, and cherish, look different.

Maybe your idea of the perfect day is a completely open calendar. Perhaps that’s your idea of the perfect month.

Maybe you’d love to spend weekend nights with your favorite TV characters while texting “your Person,” even if they’re seated right beside you. Not just some weekend nights. Most of them. All of them.

Perhaps you love to travel locally, or alone, or not at all. Maybe your idea of the perfect holiday involves pajamas, a really good sandwich, and peaceful solitude.

Maybe your closest and most cherished friendship centers around mailing them books you think they’ll love. Perhaps you love best from afar, or connect best through handwritten letters or funny postcards instead of in-person conversation.

Maybe the best thing about your year was finally finding the perfect bedding and getting consistently good sleep. Perhaps it was filling a sketchbook cover to cover, or your kids discovering the joy of a pillow fort that lasted a full week. Hours spent alone in your garden, toiling over the manuscript you’re meant to write, watching the sunrise and the sunset.

Perhaps your love language is inside jokes exchanged via text message. Or being given unlimited space. Or that person who never forgets to say Happy Birthday even if you don’t talk to them the rest of the year.

Maybe you feel intense joy in cooking the same meal over and over, or watching the rain, declining the phone call, or having a corner of the house that’s entirely your own. Perhaps it’s a really good peach. Your favorite song on repeat.

Don’t let anyone try to tell you these are the in-between moments, these are the moments.

Only you get to define your good stuff.

You are not the power supply

Dear Introvert,

You’ve heard that introverts need alone time in order to “recharge,” and you know this to be true.

A party on Friday leaves you craving a silent Saturday. Lunch with a talkative friend leaves you wilted. A family visit leaves you longing to hibernate for a month.

What you may not have heard:

You are under no obligation to have your batteries drained in the first place.

You are not the socket for other people’s recharge, leaving them full and you empty.

There is no rule that says you must operate at 50% in the name of being sociable. That you have to let yourself get down to 25% in the name of being a “good and caring person.”

Alone time is not merely a recovery aid, a reward for “going to the thing.” You are allowed to make alone time your default state. You are allowed to make choices that enable you to stay at 100%

Save your batteries for the absolute “musts,” and let the rest of the world find their own power supply.

You are not broken

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This is the first entry in my Dear Introvert series—a collection of mini-essays dedicated to the quiet ones. I’ve felt called to write it for months, and am finally gathering the courage to put out there.

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Dear Introvert,

You have been called quiet. Shy. Urged to “come out of your shell,” raise your hand, be more social, go more places, do more things.

To speak up, connect, to participate.

As though the only way to participate in being a human is out loud, face-to-face. As though if you just changed this tiny little thing of your entire personality, then you’d really thrive.

This is wrong. You do not need to become louder or more sociable or to meet other people where they are in order to be whole or worthy. To live a fulfilling life.

You are not less because you’re quiet. You’re not faulty because you like being alone. You are not flawed because you’d rather dream in the dark than dance in the light.

You do not need fixing. You are not broken.