I May Be the Quiet One, but I Have a Lot To Say

(More than just an introverted, creative mess...)

At work, I’m known as “the quiet one.” She is an introverted, creative mess who keeps her head down and occasionally surprises colleagues with a witty zinger out of the blue. It’s at the point where being called the quiet one happens nearly daily and I’m unsure how to take it.

I wasn’t this person in my younger years. I was a loud, gregarious, explosion of butterflies. Even in my thirties, I could mask my introverted nature with an over-the-top personality. But deep down, it’s true. I am quiet. I am introverted. I am socially awkward.

Decades ago, I had more energy to mask the traits I deemed as less than. It wasn’t hard. I was outgoing and fun just as much as I was introverted and shy. Both identities belonged to me. Being liked and thought of as a sparkling, funny soul was more important to me back then. But, man, it came to a screeching halt once I hit middle age.

Life has thrown me its share of curveballs, which has impacted my desire to play a character. It has also changed how I write. Once upon a time, my writing was snarky and full of self-deprecating humor. Now, I tend to be more raw with my emotions. Painfully honest. Gone is the tongue-in-cheek humor.

I used to be a theatre actress and I played the part well. But my experiences have worn me down. I’m too tired to act. To pretend. I’ve faced my share of trauma and I have no desire to be anything other than what I am at my core—today.

I don’t think it’s about depression. Or apathy. I’m not even sure it’s about age. I don’t know how to act the part anymore. Even if I wanted to mask my quiet nature again, I wouldn’t know the first place to start. At one time, it was like a second skin. Now, it feels anything but organic.

I may be beyond playing the part, but I miss that girl.

I was in a meeting at work not long ago and it was my turn for others to go around and say what they are grateful for about me. Almost everyone said, “She’s quiet, but she has this sparkling sass that comes out every so often.”

It was stunning to me to realize that I am officially the quiet one. The first half of my life I was anything but quiet. I strutted around with a peacock’s confidence. Not anymore.

Gone is my blonde hair and svelte figure. Even though I’m in my mid-fifties, I now boast a great deal of silvery white hair and extra pounds gifted by menopause and drinking. I’m working on the extra pounds. I could dye my hair I suppose, but I’m kind of apathetic about it. The point is, my confidence slipped away some time ago.

Is a personality shift as we mature a normal thing?

Is it age or my mental health?

Has lifelong depression silenced me after all these years?

Is it menopause?

Is it the trauma of past relationships?

Is it years of working remotely?

Is it sobriety?

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[Google search: Do personalities change as we age?]

I looked it up. There are a ton of articles claiming personalities change as we age, usually for the better.

My changes happened so slowly, it didn’t dawn on me that it was happening. One day people started slapping me in the face with what a quiet woman I am. Demure. I guess the answer to my question is it’s all of the above. All of the factors of my life have contributed to changes in my personality. It is organic, which is why finding the girl I once was feels so alien now.

It isn’t all negative. I may be quieter, but I am infinitely calmer and more even-keeled. I’m not as quick to react and I am able to separate my emotions when needed. I am more thoughtful and less self-serving. But I do prefer to be alone and am fine going long periods of time without communication.

I’m still a giggler, and always will be, but I do miss how much I used to laugh and how carefree I once was.

Reading stories I wrote twenty years ago is difficult as I don’t feel like the same person. She was young and naïve in many ways. And hid in her creativity.

My writing was a shield. A tool. A means of revisiting the past where life was easier and free from heartache. I idealized my youth, family experiences, and where I grew up—I relished the nostalgia of it all.

Words no longer form a shield for me. I’m not hiding behind my keyboard or recreating a romantic view of the past. My words are my weapon. Arrows cast directly at me, standing naked for the world to see.

Maybe words should just be words.

Maybe if I think of it like that, some of my angst will subside.

Maybe if I relax and accept the fact that all of it is me, every part of my personality from throughout the years, I’ll be able to channel my energy into more productive things.

I may be the quiet one, but I have a lot to say. I have stories to tell, essays to blast out into the abyss, and art to create.

I am the quiet one. And I am a writer.