As a child, I was always described as shy. By elementary school, “anxious” was added to the list. But it wasn’t until I stumbled upon the word introvert that everything started to click. Yes, I was shy. Yes, I was anxious. But being an introvert felt like the truest descriptor — something that explained not just how I acted, but how I felt.
Introverts crave stillness. We recharge in silence. Even positive social interaction can be draining. We tend to prefer a few deep friendships over a crowd of surface-level connections. Small talk makes us sweat. Socializing feels awkward. And we don’t speak just to fill the silence — we speak when we actually have something to say. I once had a boss tell me that while I rarely spoke in meetings, when I did, it was worth listening to. I’ll never forget that compliment.
I view the world differently than some. Talking tires me out. I rejoice when plans get canceled. Staying home makes me happy. And I’d much rather write my thoughts than speak them out loud — they come out a lot less jumbled that way.
So imagine, if you will, what it’s like when someone like me becomes a mother. Kids are anything BUT quiet. They’re bundles of boundless energy when I tend to have none. Here’s what it’s like.
Motherhood is Loud
Children are not quiet. They stomp. They shriek. They bounce off the walls — sometimes literally. They ask 8,000 questions a day. They talk through meals, movies, and bathroom trips. And my oldest? He narrates every single thing he sees, thinks, or wonders — a running commentary that never hits pause.
I love my kids with every fiber of my being. But the constant noise? It wears me down. The TV is blasting, a Bluetooth speaker is playing music, the dog is barking at nothing — and all the while, there’s that endless stream of words filling every gap. Often, I'll grab the remote and flick off the TV, demand Caleb lower the volume, and just breathe for a second.
None of this is their fault. They’re just being kids — curious, excited, full of energy. But I’m someone who thrives on quiet, and that’s in short supply around here.
It’s Overstimulating
Noise is just one part of it. What drains me most is the relentless sensory overload. I get touched out, talked out, and worn thin by the sheer physical closeness and emotional demands.
I spend my workday interacting with the public — then come home to kids quite literally clinging to me. Caleb will hang off my neck from the back of the couch while I’m holding the baby. There’s no buffer, no breath, no off-switch.
I crave solitude like oxygen, but instead, I’m bombarded: a Kindle playing at full volume, a baby whining, a dog barking. It’s like my nervous system is always on high alert.
I try to stay patient. I know Caleb’s endless questions come from curiosity, and I never want to dim that spark. But the truth is, I get overwhelmed. I snap. I yell. I feel guilty.
Some days are just too people-y — and that’s the part no one warns you about.
It’s Overwhelming… and Expanding
Before motherhood, my life was simple and quiet. I could read whenever I wanted. Nap on a whim. Watch TV without subtitles because no one was screaming. Jerry and I lived a low-key life, dictated only by our moods.
Now, the house is cluttered with toys. The schedule is packed. The demands never stop.
And yet — I’ve grown.
I’m less shy, more confident, more willing to step outside my comfort zone — because they are worth it.
I take them to soccer, swimming, and storytime. I make awkward small talk with other parents. I endure birthday parties and loud events. And I do it all for them.
They’ve expanded my world in every way.
I Need Time to Be Me
For introverts, alone time isn’t optional — it’s how we survive. I don’t have much energy to begin with, and when I’m running on empty, the only way to recharge is by being alone. Quiet, still, and separate from every role I play — not Mom, not wife, not librarian. Just me.
But in motherhood, alone time is almost nonexistent.
They barge into the bathroom. They narrate your workouts. They ask what you’re watching, grab what you’re reading, follow you into every room. It’s… a lot. I think it would be a lot for anyone, but for an introvert, it’s like trying to breathe without air.
I’ve had to let go of the version of solitude I used to need. These days, my sacred window comes after bedtime, when the house is finally still. That hour or so? It’s mine. Sometimes I watch TV. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I just sit in silence.
It’s not much — but it’s enough to remind me I still exist, outside of everyone else’s needs.
Tethered to the Chaos
There are days I’d do just about anything for an hour of silence. A locked door. A moment where no one is calling my name. It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it — the way introverts need solitude like oxygen. Without it, I feel frayed and threadbare, like my nerves are constantly exposed.
And yet… even in the chaos, there’s connection. There’s love. I’m never alone, and sometimes that drives me crazy — but it also keeps me going.
There’s a strange kind of comfort in the way my kids cling to me, follow me, need me. I can’t finish a thought without interruption, but I also can’t imagine life without those little voices filling the air. I’m overstimulated, over-touched, and overtired… but I’m also deeply, undeniably loved. That counts for something.
I may crave space, but I’m tethered to something bigger than myself. And most days, I wouldn’t trade it.
Playdates Are Weird
Caleb’s still young enough that most playdates involve me, too. I can’t just drop him off — I have to stay. Which means talking to other parents. Making small talk. Pretending I know what to do with my hands.
Luckily, most of his current playdates are with kids whose moms I’ve already befriended. That helps. But every new mom interaction starts the same: stiff conversation, awkward silences, polite smiles while we both try not to sound weird. Small talk is the bane of my introverted existence.
Even birthday parties or activities — soccer, swimming, storytime — come with that unspoken pressure to socialize. I don’t want to, but sometimes I have to. And I already know it’ll only get harder as he gets older and his social circle grows.
My dance card is full. But I guess I’ll keep showing up — awkward, introverted, and doing it anyway.
I’ve Broadened My World
Motherhood, for all its challenges and contradictions, has made me a fuller version of myself. I’m still quiet, still overwhelmed by too much noise, but I’ve become braver in ways that matter. I sing aloud at storytime. I talk to other parents at swim class. I advocate for my children. I stretch beyond what I once thought I could do — because of them, for them.
I’ve also made a few mom friends, the kind of rare, quality connections that introverts cherish. And in those connections — in shared experiences and exhausted glances — I’ve felt seen and understood in ways I didn’t expect.
The world, once muted and predictable, has cracked open a little. It’s louder now — messier, more chaotic — but it’s also brighter. There are new colors I hadn’t noticed before. Deeper joy. Wilder love. A life that hums with energy, curiosity, and connection.
And maybe that’s the beautiful paradox of it all: motherhood hasn’t changed who I am… but it’s expanded what I’m capable of becoming.
The Beautiful Paradox
Motherhood as an introvert is a strange paradox.
It’s loud, but deeply fulfilling.
It’s exhausting, but somehow energizing.
It takes everything out of you — and still, it fills you up.
I’m still me: quiet, overstimulated, craving solitude.
But I’m also theirs: a mother tethered to chaos and joy in equal measure.
Even on the hardest days — when I’d give anything for silence, when I feel like I might unravel — they pull me back in with a whispered “I love you,” a hand in mine, a request to read just one more page.
I used to fear that motherhood would erase me.
But instead… it expanded me.
And even though I sometimes long for a quieter life —
I wouldn’t trade this loud, messy, magical one for anything.
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