For a long time, I thought I was simply introverted. And that I needed to change that. And could. Looking back, that’s like saying: “I’ve always just liked to listen in.”
But it wasn’t about listening. I wanted to be part of things. Even watching meant more to me than hearing.
The Misconception.
What are we even talking about? Let’s define it briefly:
- Introverted: you recharge through solitude and quiet
Extraverted: you gain energy through interaction with others - Autism spectrum disorder is a neurological and developmental disorder that affects how people interact with others, communicate, learn, and behave. Although autism can be diagnosed at any age, it is described as a “developmental disorder” because symptoms generally appear in the first two years of life. (source)
Sounds kind of similar, right? Informally, people often use the terms interchangeably. This isn’t just about language. It’s about identity, and the long shadow of a misunderstanding.
And because I – like many autistic people – tend to take things literally (well, everything, really… though over time you learn to compensate, with mixed success), I believed that misunderstanding for years: “I’m introverted.”
Turns out: I wasn’t.
Of course not all autistic people are introverted. That would be a wild coincidence, right?
Whether you recharge through solitude or connection isn’t something determined by your neurological development. Carl Jung, who coined the terms introversion and extraversion, saw them originally as traits innate from birth!
Today, most psychologists see them as spectrums. Extraversion isn’t an either-or. Who’s always up for people? Or never? Most of us fall somewhere in between. Me too. I’m ambiverted. According to several tests, I sit at 54% extraversion — basically right in the middle.
Still, it took me more than 30 years to fully grow up. Only then did I allow myself to bloom. And when I did, I became loud. And alive.
The Background.
Couldn’t I have figured it out sooner? No. That’s not how it works. And, believe me, I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can count: “Why did I hold myself back? Why did I waste all those years?”
I needed safety. And distance. Only after I detached myself from other people’s expectations – physically, emotionally, financially – could I see myself clearly.
It took time. If you look at things like a failed marriage or a degree that never fit me, it may seem like a long time. But maybe it wasn’t all that long. I moved into my own apartment, got a stable job… and then came COVID. Time. Stillness. Reflection.
I went soul-searching. I listened to myself. I asked friends for honest reflections. I found a therapist. And I tried not to let my high intelligence interfere too much — which, let’s say, worked… somehow. Eventually, someone said: “But you don’t seem autistic!” Which had never even been the point. What I was looking for was support. Real methods. Real understanding. Real solutions for a human being. For me.
Back then, only two or three close friends saw how neurodivergent I truly was.
To everyone else, I was just “good at my job” or “a bit intense.”
Masking was second nature to me, or like a second skin I forgot I was wearing. It was my survival strategy. And I thought I had to keep doing it. Especially if I didn’t want to be labeled as awkward, weird, or, yes… “introverted.”
But the more I came back to myself, the stronger my desire became to be seen. To show up as who I am. And to be surrounded by people who are truly willing to see me.
For a long time, that felt impossible.
Which, in a way, was a gift. Because that inner conflict — the desire to be visible versus the need to stay hidden — was what finally pushed me to look even closer.
I had a choice: Keep performing. Or finally be seen.
The Consequences.
And do you know what happened?
Since I’ve allowed myself to show up as I am, I recognize my needs more quickly. I set boundaries more cleanly. I no longer chase people. In fact, I now spend more time with others — but only with people I actively choose.
And this blog? This is part of that visibility.
If you’ve read this far: thank you. That means a lot to me.
But tell me — what kept you here?
Are you staring at your screen in quiet confusion, wondering: “What’s so special about this?”
Then let me tell you: no one ever explained it to me, either. As a child and young adult, I needed people to explain things that others seemed to intuitively understand. My development? It all happened in an unexpected order. That’s why I clung to definitions. Labels. Concepts. They helped me fit in. For a long time, that was my strategy. And so, rules were not just helpful — they seemed sacred to me.
Or are you staring at your screen and blinking away tears, because you’re thinking:
“There’s someone else like me.”
Then this post was written for you. So that you know: You are not alone. You have a place in this world. You will arrive.
And in case no one ever told you: You don’t have to be quieter to belong.
Every person is different. Every single one. All of us. And none of us has to stay alone.