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We’ve all heard the stereotype: introverts are just shy. On the surface, we might appear reserved, but the truth is, it runs much deeper than that. For many of us, solitude isn’t a preference—it’s a matter of mental survival. The time we spend sitting with our own thoughts is crucial. It’s how we process the world, how we recover, and honestly, how we stay sane.
For introverts, uninterrupted quiet isn’t just “nice to have.” It’s like oxygen. That time spent imagining new worlds, replaying old conversations, or letting ideas bounce around freely—that’s our fuel. Creating, daydreaming, and drawing aren’t just hobbies—they’re the way we make sense of fleeting thoughts and the chaos around us. It’s how we turn mental noise into something meaningful.
Meanwhile, there’s small talk. Apparently, the world runs on it. I’m convinced this is some elaborate social prank designed to see how many times an introvert can answer “How was your weekend?” before their soul escapes out the window. The amount of creative energy lost to discussing the weather or someone’s cousin’s neighbor’s cat is criminal. (No offense to cats, of course. They’d probably hate small talk too.) To most people, that’s just life; to us, it’s exhausting.
It’s not that I’m against all social interaction. Give me a conversation with depth—talk to me about art, books, the weird way our brains work—and I’ll show up fully, mind hungry, heart invested. But routine surface chatter? That’s draining in a way that most people will never understand. I find myself counting down the minutes until I can escape, recharge, and get back to what actually feeds me. If you know, you know. And if you don’t—just trust me, we’re not shy. We’re just trying to survive.
The irony? People think introverts like me are antisocial or unfriendly. The reality is, we’re just wired for different fuel. We need meaningful input, genuine curiosity, and room to create. If you hand me an interesting idea, a blank page, or an open stretch of quiet, I’m alive. If you trap me in small talk, I’m suffocating.
So if you ever catch me at a faculty breakfast, zoning out, doodling on a napkin instead of making conversation—know this: it’s not you, it’s me. It’s the only way I know how to survive.
Full disclosure: right now I'm looking attentive (trust me, this is an art I have mastered) while actually zoned out at a mandatory breakfast while everyone else is debating bagel flavors and talking about their weekend plans. I’ve got one ear tuned in, waiting for the meeting to actually start. But my mind’s already sketching out a new world, planning my next drawing, and writing this post in my head. That’s what it means to be an introvert artist. If you’ve ever felt like your soul might crawl out of your body at one more minute of small talk, you’re in good company.
-Renee
The irony? People think introverts like me are antisocial or unfriendly. The reality is, we’re just wired for different fuel. We need meaningful input, genuine curiosity, and room to create. If you hand me an interesting idea, a blank page, or an open stretch of quiet, I’m alive. If you trap me in small talk, I’m suffocating.
So if you ever catch me at a faculty breakfast, zoning out, doodling on a napkin instead of making conversation—know this: it’s not you, it’s me. It’s the only way I know how to survive.
Full disclosure: right now I'm looking attentive (trust me, this is an art I have mastered) while actually zoned out at a mandatory breakfast while everyone else is debating bagel flavors and talking about their weekend plans. I’ve got one ear tuned in, waiting for the meeting to actually start. But my mind’s already sketching out a new world, planning my next drawing, and writing this post in my head. That’s what it means to be an introvert artist. If you’ve ever felt like your soul might crawl out of your body at one more minute of small talk, you’re in good company.
-Renee