Surprise. I’m an introvert. I feel like I say that a lot. It’s probably because I do. Everyone seems to blanch, and tell me I’m wrong, tell me that I have to be an extrovert; I’m loud, slightly obnoxious, and entertain people all the time. Those, they explain, are definitely not signs of an introvert. I shrug my shoulders. They’re not wrong, I admit, I am all those things: loud, obnoxious, a people person. I want to point out that my own personality wears me out, that by the end of the day, I’m begging for the bedroom. When 10 p.m. rolls around, I always hint at leaving the party. It becomes excruciating to entertain then. They do not know this, and they do not understand. No one understands.

Introverts have a very particular trope attached to them. It’s one of the meek, mild bookworm, the person that finds their inner peace within a library, or at home reading by soft candles illuminating the darkened room. It’s the quiet person in the room, the one in the corner, scowling at the world. It’s those who keep to themselves. It’s definitely not the life of the party; it’s not the off-key singer on the karaoke machine; it certainly cannot be me, who never shuts up. I must be an extrovert with all my extravagance, my bold exterior, my laugh that’s just a little too loud. The gusto I bring to the table cannot possibly be that of a meek, mild introvert. That’s simply impossible.

Well, surprise, it’s not. I need that quiet secret time built into my day where no one interrupts my head space and I’m free to think about anything. About the football game I watched last night, or the audiobook I finished, or how much my feet hurt, or how little I’m eating, or the guy at Chick-fil-A who was just a little to nice, or the movie I didn’t like, or why everything seems blue when I’m sad, or why life isn’t the adventure I’d dreamed up, or nothing, or everything all at once. I need to think without interruption; I need to relax without people. I need to propel all my energy into one thing in particular. I need to run.

Running masks my introversion. In those quiet moments, where the rhythmic thumping of my feet kissing the pavement acts as a metronome, I can think. They do not know this, the friendly stranger who called me extroverted and thought it a compliment, the classmate who thought it odd that I self-identified as an introvert, the friend that told me I didn’t know myself as well as I thought. How could they? They are not awake at 5:30 am when my body rolls out of bed and I begin my morning regimen. They do not see me brush my hair, eat an apple, brush my teeth, throw on clothes, and head out the door. They are not there as I stretch my tired muscles. First the left leg, then the right, repeating the motions thoughtlessly as my mind wanders to breakfast--an omelet sounds nice. They do not watch as I start those first few strides. Breathe in. Stride. Stride. Out. Stride. Stride. Repeat. Find your rhythm, I tell myself.

As I pass the Oaks, I wonder how many squirrels live in these woods, if they are awake right now, watching me. Could, they, like me, be wishing for more sleep, or are they tucked away in their little nests, safe from the chill for just a few more minutes? Oh, look, a penny. I stop and pick it up. 10 minutes have passed by. 30 more to go.

My mind wanders to the day to come, and I brace myself, knowing that in an hour, I will be inundated with people. Classmates will hoard desk space around me, and I will sink unless I put a smile on my face and morph into what they call an extrovert. I will chat with people and ask thought provoking questions. I will trip and laugh at myself. I will sing with the radio. I will do everything I love to do. I will do everything my introversion hates me to do. I will be your extrovert.

But do not take away the title of introvert. That is for the quiet mornings when I can simply be. No expectations. No judgment. Just the squirrels and me.