Diary of an Exhausted Introvert

I swear, I must have been assembled wrong. You know how some people just breeze through social events, cracking jokes, and lighting up the room? Yeah, I’m the opposite of that. For me, a simple “hello” feels like running a marathon—except the marathon is uphill, in the rain, and I’m wearing shoes two sizes too small.

Social interactions drain me in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s not just the actual event; it’s the days before it. I spend all that time practicing. I rehearse every possible conversation:

What if they ask about my work?

What if they bring up that awkward thing from last year?

What if they ask how the baby’s sleeping? (She isn’t. Thanks for reminding me.)

I go through every possible scenario like I’m preparing for the Social Olympics, but here’s the joke: real-life conversations never follow my script. Someone always throws in a curveball, and I’m left blinking, trying to catch up. So by the time the actual event arrives, I’m already on 5% battery because I spent all my energy preparing for failure.

And on the day itself? It’s chaos. Despite my prep work, I still have no idea what to say. My brain freezes, my palms sweat, and suddenly I’m overthinking every word. Did I laugh too loud? Did I nod too much? Was my “I’m fine, thanks” convincing enough? It’s exhausting. By the time I get home, I’m not just tired—I’m the walking dead. I need 100 days to recover, but life doesn’t care. Life is like, “Here’s a new task. Deal with it.” So I limp along on a permanently low battery that never gets fully recharged.

So I take forever to reply to texts. I don’t pick up calls sometimes. I cancel lunches and forget birthdays. It’s not because I don’t care—it’s because I just… can’t. I have less capacity than most people, and what little I have is constantly running on empty. When I say “no,” it’s not personal. It’s survival.

And don’t get me started on the morning routine. Every day, I take my baby to school, and I dread the gate guards. Not because they’re mean—they’re actually very nice—but because they’ll say, “Good morning, how are you?” And I’ll have to reply instead of yelling, “Open sesame!” like I desperately want to. Then there’s the teacher at the door, all cheerful and shouting, “Good morning, Mommy!” My soul shrinks a little every time. I just want to teleport out of there.

Here’s the kicker: I married an extrovert. The kind of person who could chat with a brick wall and make the wall feel heard. He’s my social superhero. He talks when I can’t, charms when I’m hiding, and takes the lead when I’m too drained. But even he doesn’t fully get it. He’ll say things like, “Why don’t you just tell them how you feel?” And I’m like, “Because telling them how I feel would involve talking, which is the whole problem!”

My house, though? My house gets me. It’s my safe place, my best friend. Except when we have long-term visitors. Then it’s like my house betrays me and becomes this endless stage for social interaction. No recharging, no refueling—just a constant drain.

I wish people understood. I wish they knew it’s not malice when I’m distant. It’s not that I don’t like them—it’s that I’m running on fumes. Maybe I should wear a sign: “Introvert: Do Not Disturb. Capacity Low.” Or a shirt that says, “Don’t talk to me unless it’s life or death—and even then, text first.”

It’s a struggle, and it’s lonely sometimes, but hey, it’s also kind of funny. I mean, who else would rehearse an entire imaginary conversation just to blank out when the real thing happens? That’s pure comedy gold.

So, dear extroverts, friends, and gate guards of the world: be patient with us introverts. We’re not ignoring you. We’re just out here doing our best to survive this loud, chatty world with the little energy we have. And trust me—it’s harder than it looks.