As I type away on my laptop from the kitchen desk, my 11-year-old daughter, Lily, is cozied up with a book in the living room of our cozy, compartmentalized home. She recently declared her need for some alone time, and honestly, I couldn’t be happier about it. We previously lived in a house with an open layout, the kind that creates a constant buzz of activity. But for a family of introverts, separate rooms provide the perfect escape.
I have this fading snapshot of me at ten, scrubbing dishes while trying to avoid the chatter of family gatherings. I had never heard the term “alone time,” but I instinctively knew I didn’t want to be surrounded by people exchanging small talk. As a kid, I had no idea what an introvert was, but that’s exactly what I was. Realizing there’s a word to define my experience helped me understand myself better—there’s nothing wrong with needing solitude to recharge.
A few years back, I received a frantic call from a babysitter: “I can’t find Lily!” Panic set in as I waited, listening to her search the house. It turns out, my daughter was hiding inside a cabinet under the bathroom sink. While the sitter was understandably flustered, I couldn’t help but wonder if Lily, like me, had a natural inclination for solitude.
As she grew older and began participating in more social activities, it became clear that Lily needed time to decompress after school, gymnastics, or any other gathering. My husband, Mark, and I made a point to carve out alone time for her in our family schedule. Just like we each need our own space, she does too.
When I was Lily’s age, I would stroll down to my grandparents’ house, blanket and jar of peanuts in tow. Hiding behind trees in their yard was my way of recharging, even if I didn’t have the term for it back then. Finding ways to be alone felt instinctual. I could sneak back home unnoticed, and my grandparents would never have a clue I’d taken refuge in their yard.
I still remember a time in seventh grade when everyone rushed to the cafeteria while I chose to stay behind in the classroom, hiding under a table. My teacher eventually caught on, and instead of understanding my need for silence, he scolded me. If only he’d asked why I was hiding, perhaps I could have explained.
Just the other day, I asked Mark when he first learned about the term “introvert.” “Probably not until college,” he admitted. “Same here!” I replied. It seems people in our generation didn’t talk about feelings like they do today. Unlike Lily, I never expressed my need for solitude to my parents. Growing up, our days were slower and filled with unstructured time, allowing us to figure out how to find our own space. My dad would garden, and my mom loved to sew, giving us plenty of opportunities for solitude.
Even now, I often slip away from social gatherings to tackle dishes in the kitchen. The host will invariably say, “You don’t have to do that.” But oh, how I wish I could explain, “For my sanity, I absolutely must!” or “I enjoy your company, but sometimes I just need a moment alone.” So when Lily asks for her own alone time, I totally get it.
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Summary
Understanding that my introverted daughter needs alone time has been a valuable lesson for our family. Just as I found ways to recharge in solitude as a child, I see Lily doing the same. By recognizing and respecting her need for personal space, we are fostering her well-being and self-awareness.