I’ve often been told that I come across as aloof or distant, but I prefer to describe myself as shy. Unlike being snobby or unfriendly, I simply feel withdrawn and closed off. I wonder how I ended up this way, especially since I grew up with two extroverted parents who thrived on social interactions. At gatherings, my parents would eagerly introduce me to their friends, encouraging hugs and kisses, while I would retreat further into my shell. I promised myself that I would never put my children through that same experience, hoping they would feel comfortable around others and within themselves.
I used to think that reaching certain life milestones—like going to college, getting married, or becoming a parent—would magically erase my shyness. However, it lingered on, and when I welcomed my first child, the challenges intensified. I found myself in a new state without a support system, alone in a small apartment with my winter baby, feeling isolated. I viewed this as a chance to break free from my shyness, to finally open up. While I did manage to meet a few people, I never formed real connections.
Then came my son, who I envisioned would be the kind of child who would embrace everyone with hugs and cuddles. Instead, he was slow to warm up, much like I was. From the vast array of traits he could have inherited, he picked up my shyness. As he clung to my leg, hiding his face, onlookers would label him as shy, making me feel guilty for not having an outgoing child. I recognized myself in him, especially when he sought refuge in my embrace. I was determined not to force him into social situations simply to make myself or others feel more comfortable. It was essential that he felt secure in his own choices, not pressured by mine.
I never pushed him to conform to the expectations of being a cuddler or a social butterfly. Instead, I allowed him to take his time in building relationships. People had to earn his trust and acceptance, and I saw this as a strength rather than a flaw. Watching him navigate the world with quiet curiosity brought me joy, and our bond deepened as two shy individuals who understood one another in a way that few others could.
Now that my son is 10 and I’m 40, he’s no longer hiding behind me, though there are times I wish I could seek comfort in his presence. He has grown into a smart, curious, and confident young man, far surpassing where I was at his age. While he still carries his shyness, he radiates happiness. He might not be the most affectionate child, but his hugs are genuine, given only when he truly wants to.
Shyness can be both a blessing and a challenge, much like any personality trait. It’s fascinating to see how it can be passed down, often manifesting in ways we wish it wouldn’t. On days when I observe the outgoing children seamlessly integrating into social settings, I remember my son and the unique qualities he possesses. His shyness hasn’t hindered him; in fact, it has allowed him to be authentically himself. Perhaps there’s a lesson to learn from my little boy who no longer feels the need to hide.
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In summary, raising my shy son has been a profound journey that has helped me come to terms with my own introversion. Our shared experiences have strengthened our bond and taught me that shyness can be a beautiful part of who we are.