As I type this from my cozy kitchen desk, my 11-year-old son is happily immersed in a book in the living room of our cozy home. He expressed a desire for some alone time, and honestly, I’m relieved. In our previous house, which had an open-concept design, it was challenging for our introverted family to find moments of solitude. Now, with distinct rooms, we each have our own spaces to retreat to.
I have a faded photograph from when I was ten years old, washing dishes and blissfully unaware of the term “alone time.” Yet, I distinctly remember the discomfort of being in a room full of chatter. As a child, my only escape was the kitchen where I could find peace away from the noise.
I didn’t know about introversion back then—it was a term I would later discover resonated with my experiences. Understanding this concept helped me embrace my nature rather than feel ashamed that social interactions could be draining while solitude was rejuvenating.
A few years back, I received a call from the babysitter in a panic: “I can’t find your son.” After a few minutes of frantic searching, she discovered him tucked away in a cabinet under the bathroom sink. While the sitter was understandably distressed, it led me to reflect on whether my son, like me, had a natural inclination toward solitude.
As he grew and participated in more social activities, it became evident that he needed time to decompress after preschool, sports, or any events involving interaction. My partner and I made a conscious decision to incorporate solitary time into our family’s routine. Our introverted child thrives with this space; it benefits us all individually.
I remember being his age, walking to my grandparents’ house with a blanket and a jar of peanuts. I’d find solace hiding behind trees in their yard, recharging without even realizing it. I instinctively sought out alone time, often vanishing without anyone noticing.
In seventh grade, I once chose to remain in the classroom when my classmates headed to the cafeteria. I crawled under a table, trying to be invisible. When my teacher discovered me, he scolded me for being out of place, unaware that my intention was simply to find a moment of peace.
Recently, I asked my partner, also an introvert, when he first learned about the term “introvert.” “Probably not until college,” he replied, mirroring my experience. We both noted that discussing feelings and personal needs wasn’t as common during our childhoods.
Unlike my son, I never voiced my need for solitude to my parents. My childhood was slower-paced, allowing plenty of time for unstructured play and personal reflection. I grew up in a family that valued individual moments of quiet, which is perhaps why we never explicitly talked about the need for alone time.
Even today, I find myself sneaking away at social gatherings to organize or clean up, a behavior that feels instinctual. I often hear someone say, “You don’t need to do that,” and I think, “Actually, I do for my sanity.”
So when my son asks for alone time, I completely get it. For more insights on navigating parenting, particularly for introverted children, check out this related blog post. If you’re curious about the broader implications of family planning and fertility, you may find helpful information at Make a Mom and great resources at the CDC.
In summary, providing my introverted child with the solitude he craves is essential for his well-being. Just as I once sought refuge in quiet corners, he too finds strength in moments of peace, and it’s a practice I wholeheartedly support.