I hear a lot of talk about being an introvert or an extrovert.
Introverts generally need a lot of alone time. Extroverts are energized by being around people. In some Christian circles, I’ve heard people say we shouldn’t lean too heavily into those labels and should instead find our identity in Christ.
I understand that.
But regardless of the labels, what has always been true for me is that my heart, mind, and body are often reluctant to connect with others.
I’ve spent years wondering why.
Am I afraid of getting hurt?
Afraid of being judged?
Insecure?
Afraid that people will discover I’m a fraud or somehow come up lacking?
I’ve examined all of those possibilities.
But what I’ve found is that regardless of the cause, the reality remains the same: I have a tendency to fold inward.
And I do it even with my kids.
Before I explain how I navigate that, let me tell you how Siafa and I got together.
About twenty-six years ago, we were part of a small Bible study. At the time, Siafa was a new Christian, and I was beginning to tiptoe away from Protestantism.
One evening, we were studying the topic of love.
As we looked through the Scriptures, we both noticed something.
Most of the words used to describe love weren’t feelings.
They were actions.
Patience.
Kindness.
Selflessness.
Honor.
Forgiveness.
Love wasn’t being described as something you felt. It was something you did.
I remember thinking that Siafa was someone I wanted to love.
Years later, we discovered that we had both felt that way.
Since then, marriage has been a daily decision to love him. Sometimes that means being patient when I’d rather be impatient. Sometimes it means being kind when I’m tired. Sometimes it means refusing to keep score or seek revenge when I’ve been hurt.
That’s what love has come to mean to me.
And that understanding changed the way I think about parenting.
The truth is that I need a lot of alone time.
My mind is constantly moving. Sometimes I need to step away and sort through the thousands of thoughts bouncing around in my head.
Urgent.
Can wait.
Not my monkey.
Give it to the Lord.
Other times, I need to stop thinking altogether. I need to write, paint, play the piano, read a book, or watch a British murder mystery.
Whatever the reason, I need time to refuel.
What I’ve learned over the years is that communicating this to my children matters.
When I tell them, “Mom needs a little quiet time, but I’ll be back,” they understand.
My need for solitude isn’t rejection.
It’s maintenance.
It’s how I recharge so I can show up again.
During the school year, I need a lot of refueling because my days are filled with constant interaction. Summers are wonderful because I get to spend meaningful time with my children and still have space to recharge. I can do that dance several times a day.
Do I wish I wasn’t an introvert?
Sometimes.
I wish being around people didn’t drain me.
I wish I never felt the pull to retreat.
But that isn’t how I’m wired.
So I’ve stopped trying to become someone else.
Instead, I’ve learned to love within the reality of who I am.
The most important thing in the world to me is that my husband and children know they were loved.
And love isn’t a feeling.
Love is patience.
Love is kindness.
Love is showing up.
Love is choosing people over and over again.
So that’s what I do.
Not because it comes naturally.
But because I want to.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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Finding Alberta
A novel about love, grief, and what is remembered and misunderstood.
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