I used to believe I was a dyed-in-the-wool introvert.
I loved silence. I needed alone time to “recharge.” Group chats made me tired. Small talk was painful. Networking events? Torture. The Myers-Briggs test told me what I already thought I knew: I for introvert, clearly.
But something didn’t quite add up.
Because I also wanted connection — deeply. I wasn’t energized by solitude so much as relieved by it. Relief from what, I wasn’t sure. A vague tightness in my chest, a hyper-awareness of how I was sitting or speaking, the sense that everyone was watching me and no one really was. I wasn’t always avoiding people because I didn’t enjoy them.
I was avoiding people because I was afraid of being seen the wrong way.
It took me years to understand that what I was calling “introversion” might’ve been something else entirely: anxiety dressed up as personality.
We love to categorize ourselves. Especially in quiet ways. The internet is full of comforting content about introverts: their depth, their thoughtfulness, their underestimated power in an extrovert-obsessed culture.
And rightly so. Introversion is real. It’s a temperamental trait marked by a preference for lower-stimulation environments, according to psychologist Susan Cain, whose book Quiet helped introverts everywhere feel seen — perhaps for the first time.
But as Cain herself has noted, introversion is often mistaken for social anxiety. Or vice versa. And that confusion matters.
Introversion is about energy management. Social anxiety is about fear. One is a preference. The other is a defense mechanism.
“Many socially anxious people believe they’re introverts because they avoid social situations,” says Dr. Ellen Hendriksen, clinical psychologist and author of How to Be Yourself. “But avoidance isn’t always a personality trait — sometimes it’s a coping strategy.”
In other words: not everyone who prefers solitude is introverted. Some are simply exhausted by the emotional math of human interaction.
To understand the overlap, it helps to look at how both anxiety and temperament work in the brain.
Introversion is often linked to higher baseline cortical arousal. Essentially, introverts may be more sensitive to external stimuli — noise, lights, crowded rooms. Their nervous systems light up faster, and they may prefer environments that feel calm or predictable.
Social anxiety, on the other hand, is driven by a fear of negative evaluation. People with social anxiety aren’t avoiding stimulation; they’re avoiding shame, judgment, humiliation. The room isn’t too loud — it’s too risky.
But the behavior looks similar: skipping parties, declining calls, overthinking conversations, seeking the safety of solitude.
The key difference lies in motivation. Are you choosing to be alone because you enjoy it — or because interaction feels like a battlefield?
When I first started therapy, I told my therapist that I was an introvert. She nodded kindly and said, “Sure. And also… do you notice you scan every room for rejection?”
Oof.
What I’d labeled as “recharging time” was often ruminating time. I’d replay interactions for hours, searching for social sins I might’ve committed — too much eye contact, not enough questions, a laugh at the wrong moment.
It wasn’t introversion. It was hypervigilance.
We tend to internalize these habits as personality because they feel so ingrained. But as research shows, the brain is highly adaptive — especially when shaped by fear. Over time, chronic anxiety can rewrite our default settings. We start mistaking what we’ve practiced to survive as who we fundamentally are.
“Our personalities are not fixed,” says Dr. Dan Siegel, neuropsychiatrist and author of Mindsight. “They're patterns of energy and information flow that can shift depending on how we direct attention, emotion, and intention.”
In other words, the “introvert” you think you are might actually be a person who just hasn’t felt socially safe in a long time.
Because when you believe your avoidance is innate, you stop questioning it.
You stop asking what part of you is scared, or sore, or still healing from something. You build an identity around walls that were meant to be temporary. You opt out of experiences that might feel hard before they ever get the chance to feel good.
I’ve done this for years. I’ve turned down invitations under the guise of “I need time alone,” when really I was afraid of being awkward, unlikable, or too much. And yet, every time I’ve pushed past the anxiety — gently, without pressure — I’ve felt something else underneath: wanting.
The desire to connect. To be with. To feel seen and to see others, even in my clumsy, stammering ways.
I still need time to myself. I still love books more than bars. But I no longer assume my withdrawal is a sacred part of my nature. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s armor.
Part of the reason this misunderstanding persists is cultural. The introvert rebrand of the past decade — from “shy loner” to “wise, discerning thinker” — has made it easier to claim that identity than to explore the murkier waters of anxiety, trauma, or chronic stress.
Let’s be honest: saying you’re “just an introvert” is more palatable than saying you’re afraid to speak in meetings because your voice shakes.
There’s also a seductive logic to labels. They offer explanation. Closure. A narrative that makes sense of discomfort.
But sometimes they explain too much. They let us stop digging. And healing often lives in the dig.
So am I really an introvert?
I think I am — sometimes. In the way that I love depth over breadth. In the way I crave slowness and solitude to make sense of things. In the way I feel overstimulated by noise and chaos and meaningless chatter.
But I’m also someone who wants connection. Who likes people. Who’s still unlearning the belief that social rejection is inevitable.
Maybe I’m not just one thing. Maybe none of us are.
And maybe the better question is this:
What parts of my “personality” are actually just well-worn protection?
