Alone time is the one thing I miss most fiercely. Before becoming a parent, I used to enjoy leisurely walks to my favorite café on weekend afternoons. Initially in Providence, Rhode Island, and later in Washington, D.C., I would find a quiet corner, set up my laptop, and indulge in an overpriced coffee to grant me a few hours of uninterrupted focus.
During those moments, I penned two novels – one that has been published and another that lingers somewhere in the cloud and on numerous sheets of loose paper tucked away in our storage closet. Shortly after completing my final draft, I welcomed my first child into the world.
At that time, I didn’t fully grasp the value of those weekend afternoons, which served as a source of energy to prepare me for the upcoming workweek. While I cherished the act of writing, I also found solace in observing the world outside, amused by the complex coffee orders and lost in contemplation while strolling to and from the café.
In the early days of motherhood, moments of solitude were scarce but precious. I seized fleeting opportunities while my daughter napped or pacified herself, lulled by the gentle hum of her stroller wheels. However, these moments were fragile, always at risk of being disrupted.
(The current stolen moment – not in a café but in my basement on a snowy day in Portland, Oregon – feels similarly precarious. The children are momentarily occupied upstairs, but I anticipate that it won’t be long before chaos ensues.)
As an internal processor, I tend to associate this trait with my introversion, though scientific opinions on the correlation vary. Personally, I strongly link the two. Without the cherished alone time that recharges me, navigating the daily influx of stimuli becomes overwhelming.
The fleeting moments of solitude I managed to grasp as a young mother, while beneficial, proved insufficient. One moment, I would be savoring a spring day’s fragrance under a canopy of verdant trees, and the next, I’d find myself cradling a wailing baby, perspiration beading on my forehead, heart pounding.
Parenthood entails 18+ years of continual interruptions. While I’ve adapted out of necessity, even after 11 years, the emotional rollercoaster takes its toll. Tranquil domestic scenes can swiftly unravel into chaos and conflict within minutes.
For instance, recall when I mentioned that my children were momentarily engaged upstairs? A short while ago, that was indeed the case. They were cozied up under a blanket with our neighbor’s child, enjoying a rare afternoon movie on a snowy day. However, a harmless jest from my daughter escalated into a sibling squabble, culminating in an unintended injury and tears, abruptly shattering the peace.
Alas, it seems that today’s writing endeavors have been thwarted.
Parenting can undoubtedly be draining for introverts.
Parenting is undeniably exhausting for all, but for introverts like me who rely on solitary moments to maintain a semblance of sanity, the fatigue can feel especially pronounced.
Yet, there’s a silver lining. Parenting inherently provides a social network, a fact for which I’m grateful. Despite my introverted nature, I acknowledge the human craving for social interaction. Unlike extroverts who thrive on organizing social gatherings, I simply prefer to participate. Send me the invitation, but please spare me the group planning texts. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.
While I appreciate social connections, I confess to being socially inert. School was ideal as it facilitated daily interactions with friends without the need for coordination. In adulthood, forming friendships at work has proven challenging. I’ve often lamented the absence of non-religious social institutions akin to church. Book clubs and similar activities, although promising, have a tendency to fizzle out, unlike the enduring appeal of religious and sobriety-focused groups.
Navigating social engagements beyond immediate family becomes more complex as a parent, with nap schedules, extracurricular commitments, and babysitter arrangements to juggle. The loss of spontaneous social interactions likely weighs heavier on extroverts.
While parenting depletes my energy, I find solace in the fact that regardless of future social connections, there are three individuals bound to spend time with me, willingly or not, for the foreseeable future.
The beauty lies in the simplicity of our interactions. No need for elaborate planning or coordination – they are a constant presence, night after night. Though they may not always partake in dinner, bring me wine, or storm off from the table in a huff, their steadfast companionship remains unwavering.
Parenting’s impact on introverts is a nuanced tale of challenges and revelations.
Through my personal journey, I’ve arrived at a definitive conclusion:
Parenting poses greater challenges for introverted mothers IF they conform to society’s ideal of the self-sacrificing mother.
It’s not that extroverts excel at martyrdom; rather, the specific expectations imposed on mothers as martyrs align more closely with an introvert’s nightmare. Mothers are anticipated to effortlessly manage familial schedules, provide constant emotional support, engage in social interactions at social gatherings, and position themselves at the heart of family dynamics.
Conversely, fathers are afforded “man caves” – a retreat space that many enjoy, as highlighted by a Pew time use survey revealing that fathers dedicate more leisure time to media consumption than mothers. This societal permission for fathers to withdraw is taken for granted, leaving mothers bewildered by their partners’ seemingly effortless escapes.
Mothers are incessantly beckoned by society, expected to prioritize external demands over personal needs. Despite listing my partner’s name first on forms, I remain the primary contact for all matters. Even in group communications, mothers are often singled out, perpetuating the unequal burden of social obligations.
I, like many mothers, have reached a breaking point. Regardless of gender or introversion-extroversion spectrum placement, everyone deserves the liberty to retreat and recharge.
The answer to whether parenting is more arduous for introverts is a complex interplay of yes and no. While my introversion added layers of difficulty during the intense early parenting years, it ultimately empowered me to assert my boundaries.
Rather than a deliberate assertion, my plea for solitude stemmed from sheer desperation. Would I have prioritized my needs without the exhaustion? Did my introversion shield me from years of futile self-sacrifice?
For me, alone time transcends a mere luxury – it’s as vital as breathing. Prolonged deprivation leaves me adrift. In embracing my introversion, guided by Susan Cain’s insights in Quiet, I’ve learned to navigate parenthood authentically. Balancing personal time amidst familial responsibilities remains a perpetual challenge, yet even amidst interruptions, I’ve managed to complete this narrative.
Kerala Taylor, an esteemed writer and co-owner of a worker-owned marketing agency, challenges conventional notions of motherhood, womanhood, work, and marriage through her weekly narratives. Her works are featured on Medium, and she recently launched a Substack publication titled Mom, Interrupted.