Harnessing the Energy of an Extrovert
I never thought the inside of my house would be the place I went through the biggest learning curves. I’ve always associated learning with new experiences, new places – travel, study, work, other people. Especially other people. As an extrovert, being out = sucking in great gulps of life force and energy from those around, bouncing ideas from elastic mind to elastic mind, riffing and sparring off others’ inspiration. For me, motivation, challenge, support – all that came from outside. The external, not the internal. I remember the leap and whoosh of collective energy from a yoga class, the excitement of problem solving in a room of smart and different perspectives, the sweaty throb of bodies dancing and leaping at a concert. Communal power.
When I had a baby, in June 2019, the first weeks became a reversal of my preferences. Instead of out, I wanted to be in, nesting, reflecting – an enforced stillness and pause that nourished my sleep-ravaged mind, healing body and newly hatched identity as a mother. And yet still I needed a window on the wider world – peeking through the curtains of Instagram as everyone else went their busy ways, while I sat, napping newborn on my lap, observing the hustle and bustle of life from my chair, a passive observer, apart from the world and content to take a break and nourish myself and my baby.
As the little one grew, that desire to be back amongst humanity grew too – connecting with other mums, baby groups and swimming lessons, walks and wine dates – a different type of work and social life, but still work, and still social. My little being, whether by nature, nurture, or both, following my patterns – smiling at others, content in a crowd, happiest in a busy café or a group of others, always watching and joining in. And home our refuge at the end of the day – when things got too busy, too overwhelming – a sanctuary we could return to, a place of peace and stillness and the odd rainy day feeling like a stolen treat, when we snuggled at home and watched cartoons and read books in bed.
And then…
Then nothing. Our nest turned golden cage, well furnished, with toys and books and a locked door. We craved escape, entertainment. Confronted with the silence of ourselves, we pair of extroverts looked out of closed windows, palms pressed against cold glass, silently yearning a life outside that was also on pause. We’d stare at each other, her 9 month baby-blues reflecting my face – trusting me, and yet also questioning, judging, pleading – why can’t we go out and see people Mum? We’d try, teeter and fail to make the connection through pixelated screens – she would peek behind the phone, looking for the people to pat with her chubby hands and smile at, aching for a cuddle with her grandparents, expressing her frustration at this life change as I did the same.
As days turned into weeks, two opposing forces waged war in my head. A sense of extreme privilege, gratitude, and maybe the learned behaviour of “not complaining” repeated in my head, over and over, how lucky we were. And we were, we are. And yet the need for energy, for stimulation, for something, kept curdling in my throat, causing me to spit bitter words at my husband, to rail against the safety and the comfort. I swallowed it down, again and again, and it made my stomach ache, denying how hard I was finding it.
So I stopped denying. Admitted it. With all our upsides, we were struggling, because the thing we, I prized above all others had been taken away. And with that admission came relief. We are who we are. A lesson I had struggled to internalise before, with all the external stimulation. Something I had to learn inside.
As life reopened, park by park, person by person, we felt the air come flooding in. The first few meetings I had to check myself – the torrent of words that came flooding out, the sweet relief of interaction making me giddy, I could leave the others punch-drunk with my outpouring.
We are changed for the better by our experience. We appreciate that which we took for granted before – spending a few hours with a friend, drinking tea. An adhoc visit from a relative. Hugs with family. Small things are now big things to enjoy, to explore. We are less hooked on the addiction of more, more, more – holidays and trips, big ticket items. We appreciate our sanctuary now we can return by choice when we need it.
I found new ways to connect, to raise energy – ways that will stay with me in the new normal, and even out of the other side, whatever that is. I have learned to create spaces to let conversation flow freely, not stutter like a freezing screen on a low download speed. I recognise the beauty of the stillness. And yet my true high will always be the unadulterated hit of pure, in-person energy.
Abbi Buszard
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