In a world that often equates charisma with volume and presence with performance, it’s easy to overlook the quiet ones. The deep thinkers. The observers. The ones who thrive in stillness and draw strength from solitude.

As someone who identifies as about 70–80% introverted, I’ve often found myself dancing between two worlds. On one hand, I crave quiet mornings, deep one-on-one conversations, and the kind of meaningful connection that can only arise in small, intimate spaces. Large social events usually drain me. I don’t naturally seek the spotlight. I prefer to listen before speaking, to feel before reacting.

But there’s another part of me, a less familiar, yet no less authentic side, that comes alive when I’m doing something I deeply love or when I’m with people  who light me up. It shines most vividly when I’m teaching yoga, for example.

When I step into the role of yoga teacher, something shifts. It’s as if the introverted part of me takes a back seat, allowing the extroverted 20-30% to take the lead. In front of a class, I thrive. I share. I engage with energy and enthusiasm, even in the midst of large groups. It’s in these moments that I truly come alive, fully immersed in the joy of guiding others through their practice.

Teaching yoga feels like an extension of my purpose, a way to channel my passion for the practice into something that resonates with others. Rarely do I feel the need to retreat or be alone during a class, except during those rare moments when life overwhelms me with sadness or difficult events. Yet, even then, the act of teaching can be healing in itself, a way to stay connected, grounded, and present despite the challenges.

This paradox used to confuse me. How could I be both? How could I love solitude and yet thrive in front of a group?

Reading Susan Cain’s Quiet helped me make sense of it. Her book speaks to the quiet power of introverts, reminding us that we don’t need to change who we are to make an impact, we simply need to understand the way we’re wired. Cain’s work gave language to what I had felt for years: that introverts hold a unique kind of wisdom. We process deeply. We connect meaningfully. And when we do speak or share, it often comes from a place of considered truth.

In teaching yoga, I’ve found a balance, a space where my introverted and extroverted sides can coexist, where I can embrace the calm of introspection and the energy of extroversion in harmony. This balance is part of what makes me the teacher I am today, and it’s what allows me to give my best to my students, whether in the quiet moments of a meditation or the dynamic flow of a Vinyasa class.

And when life gets heavy, when sadness or overwhelm creeps in, teaching can be its own kind of medicine. It anchors me. Grounds me. It reminds me that even in difficult times, I can show up and offer something valuable to others.

If you resonate with this, if you’ve ever felt like your quiet nature didn’t quite fit the world’s definition of power or success, know this: your quiet is not a weakness. It’s a gift.

Your ability to listen deeply, to create safe spaces, to connect soul-to-soul rather than surface-to-surface… these are rare and beautiful qualities. They matter. You matter.

And just because you feel most at home in the quiet doesn’t mean you can’t step into bolder moments when the time is right. We don’t need to live always at full volume to make a difference. So embrace who you are. All of you. The part that craves stillness—and the part that surprises you when it steps into the spotlight. You don’t have to choose one over the other. Allow yourself to be whole.

Let your quiet guide you. Let your passion lead you. And when you feel the nudge to share your voice, trust that it will land exactly where it’s meant to.

Because you—just as you are—have something this world deeply needs.