Let’s talk about something that rarely gets named out loud in Latine spaces: being an introvert and being misunderstood, shamed, or outright dismissed for it.

This isn’t theoretical for me. It’s lived.

It came up during a dinner conversation with my mother-in-law, a Latine elder who, like many in our community, carries ideas that were passed down without question. The conversation drifted toward my stepson’s plans for having a social life once he moves into our house. I laughed a little and said, “Ohhh, you had a whole plan!”

And then it clicked.

I looked at him and said, “Ohhh… you need people to recharge, don’t you?”

He nodded.

That made sense to me immediately. He’s an extrovert. People energize him. He feels better after being around others. That’s how his nervous system works.

So I shared something about myself.

“I don’t,” I said. “I need solitude.”

The conversation had been happening in English, so I translated it for my MIL and tried to make it simpler.

“He’s an extrovert,” I said, pointing to my stepson.
“I’m an introvert,” I said, pointing to myself.
“And I believe he is too,” I added, pointing to my son.

My son nodded to confirm.

That’s when my MIL’s face scrunched up.

“So you mean to tell me you like being holed up in your room?” she asked.

Both my son and I nodded vigorously. Yes. Exactly that.

But I heard the tone. It wasn’t curiosity. It was judgment. Shame wrapped in disbelief. Like something must be wrong with us for needing space instead of people. Like solitude was a sign that something was wrong with us, not simply a preference.

Then she tried to disprove it.

“Well, he plays games online,” she said, implying that meant he wasn’t really an introvert.

And that’s when I had to pause and explain something that feels obvious to me but apparently isn’t in many Latine conversations.

Online and in-person socializing are not the same.

They require different kinds of energy.

I socialize online a lot. I talk. I connect. I share. But I know I can unplug at any time. I don’t have someone physically in front of me. I don’t have to manage facial expressions, body language, small talk, or polite smiling. I don’t have to perform enjoyment.

In person, especially in group settings, I am masking.

I am showing a version of myself that is palatable, agreeable, and socially acceptable. And that takes energy. A lot of it.

She still didn’t quite believe me. I could see it in her face. But I let the conversation go. Not because I was wrong, but because I was tired.

And that moment stayed with me.

Why is this so hard to understand in Latine spaces?

Growing up, my experience of “community” was loud family gatherings, fiestas, birthdays, holidays that lasted all day, conversations layered on top of conversations, music blasting, people dropping in unannounced. And for many people, that feels like love.

For me, it always felt like a chore.

Not because I don’t love my family. Not because I’m antisocial. But because my body doesn’t recharge in noise. It drains.

I am comfortable with the people I live with. The people I see every day. The ones I’ve built safety with. Around them, I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to brace for judgment.

Outside of that circle, I’m on stage.

And yes, I’ve gotten good at it.

I know how to socialize. I know how to hold conversations. I know how to navigate events, dinners, gatherings, and expectations. That’s a skill I developed, not a preference I chose. But every one of those interactions requires recovery time. Alone time. Silence. Stillness.

There are exceptions.

Bookish events don’t feel like a chore to me. When I’m surrounded by people who love stories, ideas, words, and reflection, I don’t feel like I’m wearing a mask. I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to prove I belong. There’s no need to perform when the room already speaks your language.

That’s the difference.

What frustrates me most isn’t having to explain myself. It’s not being believed when I do.

It’s the way introversion is treated as something suspicious in Latine culture. Like quiet equals sadness. Like solitude equals loneliness. Like needing space equals rejection of family or community.

And it doesn’t.

Introversion is not a flaw. It’s not disrespect. It’s not coldness. It’s not something to fix.

It’s a different way of being.

So when someone looks at me and says, “You like being holed up in your room?” with judgment in their voice, what they’re really saying is, “Your way of existing makes me uncomfortable.”

And I’m done carrying that discomfort for them.

You don’t get to tell me who I am.
You don’t get to override my lived experience.
You don’t get to shame my nervous system because it doesn’t match yours.

Quiet is not broken.
Solitude is not selfish.
Introversion is not a betrayal of culture.

Some of us love deeply, think quietly, and recharge alone.

And that deserves just as much respect.