The life and times of a former wallflower (and perpetual introvert)

The other day I was asked by a friend if I had written a post about shyness yet. It hadn't occurred to me as material worth writing because I haven't felt shy in quite awhile. That got me wondering; why? What's changed in me that I'm no longer the silent chic at get-togethers, sitting alone, desperately trying to quash my social anxiety?

As a child I remember hiding behind my mother when anyone over the age of 12 tried to talk to me. Through grade school and middle school I never talked much. In fact the one time I distinctly remember being a Chatty Cathy was at recess one day while walking to the four square court with a friend. Half way there, she turned to me and said, "No offense, but shut up." I immediately zipped my mouth. I wasn't really angry or hurt by what she said. I simply didn't want to annoy her, or anyone else for that matter. That fear of annoying people stuck with me through high school and into college. I'd go to hangouts and parties and listen to people play verbal ping pong, bouncing topics and opinions back and forth. Sometimes, I had opinions too, but they never seemed worth interjecting into the conversation. Other times, I simply couldn't think of anything to say. Most things that popped into my head I shot down as stupid or not important enough. Almost always the conversations were so fast-paced, I felt as if speaking would be stepping into a busy freeway. I was bound to get stares or cause a wreck.

I was an introvert and the queen of wallflowers. I was always a bystander listening to people laugh and watching them have fun. That suited me. I wasn't trying to be a snob or condescending to anybody. I felt quite unequal to everyone else, and my biggest fear was being deemed as the girl with no personality. But how can you prove to people you've got personality when you rarely talk? And how can you force yourself to talk when the anxiety of speaking, even in mere groups of three persons,  nearly causes a panic attack?

I enjoy being an introvert. I like quiet moments with myself, taking time to center or tap into my creativity. I don't mind staying at home on a Friday night or spending long stretches of time alone. But growing up my introversion seemed like a punishment. I didn't want to be so quiet and solitary; it just didn't feel like that was who I really was. And I felt like I was missing out on lots of fun experiences. How many times had I wanted to get out on the dance floor at a middle school party or prom but didn't because I was too afraid to look like a fool?

I can recall periods of time throughout my adolescence where I blossomed a bit. Our high school youth group was close knit and lead by the best youth leader out there. In that group I felt relaxed and among equals (which is funny because I grew up with this group from birth so timing and age must have had a lot to do with it). But the beginning of college marked a bad breakup and a particularly unwise rebound (that spiraled way out of control), and through the course of those events, I retreated into my quiet and safe introverted world. Fast forward a few semesters to when I started working at the Hen House in the Statesboro Mall. For once in my life I had a solid group of girlfriends. We did everything together, and for one long semester I was the life of the party. I danced. I chatted up strangers. I made jokes and commanded the spotlight...I drank A LOT of alcohol. Then I met Blake, and I quit drinking and partying so much. And then I learned that one of our group felt that, "We can't do anything without Christan. She always has to be there. She always wants to be in on everything." Just like in grade school, I didn't want to annoy anybody so I quit hanging out with them so much. I had a new boyfriend so it was easy to politely decline an invite out and use him as an excuse. (Ah, so glad those college drama days are gone.)

Those instances in grade school and college where I opened up a bit only to be shot down may have hurt a bit at the time, but my bruised ego quickly healed, and I moved on. What really hurt was in 6th grade when our teacher had us list everyone's names on a sheet of paper and beside them write a favorable quality about that person. Meant as an encouragement and ego booster, my heart fell when I received my list and found that 5 of my fellow classmates could think of no better descriptor for me than "quiet". Something bland and generic like "nice" would have been fine, but "quiet" just made me feel like a loser. For some reason I saw it as a cut down, not a compliment. In September of last year, we did the same thing on the last weekend of our yoga training. We ladies had been together for nine long weekends, learning numerous, intimate details about each other and knitting unbreakable bonds. I was touched by all the generous descriptors people chose for me. And then, there, at the very bottom of the list, that five letter word mocked me. Quiet. Really? Really?! Granted,  I can't deny that I was quiet. I didn't run off at the mouth every weekend, but I did open up numerous times, and the best this person could muster was "quiet"? I wanted to toss my blocks in the air, knock over the incense with my mat, and pad, barefoot, out of there. It's silly that something so little can sting so much, but I guess in a way (now with a more grown up perspective) I took it as, "You have no personality. After all this time the best I can say about you is that you don't talk much." I know that's reading a lot into just one word, and I know that is probably not at all how it was meant, but that's how my convoluted ego took it.

Ok so let's recap. I've been shy since birth, painfully so as a youngster, and waffling in and out of it during middle, high school, and college. I was a wallflower, content to observe (unless, of course, alcohol was involved). If you looked up "introvert" in the dictionary, my picture would be there. Apparently, my picture is also by the word "quiet".

As the last couple of years have gone by, I find myself opening up more and more. With age I've realized that it's more fun to be out on the dance floor than sipping punch alone at a table, in fact, now, you can't drag me away if there's music playing. I'm more confident in who I am and what I believe, making it easier to use my voice. But in addition to more candles on my cake, one of the key factors to shedding my shyness has been teaching spin and yoga.

For years I showed up religiously for spin classes at 180Fitness down in the 'Boro. The music, and beats, and sweat made me come alive. I felt empowered and carefree climbing imaginary hills and coasting over flat plains. Eventually, just taking the class wasn't enough. I needed more. I needed to teach. So when I was laid off from Regions Bank in 2011, I took the opportunity to go get certified. The very next weekend after spin training, I dipped my toes into a level one yoga training. Yoga hadn't been on my radar, but the gym owner in Ringgold said he desperately needed a yoga teacher, and if I wanted guaranteed classes, that's what I needed to get certified in. Two months later walked into the gym prepared to teach my very first classes. I had never been so nervous in my life. I, the silent introvert (who quite possibly chose my creative writing major because it was the only one that didn't require public speaking courses), was about to get in front of several strange faces and have every pair of eyes on me for the next two hours. I was terrified, and I was sick as a dog with a vicious cold. My voice lasted through spin class but disappeared when it was time for yoga. I rasped alignment cues into the mic, but by the look of amusement on my husband's face and the look of pity on my cousin's face, it was evident that speaking was useless. All I could do was perform the poses and hope that the students could follow along as much as possible. Believe it or not, people came back for the second week.

It took a solid 9 months for the anxiety of teaching to subside. Getting on the bike and mat were never a problem. Just as when I took the classes as a student, I come alive when I teach. I whoop and holler, sing and dance, make jokes, growl. In yoga, I try to shed any preconceived notions of how I should teach and what I should say and just go in with the hope of helping someone find serenity, or courage, or strength, or release. Still, the hours before class fill me with nervousness. In those first 9 months it was almost debilitating, and I debated quitting several times. Now, I realize the person I am when I teach is the person who is closest to my true self. And the more I teach, the more that person branches out into other areas of my life. I talk a bit more in groups. I instigate conversations. I laugh loudly. I share my opinions. I still keep to myself at times. I still crawl inside and enjoy my own little world, but I realize that there's so much to enjoy in the outside world too. There's much to experience and much to enjoy, and I don't want to miss out. So I take a step or two outside of my comfort zone. As a result, the zone begins to grow, and so I take another step outside, over and over. The things that I love and am most comfortable with now, I couldn't have fathomed doing ten years ago. Just imagine what I'll be doing in another ten years. Giving author's lectures? Running my own gym? Leading mass yoga practices in Coolidge Park? I can't wait to find out.

Gratitude 30:

• Small, unexpected, just because gifts
• Dogs in yoga poses. Seriously hilarious.
• Being bitten by the DIY bug. 4th chakra charm bracelets anyone?
• 4 for a $1 packets of seeds. My spring garden's gonna rock.
• Being able to make someone's day (actually she said I made her year!). That one seems a little selfish, but it felt really good to see that huge smile on her face.