Diary of an Introvert

By Tracilyn George

Iris has always been the quiet observer, the one who finds solace in the silence of her own thoughts, while the world around her moves in a rush of noise and chaos. In Diary of an Introvert, Iris opens up the pages of her private world, putting her deepest reflections and keen observations into words. Each entry is a window into her introspective mind-ranging from the gentle beauty she finds in moments of solitude to the complexities of navigating a world that seems to demand constant connection and engagement.

Through the ink-stained pages, Iris grapples with the expectations placed on her as an introvert, seeking meaning in a life that doesn't always fit into the loud, fast-paced world. From the delicate art of small talk to the comfort of her own company, Iris's journey is one of self-discovery, vulnerability, and quiet courage.

As Iris pours her thoughts into the diary, readers will find themselves questioning the true nature of connection, identity, and the power of listening to one's own voice in a world that often prefers the opposite. Diary of an Introvert is a heartfelt, reflective exploration of what it means to live quietly in a world that never seems to stop talking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clydesdale Books
• Release date: May 4, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231458875

Book preview

THE FIRST PAGE

There’s something about the sound of a pen gliding across paper that feels more honest than speaking out loud.

I didn’t plan to start this diary. In fact, I’m pretty sure the exact words I used when Dr. Halpern suggested it were, That sounds like a cliché. She smiled like therapists do when they know you’re about to prove yourself wrong.

So here I am, Wednesday night, 8:42 p.m., sitting at my desk in a twin-sized dorm room that smells faintly of stale popcorn and citrus body spray. My roommate, Cassie, is out at a student improv night—she invited me, of course. I said no, of course. I told her I had to study. Which is a lie. I just didn’t want to sit in a room full of strangers pretending to be funny. I barely want to be in a room full of people who are funny for real.

I guess that’s the thing about being the quiet one. People think you’re antisocial, aloof, maybe even a little arrogant. But that’s not it. It’s never been about thinking I’m better. It’s about thinking too much.

I notice everything. The way Cassie always double-knots her laces before going out. The way our RA, Malik, clears his throat exactly three times before making an announcement. I also observed that the girl in the corner of the campus coffee shop, next to the withering plant, exclusively orders tea. Never coffee. Always alone.

I wonder if she thinks about these things, too. About how loud the world is. How exhausting it is to be on all the time.

Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to be the kind of person who walks into a room and doesn’t feel the need to shrink. The kind of person who talks first. Laughs loudly. Tells stories that start with, You won’t believe what happened today...

But that’s not me.

At least, not yet.

Dr. Halpern says writing things down might help me find my voice. I’m not sure I lost it. I think I just buried it somewhere quiet.

So this is the first page. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

Maybe it’s the start of something I don’t quite understand yet.

And maybe that’s okay.

—Iris

I don’t know why I signed my name. It’s not like anyone else is going to read this. But I guess it makes it feel more... real. More grounded.

When I was a kid, I used to talk to trees. Not in a hear the leaves whisper secrets kind of way, but more like—they were better listeners than people. Trees didn’t interrupt. They didn’t fill silence with nonsense. They just stood there, patient and still, and somehow I always left the woods feeling lighter.

I miss that feeling.

College has a different kind of noise. It’s not just sound. It’s pressure. Expectations. Everyone wants to know your major, your five-year plan, your deepest passions—like you’re supposed to have those things figured out by nineteen.

I don’t even know what I want for breakfast most days.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s something broken in me because I don’t want what everyone else seems to want. I don’t crave parties, or group projects, or dating apps where you’re expected to sell yourself in four bullet points and one flattering selfie.

What I crave is something I can’t quite name. Quiet spaces. Honest conversations. Being seen—not as a performance, but as a person.

I don’t think I’ve ever really said that out loud before.

I remember this one moment in high school—junior year, AP Lit. We were reading The Bell Jar, and everyone in the class groaned about how depressing it was. But I felt something shift in me when I read Sylvia Plath’s words. There was this line: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. And I remember thinking, Yes. That’s exactly it. It wasn’t about melodrama. It was about the way we sometimes have to shut out the world to survive it.

I think maybe that’s why I’m writing. Not just to find my voice. But to survive.

I don’t want to be invisible forever. But for now, invisibility feels like armor. And I need a little more time before I’m ready to take it off.

Anyway, it’s getting late. Cassie will be back soon, probably buzzing with stories from her night out. I’ll smile and nod. I’ll even laugh in the right places. But I won’t tell her about this.

This page is mine. And for tonight, that’s enough.

—Iris

COFFEE SHOPS AND EAVESDROPS

There’s a coffee shop three blocks from campus called Wren & Ivy. It smells like cinnamon and ambition. Every table wobbles slightly, and there’s an ivy plant near the front window that is very much alive, which feels like a miracle in itself.

I go there most Thursdays. Not for the coffee—I don’t even like coffee. But there’s something about being surrounded by strangers that makes me feel less lonely. Like I can be alone with people, which is different from being alone because of people.

I always take the same seat: near the back, close enough to hear but far enough to not be noticed. It’s the perfect spot for people-watching. And for eavesdropping. But not in a creepy way—I swear. It’s more like... collecting fragments of other people’s lives. Tiny, unintentional poetry.

Today I overheard a girl telling her friend she wants to move to Paris just to eat better bread and cry with style. I didn’t catch her name, but I wrote that line down in my notebook. I think she was wearing a corduroy jacket and heartbreak.

Then there was a guy at the counter talking on the phone, trying to convince someone—maybe a girlfriend, maybe a mom—that he is trying. I’m doing the best I can, okay? I showed up. Isn’t that something?

God, I felt that. Sometimes just showing up feels like a revolutionary act.

There’s a certain kind of comfort in being invisible in public. No expectations. No small talk. Just me, my notebook, and the soft clatter of spoons against porcelain mugs.

I’ve started naming the people I see repeatedly. There’s the woman I call Lavender Lady—she always wears a lavender scarf, no matter the season. There’s a guy I named Neil, even though I have no idea what his real name is. He reads dog-eared mystery novels and laughs out loud at them, like they’re stand-up comedy.

There’s a sort of intimacy in watching strangers. It makes you realize how complex everyone is. Every person you pass on the street has