'I need to talk about the unspoken hardship of being an extrovert.'

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Alright, don't @ me, introverts, but being an extrovert is flipping hard. 

And I'm not even talking about how I've been late more than once because I befriended my local barista, or how I've become emotionally over-invested in a stranger after they've divulged their entire life story to me in less than 10 minutes.

No, it runs far deeper than that.

It took uprooting my entire life and moving halfway across the world to truly understand how difficult it is to be a full-blown extrovert — the kind who needs real social interaction and deep conversation as desperately as most people need their morning coffee.

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Sure, introverts need their community too, but for an extrovert like me, who thrives on juggling multiple friend groups and spending every spare moment surrounded by people I love, having zero friends or family around left me feeling painfully lonely. 

I don't just like company – I need it.

Quality time with the people I love is how I recharge. I have introverted friends who would happily spend their weekends curled up with a good book, a perfectly steeped Earl Grey and their phones on Do Not Disturb, avoiding all human contact for hours. Nope, for me, recharging means yapping (often utter nonsense) with my friends for hours, preferably over an Aperol while sweating in the sun. 

I came out of the womb a girls' girl.

I've spent much of my adult life single, which has only deepened my appreciation for female friendship. Spending time with just my boyfriend was never going to be enough — no one person can, or should, be your everything. I longed for the kind of friend I once had in abundance back home, someone to meet for a Saturday morning coffee, where conversation flowed so effortlessly you'd lose all sense of time. I knew to be happy here, I needed to find my people. 

For an extrovert, FOMO hits hard. Social media didn't help — watching my friends back home heading to parties or out for dinner only reminded me of how easily I used to fit. There was no need to explain myself and no effort needed to build something from scratch. And it wasn't just the big, glittering moments I missed, but the small, unremarkable ones too — the group chat blowing up, or a photo of everyone at the local Bowlo, knowing I'd almost certainly be there too if I were home.

Image: Supplied.

Extroverts are also often awarded the job of bringing the vibez™ — no matter what. Even when I've had a particularly shitty week at work, or I'm two days out from my period and literally anything will make me cry, I still feel this pressure to show up, smile, and not be a wet blanket. I want the people I love to walk away feeling better, lighter, topped up and overflowing.

I know I am not a burden when I'm having a rough time; my friends care. They want to hear the messy bits, just like I want to hear theirs. Sometimes I can't be all sparkly because I'm exhausted. But still, there's always this little niggle at the back of my mind telling me to exude happiness, even when I'm just not quite feeling it. 

My cowardly people-pleasing — a downfall of my aforementioned extraversion — means I rarely cancel on anyone, and I tend to stretch myself thin across a bunch of friends. This means I have often ended up a fragile, tired mess come Monday morning because I didn't give myself a second of downtime. Even the most outgoing amongst us need moments to ourselves (trust me).

I'm still by no means a willy-nilly canceller; if I cancel it is never because I don't feel like going, it is because I simply can't. I used to get genuinely upset when friends cancelled on me at the last minute, taking them to heart in a way I can now see was never fair. These days, I've softened. I understand that sometimes, life simply gets in the way. 

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Since moving, I've made some friends — great ones, actually. My circle is significantly smaller here, but I'm okay with that. Recently, I've made more of an effort to call my friends back home. It's not quite the same as a coastal walk with a flat white in hand, but carving out even 20 minutes once a week to chat with someone from home has its own kind of therapeutic magic. It reminds me that they're still there, loving me from afar. 

I just spent my first Friday night doing absolutely nothing on my own in years. I'm embarrassed to admit, I almost felt allergic to not having plans on a Friday night. But with my boyfriend away on a bucks and a last-minute plan cancelled, I was left to my own devices. I ended up ordering some Indian food and watching a movie that only I wanted to watch. 

And to be honest, I think my own company is pretty darn nice.

Feature image: Supplied.