My biggest secret is one that has followed me since high school. You might not believe me when I tell you.
I remember the day clearly. I was heading toward the guidance counselor’s office, papers in hand. I was taking part in some sort of life and career planning program offered by the school. Was it mandatory? Was it part of my AP curriculum? The details of the program escape me today. But what does not escape me are the results on the paper I was holding in my hand. And the big emotions I was feeling: apprehension, excitement, optimism for my future.
I greeted my counselor, an incredibly kind and wise woman who had twin sons in my class. She had an easy way about her that was somewhat uncommon at our intensive college prep school. Her office was always warm and inviting, and I sometimes found myself there chatting with her during my free periods – a comfortable cocoon, safe from the external chaos and hazards of being a teenager. She just… “got it,” and never made me feel weird or quirky or, even special. She made me feel heard and normal, the holy grail of adult figures to a teen girl. I was glad to be meeting with her now to chart a navigational course for the next chapters of my life.
I settled into a well-worn armchair while she opened the file I had handed to her. The envelope contained two documents that, as far as I was concerned, predicted the future. I knew what they said, but I didn’t quite know what they meant.
Of course, I was a completely self-centered teenager. Of course, I thought this file should and would say, “Wow! We’ve never seen results so stupendous! This person is a clear prodigy, bound for success in any career she should choose! You should make her President of the United States as soon as legally possible! The world is better merely because she exists!” Of course, these weren’t the kind of tests that measured or predicted exceptionality.
Of course, the documents did not say these things.
The first of two packets displayed potential career path recommendations based on a variety of factors. I had taken an extensive evaluation that measured my natural strengths and inclinations, as well as the things in which I was inherently interested or disinterested. As my guidance counselor scanned the document for what seemed like hours on end, she made little “hm” noises every few minutes indicating… Surprise? Bewilderment? Agreement? I sat on the edge of my seat, impatiently drumming my fingers on the armchair.
She then flipped to the second document and let out a loud, decisive chortle. It was so startling after minutes of near silence, that I physically jumped from my chair and leaned over to see what had made her react so emphatically.
Four letters in large, bold caps across the top of the front page: INFJ.
She was looking at the results of my Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test. I cocked my head to the side and looked at her quizzically, demanding an explanation for her behavior through my confused expression.
“I’m sorry,” she quickly responded, through a knowing grin, “but I was curious reviewing your career recommendations. They didn’t seem like,” she chose her words carefully, “the right fit for you. But now I understand. The results are wrong.” Another dumbfounded tilt of my head, like a puppy looking for reassurance. She continued, “you need to take the Myers-Briggs again. There’s no way you’re an introvert.”
She smiled a wide, warm smile, and I smiled back, feeling relieved. Although I hadn’t spent much time with the results before this meeting, I did notice and internalize the “Introvert” designation, as it was the only one of the four classifications that made sense to me at face value. I knew on some intrinsic level, even then, that I wanted that “I” to be an “E.” I wanted to be an extrovert. I acted like an extrovert every day.
And what is an extrovert anyway, besides someone who, well… extroverts? I had shaped myself into this person through my actions: my willingness to take risks and go outside my comfort zone. In my mind, extroverts were charismatic, persuasive, successful.
Hadn’t I earned that “E?”
My counselor gave me unlimited access so that I could retake the Type Indicator test, which then fed into the career recommendation results. I rushed to the computer lab at the earliest opportunity to prove that good old Myers and Briggs had me all wrong. The results spit out of the printer:
I. N. F. J. Same career recommendations. Same four letters.
I crumbled the papers and threw them quickly into the recycling bin, eyes darting shiftily around the room to ensure no one saw me throw away this dirty secret. I sat back down in front of the computer screen. I logged back in. I took it again.
But this time… I subverted the system. This time, I was familiar with the questions. I knew why they were asking about how I feel in large groups or whether I feel energized or drained by social events. This time, I beat those damn indicators into submission.
E. N. F. J.
I practically ran down the hallway to share my new results. Mercifully, my counselor was free at the time and able to review them with me immediately. “This is more like it,” she concluded. We took about fifteen minutes together to go through the updated career recommendations:
Management & Leadership.
Actor/Actress.
Real Estate.
Politics.
Sales.
I beamed. I felt like I had won something or achieved some long sought-after goal. I felt like I had taken the first step in fulfilling some destiny that universe had planned for me. It felt right. It felt like me. To this day, if somehow the Myers-Briggs comes up in conversation, I proudly announce my own (fabricated) indication: ENFJ.
In retrospect, I can’t say for sure how much of an impact those tests and that day had on my eventual choice of college major or career. What I can say is that enough of an impression was made for these details to stay with me over a decade later. I think back on my lifetime of extroverted behaviors masking an introverted inner-truth. On every time I’ve almost passed out before going on stage. On the hives I inevitably develop during every presentation I give. On the primal urge to cut and run when I attend networking events. On sitting in my car outside parties, willing myself to go in, put on a smile, be the social butterfly expected of me.
The thing that no one (not even my parents, not even my husband) really, truly know about me:
I am an introvert.
It is all forced. It is an act. In my best effort to be charismatic, persuasive, successful, I’ve alienated a very real part of myself, and villainized it. I don’t regret my past behaviors, or even strive to change them. “Becoming an extrovert” has served me well in life, and certainly opened doors for me that would not have been opened otherwise. I consider this a strength, and as much a part of myself now as my natural introversion. But I don’t think they should be mutually exclusive. I don’t want to use my “strong extrovert muscles” to cover up my introverted inner self. I want them to exist in harmony. I intend to honor my deep feelings while continuing to push myself in ways that allow me to grow into the fullest, best version of me.
To that end, while I don’t remember the entire list of career recommendations that accompanied my initial INFJ result, the top “match” has imprinted itself on my psyche in a way I’ve never been able to shake:
Author.
-CJK, I(/E)NFJ
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