Quiet people have a lot to say. They just pick how—and when—to speak.

They May Not Always Talk Much, but Introverts Have a Lot to Say

Myth: Introverts have little or nothing to say. Reality: Introverts have a lot to say. We just share our thoughts how—and when—we want to.

When my dad died several summers ago at the age of 81, the one word people kept using to describe him was quiet.

Objectively speaking, Dad was indeed much quieter than most. But quiet just doesn’t cut it as a way to encapsulate who he was. It’s too easy, too simplistic to be his epitaph.

Because like most strong introverts—and Dad was the introvert’s introvert, to be sure—my father wasn’t quiet simply for quiet’s sake. Precision matters on this one.

Charles Vogt didn’t value quietness per se. He simply prioritized quality over quantity when it came to communicating—a trait he shared with virtually all other “quiet” introverts out there.

As I put it in his obituary:

“[He] didn’t talk much. But when he did, he said a lot.”

When a “Quiet” Person Talks, It Must Be Pretty Important

That’s different than plain old quiet. Because you always knew that if my dad bothered to invest the time and energy in actually saying something, either verbally or, in his last years, via email or—shock of all shocks—text, it must be important. It must be worth listening to.

And you’d be very unlikely to forget it.

My friends often made fun of me in college because as I read my textbooks, I always ended up highlighting the vast majority of the material on each page, thus defeating the whole purpose of highlighting in the first place. Sometimes I’d even re-highlight what I’d already highlighted the first time through.

So many people fall into this same trap in their everyday communication lives. Overkill set on repeat.

The verbal drinks my dad served up may have been comparatively rare, and small, but they were refreshing. And memorable. Precisely because they were so rare and small.

My mom was telling us once about some guy who apparently had dropped dead while he was out for a walk near our house.

As she often did—if you’re over the age of, say, 50, think Edith Bunker from “All in the Family“—Mom strayed slightly off topic during her story, going into who the guy’s relatives were and where he lived and who he knew and who knew him and on and on and on.

For a full 10 minutes, we didn’t know what the ultimate point of Mom’s story would be. Or if there even was one.

All the while, you could see the thought bubbles above my dad’s head, begging my mom:

“Get to the point, get to the point. Please, oh please, get to the point.”

Finally, Dad just couldn’t take it anymore; he blurted out a three-word, CliffsNotes-has-nothing-on-this summary of my mom’s epic tale:

“Anyway, he died.”

Then he just busted out laughing, as did the rest of us.

Introvert Wisdom—in Short Bursts

Dad’s brevity wasn’t always funny, though.

He wasn’t exactly Ward Cleaver or Mike Brady during our growing-up years (although, as I went through his clothes after he died, he appeared to be preparing for a day when he could at least dress like Mike Brady again).

If the four of us kids were screwing around in the car, he wasn’t nearly as verbose as “I’ll stop this car and make you all walk.” Instead, it was—ironically:



“Knock it off!”

And it was delivered with the full force of the lungs housed by his huge 6-foot-4, 250-pound frame.

Very easy to understand. And very memorable.

Impossible to forget, in fact.

When It Really Matters, Introverts Have a Lot to Say

The same was true when it came to my dad’s responses in crisis situations.

My brother Mike showed up at the old house one day and told us all that his wife had up and left him, only an hour or two before. He was a mess, in shock.

Dad was there the whole time, saying almost nothing and occasionally putting a mammoth hand on my broken brother’s shoulder.

That night, when we were all sitting around wondering what to do or say, it was my dad who somehow came up with just the right words at just the right time:

“Tough day.”

A few years back, my Uncle Gary took me aside one day, looked me in the eye very seriously, and said:

“You know, Pete. You’re a young Chuck.”

And it’s true: I am. It’s why I ended up writing my book The Introvert Manifesto, a book my dad loved—so much so that he really opened up after reading it and texted me, out of the blue, with his extensive feedback:

“Right on.”

Nope, my dad really didn’t talk much.

But when he did, he really did say a lot.

That was his gift to us all. It wasn’t ever about being quiet. It was about demonstrating, if only unconsciously, that less really can be more.

There’s an epitaph for you.

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